synopsis; ꫂ᭪݁ you're too occupied with your 'boyfriend', and it's breaking michaels heart.
cw; you two faced ho.....and a little bit of jealous michael #yummersssss #angst
"I'm upset because he gets to do all the things I have to ask for."
"I'll do anything, I swear, just please."
"I'll wait. I'll give you time. I'll do whatever you need me to do. Just choose me." Those were confessions, confessions from past conversations of you two.
You caught Michael's eye when you walked up to him with a small record in your hand, with the biggest eyes and cutest smile. That smile got you whatever you wanted. You wore a little babydoll dress that moved softly with each step, the fabric hanging sweetly around your figure. Your fro framed your face perfectly, so so cute.
"Mr. Jackson, can you sign this please?" you asked sweetly, teasing him just a little.
He was almost starstruck for a moment when he saw you, and of course, he signed it, for you. He signed his name carefully with the red marker, then handed it back with a small smile.
"Gosh, my boyfriend is gonna love this!," you said happily.
Hearing that made Michael's smile fade, boyfriend, he thought. At that point, Michael knew he should have left it alone. But he didn't. The glances you both gave each other were more than friendly, and more than enough to keep Michael around you. He would secretly talk to you on the phone, if the phone bill was a little 'higher' than usual, he'd pay it with no problem. He'd have a small place where you both could hang out, sometimes the studio, sometimes at his home. You didn't mind it. If anything, you welcomed it, even if a small part of you knew you shouldn't.
In the beginning, it was fun. You shared your first kiss with him in his studio, kissing him slow with soft chuckles that fell underneath you two. But overtime...this secret started eating you alive. You started feeling guilty when your boyfriend came around you, you couldn't tell him you were speaking to another man, the man being Michael Jackson. It was complicated. Your boyfriend wasn't just someone you were dating anymore, he had become woven into your life. Your parents adored him and every family gathering somehow ended with him sitting at the dinner table. Breaking up with him wouldn't just break his heart, but it would leave questions you weren't ready to answer.
You didn't want to let Michael go either, so, you just kept it quiet.
ʚɞ Present.
Michael's fingers tapped against the arm rest. He sat firm in his chair wearing his usual polo and slacks. He waited all afternoon to hear from you, just waiting for any sign that you were thinking about him the way he was thinking about you. He was patient about a lot of things, but when it came to you, his patience seemed to run thin.
I need to see her.
I need her.
Michael hated how easily those thoughts came to him. He had spent the whole day trying to convince himself that he was fine, that he could give you space. So he worked on some music, scribbling some lyrics in his notebook and playing around with the music board. His fingers pressed over the board, he tried to keep himself busy.
But the truth was, he missed you. And painfully so.
The worse part about this whole thing was, he couldn't really talk to you. After all, you had a boyfriend. Everything had to keep quiet between the two of you, you didn't want word getting out to any family members or news media. With Michael's name growing bigger every day, the last thing either of you needed was rumors spreading about a secret relationship.
That was another reason you had to keep quiet. You were proud of Michael. You always told him that. You told him how happy you were seeing him succeed, how much you believed in him.
And Michael loved hearing that.
He just wished, for once, he didn't have to share you with someone else.
The man who could have anything he wanted, wanted you. But he couldn't, at least not at this time. He would have countless talks with you about it, beg even, and you'd always say "Just give me some time."
He'd convinced himself he could live with it. That if waiting meant eventually having you, then it would be worth it. But seeing you with your boyfriend made every promise he'd made to himself fall apart.
Michael never really knew what to make of him. He wasn't rude to you, he wasn't cruel. In fact, this almost made it harder. If he had been some terrible person, maybe Michael could've found a reason to dislike him. But he couldn't.
He was just… there.
The man who got to stand beside you in public, the man who could hold your hand without worrying about who was watching. The man who didn't have to wonder when he would hear from you again.
Michael didn't care much for him, but he couldn't deny one thing. He thought it was almost amusing how much the man admired his music.
He heard the way your boyfriend would talk about his songs, how he'd compliment his voice, his performances, the way he moved on stage. It was strange, almost ironic. The man who had the one thing Michael wanted was also one of the many people who looked up to him.
Sometimes Michael wondered if he knew...
If he knew the person he listened to on the radio was the same person who stayed up late talking to his girlfriend. The thought made him feel guilty, because he knew this wasn't right. He knew there were lines he shouldn't be crossing.
But he was still human.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟
Eventually, he had enough of sitting around waiting. He grabbed his jacket and left, convincing himself he only needed to clear his head.
But he knew the truth, he wanted to see you.
It didn't take long to find you. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe it was God. Either way, Michael's eyes found you almost instantly. There you were, laughing with your boyfriend, smiling so freely it almost made his chest ache.
Michael's jaw tightened the moment your boyfriend stepped away somewhere, probably the restroom. He had spent the last few minutes watching from a distance, trying to convince himself he wasn't bothered, but seeing you with him had only made that familiar ache return.
The second he was alone with you, Michael made his move.
He adjusted the sleeve of his jacket before making his way over to you. His appearance was simple, almost ordinary. A pair of dark glasses covered his eyes, and a jacket rested over his shoulders, hiding him just enough from wandering looks. It might have worked on strangers, but not on you.
You would know him anywhere.
It was in the way he carried himself, the way he moved, the quiet confidence that followed him even when he tried to disappear. Michael could cover his face, but he couldn't hide from someone who knew him as well as you did.
"Hey," he called to you quiet.
His voice was always so soft spoken, that's one of the reasons why you liked him. He never was quick to anger.
You turned your head, a little caught off guard in shocked. "Michael," you whispered his name. You felt your face get a lil too warm, the feeling that came in was close to embarrassed.
"What are you doing here?" You asked him.
Michael shrugged before answering with a little, "...I missed you."
He then tilted his head at you, studying your reaction, there was a quiet disappointment sitting behind his brown eyes. "I took off some time from the studio waiting for you. I thought you were gonna come down and well...." he didn't finish his sentence, but you knew what he was going to say.
He just wanted to spend time with you, like before. He thought you were going to choose him for once. The nights were you'd sneak out and kiss him so secretly behind your porch. Hands running all over his face, lips trembling against his so feverishly. He remembered every kiss you gave him and where it was. He remembered the way you would look at him before leaning closer, the way your smile would soften when it was just the two of you
So when he saw you do the same with another man, he couldn't help but feel jealous.
He looked at you for a moment, not saying anything. You shook your head slightly, "Michael I'm sorry, today just wasn't a good time." 'It's never a good time,' Michael thought to himself.
He then leaned up off the wall, "...You could have told me, I'd understand."
"I know...but..." the words couldn't leave your lips so Michael finished it for you.
"But you were too busy with your boyfriend?"
You scoffed quietly, the comment hitting a little too close to home. The way he said it made you feel exposed, it made clear how much of two faced you were being. He stared at you, eyes low. "Yeah, I was," you replied to him.
"Funny," Michael said quietly.
"You had time to go out with him," he said, his voice calm but carrying a quiet frustration. "You had time to laugh with him, spend the afternoon with him, kiss him…"
He paused, "But I couldn't get one phone call?"
"It was just a kiss on the cheek Michael, and I was going to call you," you insist.
"I know where the kiss was y/n," Michael scoffed under his breath, "It's not the point."
"I left you all alone, thinking you would pick up the phone and you didn't...I just....it's iffy." he shook his head. He then shifted his weight onto his other foot, almost uncomfortable at the situation.
"...I've been seeing you for months," he shakes his head again. "Months, you won't even hold my hand outside."
"But him..." his eyes finally meet yours. "...he gets all the things I gotta imagine."
Your heart tightened hearing that. Michael was hurting. You gently bit the inside of your cheek, your gaze drifting to the pavement as you searched for something, anything that would make this easier. Every excuse sounded the same before it even left your mouth. Slowly, you looked back up at him.
"It's just… a bad time, Michael."
He'd heard those words enough times to know they didn't mean anything anymore. It was always a bad time. Slowly, he nodded, though the motion felt more like surrender than understanding. "Yeah…" he murmured, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
The silence between you settled heavily, filled only by passing conversations and the distant hum of the city around you. After a moment, he looked away with a faint, tired smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"...You know, I wanted to have you today so you could hear the song I've been writing."
Your brows knitted together. "The one you've been workin' on?"
If only you knew what he meant then. He nodded at you, his eyes ran over your pretty face before meeting your eyes again.
"You've been askin' me about it, figured I'd finally play it for you." He glanced toward the area where your boyfriend had disappeared before looking back at you. Whatever hope had been sitting behind his eyes only moments ago had quietly faded.
"I guess…" he paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Guess you'll hear it when everybody else does." And with that he walked away. You stood there, feeling some type of way.
It sounded like Michael meant more than what he just said, but you couldn't understand.
ᨳଓ .
A month had passed. Not a single phone call, no voicemail, not a knock at your door. Nothing.
Michael hadn't reached out once, and truthfully… neither had you. Where you both over? No, you didn't think so. At first, you told yourself he probably just needed space. After everything that happened, maybe it was for the best. But as the days stretched into weeks, the silence became harder to ignore. Was he avoiding you?
Maybe, and rightfully so. Every time you thought about picking up the phone, guilt settled in your stomach, convincing you it'd be easier to stay where you were. Hiding away with your 'boyfriend,' seemed better than talking out things with Michael.
That afternoon, you laid comfortably against your boyfriend's chest while the radio played softly in the background. His fingers lazily traced circles along your arm as station after station played songs that barely held your attention.
You were just about to drift off when a gentle melody filled the room. It was sweet, almost dreamy.
Without thinking, you nuzzled your face further into your boyfriend's chest, a small smile tugging at your lips. 'Finally, something good,' you thought to yourself. Then, a cheerful voice came through.
"Girlfriend, I'm gonna tell your boyfriend, yeah. Tell him, exactly what we're doin', yeah. Tell him what you do to me....late at night when the wind is free...."
It was Michael. On the radio.
Singing...about....
Your eyes widened in a quiet shock, but your boyfriend's face lit up almost immediately. He let out a small laugh, sitting up just enough to glance over at the radio before looking back at you.
"Hey!," he said with an easy grin, "ain't that Michael!?"
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry.
"...Yeah," you answered quietly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. You tried to settle back against his chest, forcing yourself to relax, but your body refused. Instead, guilt slowly crawled up the back of your neck, hot and suffocating.
'Guess you'll hear it when everybody else does.'
His words echoed in your mind so clearly it was almost as if he were standing beside you. This is what he meant. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your boyfriend's shirt as you listened more carefully. At first, the melody had sounded sweet, almost innocent feeling. But now every lyric felt heavier than the last. They weren't just words anymore.
"We're gonna have to tell him, You'll only be a girlfriend of mine."
Your brows pulled together at that, then a quiet scoff escaped your lips as you shook your head, almost in disbelief.
"Unbelievable…" you muttered beneath your breath. So this was the song he'd been talking about, this was the one he wanted you to hear so badly. But you never could just give him the time of day. Irritation started bubbling heavily in your chest. Really, Michael? You wanted to be angry. You were angry. It felt unfair, like he'd taken something private and wrapped it in a melody for the whole world to sing along to.
But gosh… was it pretty. There wasn't any bitterness in his voice.
Maybe a small hint of teasing, a little mocking tone buried beneath the sweetness of it all, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
You then sat up, "I gotta go."
Your boyfriend blinked, looking over at you in confusion. "Already?"
Before he could ask anything else, you were already reaching for your shoes and purse, trying to come up with a reason that didn't sound suspicious. "I, uh…" You cleared your throat.
"I forgot my mom said I need to help my sister with her sociology homework." It wasn't exactly a lie, your sister did need help. Just not from you.
She was already on campus getting assistance from one of her classmates, but it was the only excuse you could think of in the moment. Your boyfriend stared at you for a second, clearly confused by the sudden change of plans, but eventually he just nodded.
"Alright. I'll see you later then..."
Normally, you would've leaned in. Given him a kiss goodbye. Told him you'd call him later. But you couldn't, not when your mind was somewhere else entirely.
"...Yeah, bye," you said softly before walking out.
ᨳଓ . The drive home felt longer than usual, always as if you were driving in circles until you came across your stone mailbox. Your hands stayed tight around the steering wheel, your thoughts running in circles. You replayed every word he'd said that day, every moment you'd avoided him, every time you convinced yourself the situation would somehow fix itself.
But now he had said everything without actually saying anything.
By the time you pulled into your driveway, you already knew what you were going to do. You rushed inside, dropped your purse onto the counter, and immediately reached for the phone.
Your fingers hesitated over the numbers for just a moment. Then you dialed and waited for him to answer.
One ring...
Then another
Then another...
You stared at the phone, your brows slowly raising. "Oh?" you scoffed quietly to yourself. A small, humorless laugh left your lips.
That's real funny.
After a month of silence, after leaving you with a song full of words he couldn't say to your face, now he wanted to act like he wasn't available. You shook your head, though the little ache in your chest betrayed you. You hated that you were even surprised, you got so used to him calling you, you didn't even know what it felt like to be waiting on the other line.
Maybe you deserved it. Maybe this was his way of making you feel what he felt.
The ringing continued until the line clicked. It was a quiet silence, neither of you spoke first. As bad as your nerves was, they suddenly calmed at hearing his breathing on the phone.
"Hello," was all he said. Nothing sweet, not how he usually did. You swallowed, staring down at the floor as if the answer was somehow written there.
"Nice song," you said getting straight into it, your voice carried a little more bitterness than you intended.
There was a brief pause on the other end. "Hm," Michael hummed quietly.
He knew you would call eventually. Maybe not that night. Maybe not the next day. But he knew. He had always been patient, that was one thing you could never take away from him.
"I'm glad it reached the right audience," he finally said, his voice smooth, almost sweet.
You immediately bit down on your tongue, of course he had to say it like that. He knew exactly how to relax and get under your skin, the same way you did him.
"Michael."
A small chuckle escaped him, but there wasn't much humor behind it. "Y/n," he said his voice becoming slightly firm again. He then leaned back in his seat while looking over some new lyrics he was writing.
"I'm a little busy right now. If you have something to say, say it to me in person." He paused. "Other than that, I'll be expecting you to pay your own phone bill."
You blinked, for a second, you almost laughed.
It was strange hearing him say that. Usually, he was the one reminding you not to worry about it. Usually, he'd insist on taking care of it before you even had the chance to argue.
But things were different now.
You scoffed softly, leaning your shoulder against the wall.
"So now you don't have time for me, Michael?" you asked, your voice calm, carrying that sweet little sarcastic edge he knew all too well. There was a pause, a long one which made you give a chuckle of your own.
"You're still mad about that kiss I gave him and not you?"
Michael's eyes glanced up from his notebook and looked onto the blank wall in front of him. The kiss...he felt himself getting irritated, again. He kept quiet, not saying anything.
For a second, you thought maybe you'd finally gotten a reaction out of him.
Then Michael quietly said, "I'm free tomorrow," and before you could respond, the line went dead.
The silence that followed rang in your ear. Your fingers tightened slightly around the phone as you stared ahead, caught somewhere between irritation and something you didn't want to admit.
He had gotten the last word but somehow, he still gave you a chance.
summary// you ended up realizing that making clark your lab rat would simultaneously be the best and worst decision of your relationship.
content warning// conditioning, mating press, doggy style, nasty filthy sex, creampie, clark is feral, clark has an alien dick, clark swears, improper use of x-ray vision, kryptonian breeding kink, squirting, clark is pathetic
2k words whew
with clark kent fucking you like that, you don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
.
on monday, on the evening, you decided that you could begin your sick little experiment of conditioning on clark. after reading an article about it online, you wanted your alien boyfriend to be your lab-rat for it, and saw no apparent downsides to the experiment, so you went on with it.
starting with the trigger, you decided for it to be a duck emoji. weird enough for clark to be confused, not too weird for it to have him worrying like the sweetheart he is. ten minutes before you arrived home after work, you had sent him a singular duck emoji with no context or follow-up to it, which, as expected, had your poor clarkie as confused as ever. you smiled when he immediately texted back with ‘???’—success. as soon as you arrived home, you barely let him finish his questioning before pouncing on him, interrupting his sentence with a kiss he welcomed with open arms.
that night, you rode the man to the moon and back—gave him such mind-numbing pleasure that he couldn’t even bother to remember his previous confusion about the duck emoji.
and so, with the first day being a success, you repeated the process.
every day following that one, you would do the same thing—no texts or news all day, a duck emoji ten minutes before coming home, mind-blowing sex.
after a few days of repeating the process, you began to space out these encounters, opting to send the duck emoji every two to three days—a great way to keep the man on his toes, anticipating, waiting for the next time you'd send him that emoji.
then came the most awaited experiment—your greatest mistake.
it was on a friday night that you had decided tonight was the night. you had sent clark the usual duck emoji, smirking as he had immediately seen the text. however, when you arrived home, it wasn't like usual. usually, upon sending the emoji, you'd pounce on him and drag him to the bedroom. tonight, however? radio silence. well, not quite, but that's it felt to clark. you didn't give him those bedroom eyes you usually did on nights you were feeling particularly needy, you insisted on taking a shower all by yourself (he almost crumbled at that) and after dinner, you lounged on the couch to watch a tv show without even asking him to follow you! you just did!
the thing about clark kent is, he's a gentleman through and through. his ma had raised him to be one, and for christ's sake, he was superman! how could he not be a gentleman? but, he sympathizes with himself, you can't spell gentlemna without man, and clark was a man before he was anything else. a very aroused and hopelssly in love man, at that.
he stands awkwardly in the doorway of the living room, staring at you. you noticed, of course, but this wasn't unusual. clark has always had sort of weird quirks—you had always found them endearing. "is something the matter, honey?" your sirupy voice cut through his stream of thought, and suddenly his eyes focus again, gaze meeting yours.
clark has his phone in hand, and he brings it up to look back at the duck emoji you had sent. duck meant sex. you wanted this. he can indulge. you want this.
he knows you do. you sent the text, and he feels like he can almost smell your arousal and it's driving him fucking insane because he just wants to dive in it and taste it and fuck you everywhere so the entire place smells like you and-
in the blink of an eye, his phone is abandonned and he's on you, lips smashed against yours. you barely have the time to react but you do, arms now hanging around his thick neck. his hand latches itself onto your cheeks, fingers pressing into both of them, urging you to open your mouth. as soon as you do, his tongue, which was inhumanely long, snaked into your cavern, exploring its depths. he moaned at the taste of your saliva, almost melting into you as if the flavor of you was his ultimate salvation.
noticing the lack of air filling your lungs, he pulled away, his eyes softening at the sight of you catching your breath. "c-clark... what's... whta's gotten into you?" you licked your lips, face flushed. he looks at you like a puppy begging for its treat. "the emoji... you sent the emoji but you didn't... i thought..." his mind is a rush, moving at a thousand miles per hour as his entire body is begging him to rip your clothes off and take you.
he gives up, his head falling into the crook of your neck. "i just... i really need to fuck you, sweetheart." and as he's confessing this, his hand is gliding towards the waistband of your bottoms, sliding swiftly underneath it.
you think you could ascend.
you bite your lip, rendered mute at the sheer tension of the moment. "i know you want it, baby..." he scoffs, eyes closed. "can smell it."
curse him for being such a dangerously hot and multi-abled alien.
his hand makes its way underneath your panties, finger running through your slit, collecting the slick you've been trying to keep to yourself for the past hour. "ah..." you let out a low sound, almost imperceptible but clark was so hyper-focused on you that the little moan made him shudder.
he uses his forearm to push himself upwards, his hand escaping your bottoms to rush up to his mouth, and when you look at him, you gasp, feeling your walls clench.
because clark has never looked this feral.
his eyes were half-lidded and impossibly dark, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows your juices, eyes nearly rolling back at the taste. he moans, his cock twitching and growing inside his sweatpants.
"you're gonna give it t'me, right sweetie?" he asks in that low, sultry voice that he only allows himself to use when he'd rather die than not touch you.
the eager nod you gave him marked the moment you knew you were done for.
.
how long has it been? you don't know. you don't know anything, actually. your brain is fogged with how clark was pounding you into the fuzzy carpet, your eyes crossing when the buds running along his dick grazed against the ridges of your walls, the added sensation making you spasm. "f-ffuck-! clark- oh my god, ohmygod—" you can barely form a sentence, let alone link two words together when he knocks at your cervix, your tits bouncing in rhythm with every thrust.
and clark isn't even listening to you, his eyes laser-focused on the sight of his cock splitting you open repeatedly, a vein bulging on his forehead at his intense use of his x-ray vision. "look at that, b-baby... look..." and you don't even bother, too lost in the ecstasy. he sees it all though, the strings of your arousal clinging to his tip every time he pulls away, the ridged of your pussy hooking onto his buds, the contractions of your muscles.
he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the sight, only to be met with the even prettier, albeit messier sight of your fucked out face. tears and drool glossed your skin, your eyes rolled back nearly to the back of your skull, throwing your head back when clark's hips stutter against yours, a white-hot wave washing over him over the sight.
he stilled when his buds hardened and hooked onto your walls, pulling him impossibly deep as he shoots buckets worth of cum deep into your womb. "a-ah! holy sh- hmm, fffuck, baby- i- fuck!" he sobs, jerking down towards you and you moan at the feeling of him filling you up once more, droplets of his sweat dripping onto your buzzing skin.
despite his orgasm, he doesn't stop, "n-need m-moree- needa fill you up-! ah, fuck!" his voice jumps up an octave when his buds finally relax again, allowing him to keep pistoning into you. "d-don't stop, clark! please dont- oh-!" he suddenly grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders before beeending down, succesfully folding you in half. his face is now slotted right in front of yours, and the eye contact is so intense you almost feel shy under his gaze.
a mating press. clark kent had you in a fucking mating press.
you get lost in his ocean blue eyes, barely able to keep the eye conatct when he fucks you almost like he hated you, digging in your pussy. "you're... you're so beautiful, honey... so fucking pretty- all f'me, yeah? all f'me?" you nod, hands pressing against the back of his head to bring him impossiby closer to you, "all for you, clarkie," you confirmed being hastily pressing his against you, imprisoning him in a feverish kiss. clark moans into your mouth, eyes closing. you jolt slightly when you feel a tear drip down on your cheek, peeling your eyes open to see clark crying.
he pulls away, gasping for air as his throat restricts. "i l-love you, love you s'much— need you so, ngh, so bad... wanna breed ya'..." he sobs, whimpering for you. seeing clark become such a slave to his love for you had an inescapable effect on you, and your orgasm was almost immediate. you came with a gasp, the pleasure being so heavy that your eyes had given up on their function, unfocusing and leaving you with the blurry image of clark's flushed expression. your back arched as cream dribbled out of your hole, creating a white ring around clark's base.
in the midst of your orgasm, he pulls out, making you whine for the few seconds your face isn't smushed against the carpet because in a matter of moments, your world tilted before you found yourself face down ass up for your boyfriend. he pressed a hand on your back, urging a deeper arch. "m'sorry baby, m'so sorry..." he apologizes for the his unceremonial behavior but his apologies fall on deaf ears as you couldn't be happier.
your hands clutch the fluff of the carpet when he slams back into you, kneading the flesh of your ass. "just... just need this. s'your fault for making me wait... so long.. to have you- ngh, gosh..." he's hypnotized by the rippling of your ass, and the way your back bends impossibly for a second each time he rams back inside you, pressing you further into the carpet.
with clark kent fucking you like that, you really don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
your moans are rhythmic, matching the pace of his hips. leaning in, he wraps an arm around you to squeeze your tits, massaging them and rubbing your hardened nipples. "so obedient..." his comment makes your walls flutter around his fat cock. he begins to roll his hips, not quite thrusting. he presses against you, making you drool. "nghhh... fffuuuck... love you... so much.. c-clark-!" you slurred, going crazy at the sensation of his buds hardening slowly again, hooking onto your insides.
"w-want your cum-! want you to b-breed me!" you egged him on, "yeah? y'want it, baby? oh gosh, i'm cumming, m'cummingm'cumming-" he gritted, spilling into you once more. "oh my god! oh god, sweetheart!" he whined, your name escaping him as his hips bucked again, releasing rope upon rope inside you. his orgasm triggered yours, drops of your release trickled down onto the carpet before his hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing furiously and suddenly an intense stream released itself onto the now soaked carpet, the intensity of both of your orgasms making the two of you collaspe in a heap.
he layed on top of you, both of you catching your breaths. "i feel so... sticky." he remarked, "shit... i ruined the carpet." you groaned, knitting your eyebrows together.
a silence settled in, before you broke it. "i'm glad my experiment worked." a beat passes before he reacts, "experiment?"
"i tried conditioning you into associating sex with the duck emoji. it worked."
clarks hums, choosing not to react any further.
a few days later, minutes after the end of your shift, you receive a text from clark.
Ladies…….ladies…….i want EVER SINGLE WRITER AND READER of the MJ fanfiction fandom to WATCH THIS…..you guys will LOVE THIS and AY it may give you more insight on how Michael is with women 👀🤌🤌🤌🤌 you will NOT REGRET IT!
↳ summary: ten years of platonic safety, completely incinerated over cold kitchen marble. a frantic morning-after argument about a drunken confession turns into a dangerous game of chicken. you think you're being the smart one, desperately trying to protect a decade-long friendship from total wreckage—until a single, devastating kiss proves that neither of you can afford to stay just friends anymore.
↳ friends to lovers!au;
↳ pairing: idol!jeongguk x f!reader
↳ warnings: shameless smut, heavy praise and unprotected oral. features a completely undone, whiny, and pathetically submissive jeongguk who is brought entirely to his knees, begging for a taste before fucking you through his own overstimulation. brace yourselves........ :)
↳ word count: 13.1 k
a/n: this is actually my first ever request. here is the the original ask! the person who requested didn't reply anymore, so i took it upon myself to just run with it—yay for creative freedom and what not. hopefully i delivered question mark?
i’m a bit anxious about this ngl since it is a bit out of my comfort area so please lmk your thoughts :')
we absolutely love subkoo propaganda in this house. though i must admit, i could've made him even more sub, but baby steps am i right?
—
ONE SHOT
STARRING JEONGGUK
You’re very good at making bad decisions.
You and Jeongguk have been friends for a very long time. Platonic friends, of course. The kind of bond forged in the messy, unfiltered trenches of youth long before the rest of the world decided he belonged to them.
You remember every single time he’s been there for you, steady as an anchor. He was the one who sat on the kitchen counter at three in the morning, quietly listening to you cry over a brutal breakup, holding the pint of melting ice cream while you ranted. He was the one who dragged his exhausted body out of bed in the dead of winter just to jump-start your dead car battery, completely uncomplaining as his hands turned bright red in the freezing air. When you failed that massive university exam, he didn't offer empty platitudes; he just showed up at your door with a bag of cheap convenience store snacks and your favorite video game, sitting in silence with you until the heavy cloud in your chest lifted.
And you’ve been there for him just as fiercely. You were the one who held his hair back in a cramped, dimly lit bathroom after he drank way too much at a party, rubbing his back while he muttered pathetic apologies. You were the one who helped him pack up his entire life into mismatched cardboard boxes when he finally left his small hometown, taping the edges shut while he nervously paced the room. You even let him experiment on you with a box of cheap, questionable hair dye on a random Tuesday, resulting in a green-stained forehead and a frantic midnight run to a 24-hour pharmacy, laughing so hard your stomachs ached in the fluorescent aisles.
However, you didn't take into account that he would get famous at some point. Obviously, he had all the cards to do so, you weren't blind.
He’s attractive. He’s sweet. He has a good heart that bleeds through everything he touches.
And then there are the physical realities you've forced yourself to ignore for years. He has impeccable, impeccable hands—veiny, strong, and large enough to completely swallow yours. He has a fiercely toned body, hardened by years of relentless dance practice and gym sessions, a sharp contrast to the gentle soul inside him. And, of course, those sweet, round eyes you melt for every single time he looks up at you, completely disarming whatever defenses you try to build.
So when he texted you saying he was back home for a little while before heading out on the massive world tour again, of course you said yes.
Why would you not? He was your best friend.
Except you completely forgot that during his brief stints of downtime, Jeongguk had a tendency to pick up hyper-fixated new hobbies. Which is exactly how you found yourself standing in the doorway of his private garage, completely frozen.
He was entirely underneath the chassis of a sleek, vintage car, legs sprawling out across the concrete floor. He was straining against a stubborn bolt, and the physical effort caused his dark t-shirt to ride up drastically, exposing a wide strip of his lower abdomen.
Your eyes trapped themselves right there, staring directly at his happy trail. It was a sharp, dark line of hair cutting perfectly across his toned stomach, disappearing straight into the low waistband of his grey sweatpants.
Avert your gaze? Maybe you should. You absolutely had to.
Instead, a stray, dangerous thought crossed your mind, wondering exactly where that trail led and if it really was a happy place. You would certainly guess so, taking into account the sheer volume of women who willingly flung themselves at him daily on global television.
Jeongguk, meanwhile, was acutely aware of the shift in the room's atmosphere the second you walked in. From his vantage point beneath the metal frame, he heard your footsteps halt. He could feel the phantom heat of your eyes burning into his exposed skin. His heart did a violent flip in his chest, his fingers tightening around his wrench. He purposely stayed still for a beat longer than necessary, his breath hitching, secretly thrilled by the weight of your undivided attention.
To break the suffocating silence, you finally spoke, semi-yelling over the clinking of his tools, "Yo! Koo, what the fuck are you doing?"
Hearing your voice, Jeongguk finally kicked against the floor, sliding himself out from under the car on his mechanic's creeper.
When he fully emerged, the sight of him made your throat go completely dry. He had grease smudged across his jaw, a dirty shirt clinging to his frame, and a sweaty forehead. A few moist, dark hair strands were sticking directly to his skin, and the tiny silver hoop of his lip piercing glinted sharply in the garage lighting.
You gulped. Hard. Maybe it was just because you hadn't seen him in a while, or maybe it was because the platonic shield you usually wore was rapidly cracking to pieces.
Jeongguk blinked up at you, tracking the slight bob of your throat as you swallowed. A quiet wave of satisfaction washed over him, melting his internal nerves into something warm and soft. He let his head fall back slightly, looking up at you through his lashes with the sweetest, most innocent smile he could muster.
"Hi," he replied softly, his voice a low, raspy rumble that did absolutely nothing to help your racing pulse.
He laughed, a bright, breathless sound, and stepped toward you with his arms wide open. It was clear he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around you after being separated by a massive ocean for months, but you immediately took a sharp step back, hands raised in a defensive barrier.
"Don't even think about it," you warned, eyeing the black grease smudged across his arms. "I am not getting engine oil all over my clothes."
Jeongguk paused, his arms still half-extended, his lips pouting into a familiar, dramatic frown. "So?" he asked, tilting his head with an entitled little whine. "It's just a shirt. I haven't seen you in forever."
Before you could reiterate that you actually liked your outfit, he reached down, gripped the hem of his dark t-shirt, and pulled it over his head in one fluid, practiced motion. Your breath caught awkwardly in your throat. Now, the toned lines of his chest and abdomen were fully on display, glistening with a light sheen of sweat under the garage lights. He didn't even seem to notice your sudden internal panic as he casually crumpled the expensive fabric into a ball, using it as a makeshift rag to roughly wipe the grease off his hands.
Tossing the ruined shirt onto a nearby tool stool, he stepped right back into your space. "Better?" he murmured, a cheeky, triumphant grin spreading across his face before he locked his bare, warm arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
You let out a defeated sigh, but you didn't pull away. You hugged him back, burying your face against the warm crook of his shoulder, the familiar, comforting scent of him cutting right through the sharp smell of gasoline and metal.
If you were being 100% honest with yourself, you did have a crush on him. You had been harboring a crush on him for a very long time.
You just never vocalized it. To you, it was always safer to remain a constant, unshakeable variable in his chaotic life rather than risk ruining something so irreplaceable. All of his past relationships had eventually crashed and burned, a pattern that only grew worse once global fame started violently colliding with his love life and relentless schedules. You had absolutely no intention of losing Jeongguk to a stupid, juvenile crush you’d developed nearly ten years ago—all because he’d sweetly given you his last cherry popsicle on a scorching summer afternoon.
Jeongguk squeezed you a little tighter before finally releasing you, though his hands lingered on your arms for a beat too long. "I want to throw a party tonight," he announced, his round eyes shining with genuine excitement as he swiped a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "Just like old times. I want to actually have fun without a million eyes on me."
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "Oh? Tell me about it. Who are we inviting?"
"Only old friends," he said instantly, his tone turning protective. "Nobody new. Nobody with a hidden motive or a vendetta. Just the people who knew me before... all of this."
You smirked, a teasing glint in your eyes as you nudged his bare shoulder. "What, so you didn't bring any international flings home with you in first class?"
Jeongguk let out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his messy hair. "No way. I'm going girl-sober for a while. Women completely fuck up my senses."
He wasn't lying, and you knew it. Jeongguk was a hopeless, unapologetic serial romantic. He was a boy who loved with his entire soul, completely incapable of doing anything casual even if his life depended on it. It was his ultimate Achilles' heel. He wore his heart so openly on his sleeve, entirely defenseless, and people always seemed to have other, more transactional plans for it.
"Girl-sober, huh?" you echoed, trying to ignore the sudden, dangerous flutter in your stomach at his words. "Let's see how long that actually lasts."
"Oh, it will last," Jeongguk said, his tone dropping into a quieter, more deliberate register as he looked down at you. "You'll make sure of it."
You blinked, momentarily losing your train of thought as your eyes tracked a stray bead of sweat rolling down his collarbone. "Pardon?"
"You’re the only one I can trust with my heart right now," he explained smoothly, a completely earnest, unguarded look washing over his features. He stepped a fraction closer, the heat radiating off his bare chest practically enveloping you. "So, yes. You. Making sure no one is hurting your super hot friend."
Your knees almost buckled right there on the oil-stained concrete.
Super hot?
Did he just casually drop that into conversation like he hadn't spent the last ten years being your dorky, platonic sidekick? Before you could even formulate a coherent response, Jeongguk caught the sudden shock on your face. A playful, slightly teasing glint sparked in his dark eyes, his lips tilting up at the corners.
"Am I not?" he challenged softly, tilting his head as if genuinely waiting for your assessment.
You swallowed hard, your mind scrambling to put the platonic walls back up before he noticed how fast your heart was beating. "I plead the fifth."
Jeongguk let out a breathy, dramatic groan, throwing his head back before looking down at you through his lashes. "God, Y/N, you’re so dramatic. I can openly say you’re hot."
Your brain completely short-circuited. "Sorry?"
"What?" He shrugged his shoulders, completely unfazed by the bomb he’d just dropped in the middle of his garage. "It’s not like it’s federal information. You’re attractive, I’m attractive. You should be able to speak open truths."
You gulped again, the sound loud in your own ears as you looked anywhere but at the hard lines of his chest. "Fine," you grumbled, forcing the words past your lips like a confession under interrogation. "You’re hot. Happy?"
Jeongguk’s playful smirk instantly vanished, replaced by a dramatic, exaggerated pout. He whined, the sound high and petulant, as he crossed his arms over his chest. "No, see? Now I don't even want it anymore if you don't actually believe it."
You let out a sharp scoff, throwing your hands up in disbelief. "Where the hell is that coming from?"
"I'm serious," he insisted, his voice dropping into a quieter, more vulnerable register. He stepped a fraction closer, his shoes almost touching the tips of yours. He looked down at you, completely stripped of his usual idol persona. "I don't want you to say things just because I want to hear them. I have enough people in my life for that,Y/N. Millions of them. I don't need it from you."
The sudden, raw honesty of his words hit you like a physical weight. You looked up, meeting his gaze, and swear his eyes just got ten times more sparkly and round, shimmering with a sudden, intense vulnerability.
He was practically vibrating with the unspoken urge to be perceived, truly perceived, by the only person whose opinion actually mattered to him.
The platonic armor you’d spent so long building suddenly felt paper-thin. You let out a soft sigh, reaching out to gently tap his bare chest, right over his racing heart.
"Jeongguk," you said, your voice softening, holding his gaze so he knew you meant it. "You're hot. I'm not just saying it."
The second the words left your mouth, the heavy tension broke. A massive, radiant grin split across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners into those familiar, endearing crescent shapes.
"Thank you," he sang out in a sweet, sing-song voice, practically beaming as he swayed his shoulders from side to side like a praised toddler. The transition from a brooding, shirtless man to a needy, praise-hungry boy was so fast it made your head spin, leaving you entirely at the mercy of whatever games he was playing with your heart.
You spent the whole afternoon prepping for the said party. You were beyond glad for his shiny black card, which you used with zero remorse. It could buy the good alcohol—the top-shelf stuff his agency normally rationed him on—along with an obscene mountain of incredible snacks that you knew you would half-demolish before the guests even knocked on the door. You had bags of high-end chips, imported chocolates, and savory finger foods piled high on his marble kitchen counters, casually stealing a handful of pretzels every time you walked by.
His apartment was massive, but it was also quite dark. He had a penchant for heavy, blackout curtains and moody industrial architecture, and you laughed a ton when you tried to string up some extra LED lights around the living room and hallways. You muttered to yourself while balancing on a stool, desperately trying to ensure people wouldn't step on each other's toes in the pitch-black tomb of his very boy-coded apartment.
It was a chaotic mix of state-of-the-art gaming rigs, massive speakers, random workout equipment in the corner, and a giant plush couch that screamed bachelor pad.
His bedroom, however, was strictly off-limits. Locked and closed for the public.
As you passed the heavy wood door on your way to the bathroom, you paused. You hadn't been inside his room in a long way, and your mind naturally began to wander, curiosity pricking at your chest. You started to wonder how it had changed from the last time you were there, back when it was just a messy pile of clothes and a mattress on the floor. Now, as even a more famous star than he was at the start, did he have silk sheets? A massive canopy bed?
More dangerously, you started to wonder what women had seen those sheets. Which faces had looked up at him in the dark?
At last, you forcefully pushed the burning thought aside, shaking your head to clear the sudden spike of jealousy. It didn't matter. You had a job to do, and besides, the guests were finally starting to arrive.
The heavy front door clicked open, and the quiet tomb of his apartment was instantly flooded with chatter and laughter as his oldest childhood friends spilled into the entryway. Jeongguk was already standing by the kitchen island, the grease long washed from his skin, replaced by a soft, oversized black sweater and a fresh scent. He’d clearly been anticipating the social buffering, because by the time the first three people crossed the threshold, Jeongguk had already thrown back two heavy shots of tequila.
His round eyes were already bright and crinkling with a loose, alcohol-fueled warmth.
Throwing his hands into the air, his silver lip piercing catching the glow of the newly strung lights, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "Welcome, party people!"
The room erupted into cheers, his friends rushing forward to swarm him, throwing arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a chaotic huddle of loud greetings and deep belly laughs. From across the room, you leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him instantly dissolve back into the boy he used to be, completely shielded from the crushing weight of his global fame by the people who loved him first.
The party shifted into high gear with the easy, unpretentious noise of people who had nothing to prove to each other. In the hazy glow of the blue and purple lights, the living room felt less like a celebrity’s multi-million dollar fortress and more like a time capsule.
"I’m just saying," Jin-woo, one of Jeongguk’s oldest friends from his hometown, gestured wildly with a half-eaten chip, "If a zombie apocalypse happens right now, Koo is the first to die. He’s too polite. He’d try to bow to a zombie before kicking it."
"No way!" Jeongguk protested, his voice a little too loud, a little too slurred as he leaned heavily against the back of the plush couch. He poured himself another shot of tequila, his hand shaking just enough that a few drops splashed onto his knuckles. "I have muscle memory now. I’d do a 360-kick. Boom. Dead zombie."
"You'd cry if you got blood on your designer shoes," you chimed in from the kitchen island, swirling the ice cubes in your cup.
Jeongguk’s head snapped toward you instantly. His sweet, round eyes were heavily hooded, a dark, glossy sheen over them as he tracked your movement. A soft, lazy smile spread across his face, his silver lip piercing catching the strobe of the lights. "Y/N... you’re supposed to be on my side. Always."
"I am on your side. I'm just realistic," you laughed, taking a slow sip.
You were barely on your second glass of vodka cranberry, the tart liquid still mostly full as you paced yourself. You had to. Someone needed to keep an eye on the house, and more importantly, someone needed to keep an eye on him.
Jeongguk, on the other hand, was throwing them back like water. The pressure of the upcoming tour, the suffocating nature of his daily life—it was all bleeding out of him in the form of liquid courage. He was drinking to forget the idol.
An hour later, the loud, stupid arguments dissolved into the inevitable late-night deep talk. Three of his friends were sprawled on the floor, debating the existence of aliens, while Jin-woo had moved onto the balcony for a smoke.
Jeongguk somehow navigated his way over to you, his shoulders bumping into yours as he leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. He smelled like expensive cologne and sharp alcohol.
"You're barely drinking," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, raspy rumble that always made your stomach do backflips. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your wrist, his thumb casually brushing against your pulse point. His touch was warm, heavy, and intentionally lingering.
"Someone has to make sure you don't break your own furniture," you teased gently, though your heart was suddenly hammering against your ribs. "How many shots is that now? Five? Six?"
"Doesn't matter," he whispered, stepping a fraction closer, completely ignoring the chatter of his friends just twenty feet away. He looked down at you, his large eyes shimmering under the dim kitchen lights. "Everything feels... too loud out there, Y/N. But when I look at you, it stops."
Your breath hitched.
"Jeongguk, you're drunk," you whispered back, trying to maintain the boundary, trying not to let your ten-year-old crush completely take over.
"I am," he admitted softly, his grip on your wrist tightening just a fraction as he leaned his forehead down, almost touching your shoulder. It was that physical surrender again—putting himself entirely in your space, begging you without words to hold him together. "But I'm only brave when the sun goes down. You know that. Stay 'til sunrise. Please."
"Fine," you sighed, trying to ignore the frantic pounding in your chest as you gently patted his broad, sweater-clad shoulder. "But you’re taking the couch tonight, Koo. I’m not carrying you anywhere."
A soft, breathy laugh left his throat, and before you could even brace yourself, Jeongguk leaned in. He pressed his lips firmly against your temple, a lingering, warm pressure that smelled faintly of tequila and mint. "Thank you," he murmured against your skin, a string of another quiet, drunken thank yous spilling out of his mouth as he finally pulled back.
You stood there, entirely frozen, your brain struggling to process how to function normally. Those sweet, tactile gestures of his had remained exactly the same over the last decade. It was just a temple kiss. It was the kind of thing he’d done a hundred times when you were younger, yet now, with his shoulders framing you and his deep voice vibrating in his chest, it rattled you down to your very core.
Before you could spiral any further into your own head, Hana—one of Jin-woo’s louder cousins who had tagged along—yelled from the living room floor, clapping her hands together to get everyone's attention.
"Hey! Enough with the alien talk," Hana shouted, swirling the ice in her cup. "We should play something actually fun. Like truth or dare... or better yet, truth or drink!"
The room instantly erupted into murmurs of agreement, but nobody moved faster than Jeongguk. His face lit up, his round eyes wide and sparkling under the blue LED's as he practically jumped at the opportunity to drink more.
"Truth or drink," Jeongguk cheered, his voice loose and excited as he pushed off the kitchen counter. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of top-shelf tequila by the neck, giving you a quick, triumphant look over his shoulder. "Yes. Let's do it. I'm choosing drink every single damn time, I don't care."
He stumbled slightly as he made his way to the center of the room, dropping heavily onto the plush rug right in the middle of the circle, looking up at everyone like a kid waiting for a game to start. He was already so completely undone, and as you walked over to join the circle with your barely touched vodka cranberry, a sudden, heavy wave of anticipation settled deep in your stomach.
You knew exactly how Jeongguk played games when he was like this. He was honest to a fault, but tonight, with the alcohol running warm through his veins he might start being too honest.
The bottle of tequila sat right in the center of the hardwood floor, spinning rapidly under the flashing lights until it slowed down, its neck pointing directly at Jin-woo.
"Alright, alright," Jin-woo grinned, leaning forward on his knees. He looked across the circle at Jeongguk, who was sitting cross-legged, a little loopy, swaying slightly to the music. "Koo. First round. Truth or drink. What is the absolute worst thing about being a global superstar? Give us the real dirt."
You expected Jeongguk to reach for his cup immediately. His agency spent millions of dollars training him to handle questions like this with perfectly polished, diplomatic answers. Instead, Jeongguk just let out a soft, hazy laugh, his eyes dropping to his hands.
"The loneliness," he said, the sheer honesty of his voice cutting right through the lighthearted party atmosphere. The circle went quiet. Jeongguk looked up, his round eyes wide and entirely undisguised by his usual idol armor. "You think you're surrounded by the world, but when the stage lights go off, you're just sitting alone in a sterile hotel room in a country where you don't speak the language, wondering if anyone actually misses you, or if they just miss the guy on the posters. It's suffocating."
A collective, sympathetic hum went around the room. Jin-woo blinked, clearly not expecting him to drop something so heavy in the first five minutes. You felt a familiar twist of pain in your chest, your eyes softening as you looked at him. Jeongguk didn't take a sip, he just gave a tiny, vulnerable shrug, completely comfortable laying his soul bare in front of the people who knew him before the fame.
Hana spun the bottle next. It whirled around before grinding to a halt, pointing straight back at Jeongguk.
"Oh, my turn," Hana perked up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Okay, Jeongguk. You said earlier today that you're 'girl-sober' right now. So tell the truth: when was the last time you actually kissed someone, and did it mean anything?"
You held your breath, your fingers tightening around your glass of vodka cranberry.
Jeongguk tilted his head back against the edge of the couch behind him, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. He didn't even reach for the tequila bottle. "Two years ago," he stated bluntly, his voice a low, raspy rumble. "A girl I met during a break between promotions. And no, it didn't mean anything. That was the problem. I tried to make it mean something because I hate casual stuff, but she just wanted to tell her friends she was dating an idol. It felt transactional. I hated it."
"Damn," Hana muttered, taking a drink of her own beer out of pure secondhand awkwardness. "You're really not holding back tonight, are you?"
"I told you," Jeongguk murmured, his dark, glossy eyes suddenly shifting across the circle until they locked directly onto yours. "I don't want to say fake things tonight. I'm tired of it."
Before the heavy silence following Jeongguk’s sudden drink can completely suffocate the room, Jin-woo quickly reaches out and gives the glass bottle another aggressive spin. It whirs sharply on the hardwood floor, a blur of green glass under the flashing blue lights, before slowing down and pointing its cap directly at you.
"Oh, finally! The spotlight shifts," Hana cheers, leaning forward on her elbows with a wicked, deeply intrigued grin. She doesn't hesitate for a second. "Okay, Y/N. Truth or drink. We all know you're fiercely independent in your daily life, but does that translate to the bedroom? Are you the type who likes to be completely in charge, calling all the shots, or do you prefer to submit?"
Your heart does a violent, erratic leap against your ribs. Out of the corner of your eye, you feel Jeongguk freeze.
You slowly turn your head to look at him, and the sheer intensity of his gaze almost makes you gasp. His sweet, round eyes are completely dark, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the irises. He’s staring at your lips, his chest heaving under his oversized black sweater, practically vibrating with a sudden, suffocating hunger. He looks entirely undone by the question, his lips parting slightly as he waits for your answer with a desperate, breathless anticipation.
You clear your throat, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I think prefer being in charge," you reply, keeping it blunt and confident. "I like the feeling of control."
A low, collective “Ooooooh” ripples through the circle of friends, but you barely hear them. The absolute heat of Jeongguk’s unblinking stare is burning into your skin, making your throat go completely dry. Even though you answered the truth, you desperately need a distraction, so you lift your glass of vodka cranberry and take a heavy, long sip, letting the tart alcohol burn away the sudden spike of nerves.
"Knew it!" Hana laughs loudly, raising her cup to you in approval. "A total boss. Honestly, whoever ends up in your bed is a lucky bastard."
Hana grabs the bottle next, giving it a careless flick to keep the game moving. It spins and lands right back on her. Jin-woo immediately jumps in with a smirk. "Alright, Hana, truth or drink: Is it true you secretly cried when your ex got a matching tattoo with his new girlfriend?" Hana gasps, throwing a couch pillow directly at his face before grabbing her beer. "Shut up! I'm drinking, I am absolutely drinking for that one," she groans, chugging a massive gulp while everyone erupts into loud, teasing laughter.
The distraction gives you a brief moment to breathe, but when you glance back at Jeongguk, he hasn't moved an inch. He is still looking up at you from his spot on the floor, his silver lip piercing glinting.
The bottle gets spun again, whirring lazily until it grinds to a halt, pointing directly at another childhood friend, Jisung.
Jisung groans, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, man. Go easy on me. I've had a rough week."
Seojun leans forward, a thoughtful expression replacing his usual mischievous grin as the atmosphere shifts back into something a bit deeper. "Alright, Jisung. Real talk. Truth or drink: Since we're all getting older and life is pulling us in different directions, do you ever feel like you're getting left behind by the rest of us?"
Jisung sighs, a sad, honest smile touching his lips as he looks around the circle, his eyes briefly lingering on Jeongguk’s massive, luxurious apartment. "Yeah," Jisung admits softly, his voice quiet against the background music. "Sometimes it's hard. Like, I'm so incredibly proud of Koo, and I love seeing all of you succeed, but looking at my own nine-to-five... it makes me feel like I'm standing still while everyone else is running. It's a weird kind of pressure."
"Dude, no," Jeongguk speaks up instantly, his raspy voice full of genuine affection. He leans forward, completely breaking the circle's boundary to grab Jisung’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly with his hand. "Don't ever think that. None of this fame stuff matters if I don't have you guys to come home to. You're not left behind. You're exactly where you need to be."
Jisung smiles, visibly touched, and raises his glass to clink it against Jeongguk's tequila bottle. The warmth of their old friendship fills the room, but as Jeongguk pulls his hand back, his dark, heavy eyes slide right back to yours.
The rest of the party continued in a hazy blur of slurred words, loud, nostalgic belly laughs, and increasingly messy drinking. By the time the clock crawled past three in the morning, the high-energy atmosphere had completely dissolved. The final straw came when Jisung, looking pale and thoroughly defeated by the alcohol, stumbled toward the entryway and nearly threw up directly into a massive, expensive indoor plant pot.
Jin-woo caught him by the back of his jacket just in time. That was officially everyone's cue to leave.
There was a chaotic fifteen minutes of shuffling feet, mumbled thank-yous, and heavy slaps on shoulders as you helped herd his childhood friends out into the hallway. When the heavy front door finally clicked shut, the sudden, absolute silence of the multi-million dollar apartment felt deafening.
You turned back toward the living room, only to find Jeongguk dragging his feet across the hardwood floor. True to his word from earlier, he was clutching a plush, oversized pillow under one arm and trailing a heavy, dark duvet behind him, preparing to claim the sofa.
He was so incredibly drunk. His broad shoulders were slouched under his black sweater, his movements completely uncoordinated. As he tried to navigate around the low coffee table, his knee clipped the edge, causing him to stumble awkwardly. His hand shot out to steady himself, almost knocking an empty highball glass clean off the wood surface.
"Whoa, easy there," you murmured, quickly stepping into his space. You grabbed the glass before it could shatter, setting it safely aside, and then crouched down slightly to match his eye level as he heavily dropped his weight onto the edge of the cushions. "Koo... look at you. I think you should actually just take the bed tonight. I can sleep out here."
Jeongguk immediately gestured a clumsy, emphatic no with his hand, shaking his head so hard a few strands of dark hair fell into his face. The sudden movement clearly sent a wave of vertigo through him, because it was instantly followed by a pained, whispered, "Jesus..."as he tightly pressed his palm against his forehead, closing his eyes against the dim lights.
You cocked a brow at him, amused but secretly melting at how soft and defenseless he looked when the tough idol persona was stripped away entirely. "See? You can barely hold your head up. Go to your room, Jeongguk."
"No," he rasped, his voice incredibly deep and thick with sleep and alcohol. He slowly dropped his hand from his face, lifting his head to look up at you through his thick lashes. His sweet, round eyes were heavily hooded, wide and shimmering with some sort of vulnerability. "Don't go yet. Let's... let's talk for a while. I missed you. I missed you so much, Y/N."
Your heart did a violent, erratic hammer against your chest at the sheer desperation in his tone. It was a direct plea, completely unguarded.
Despite the warning bells screaming in your head about your decade-long crush, you found yourself complying. You let out a soft breath and sat down right next to him on the couch, the plush cushions sinking under your weight as his heavy, warm presence instantly enveloped you in the quiet dark.
The moment you settled onto the cushion, his heavy head fell sideways, landing directly on your shoulder. You were instantly engulfed by his scent. It was a fragrance so deeply familiar to you, cutting right through the tequila-infused softness he had going on tonight.
Jeongguk always smelled incredibly clean. Over the years, you had grown to associate crispy, clean cotton smells with his smile. Whenever his brutal, tight schedules didn't allow him the time to text or call you for weeks on end, you had found a strange sort of reprieve in those scents—buying detergents or candles that smelled like fresh laundry just to feel like he wasn't entirely a world away.
He shifted against you, his cheek rubbing into the fabric of your shirt as the quiet apartment settled around you both. He noted the sudden, heavy silence in the room and tilted his head up just enough to look at your profile, his bottom lip pushing out into an almost childlike pout.
"Did not you miss me too?" he asked, his deep voice muffled against your neck, raw and terribly needy.
You couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at your lips. You turned your head slightly, your breath brushing over his hair. "Obviously, Koo. How could I not? You’re my best friend."
At the word friend, Jeongguk let out a low, vibration-heavy hum in his chest. It wasn't a happy sound. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as he tightly gripped a fistful of the dark duvet resting on his lap.
"I'm so confused," he whispered, the admission sounding small and cracked.
You blinked, shifting slightly so you could look down at his face. "Why?" you asked softly, your heart doing a nervous, anticipatory flutter against your ribs. "What's making you confused?"
"Because it should feel different," Jeongguk muttered, his voice dropping into a register so low and raspy it sent a physical shiver straight down your spine. He didn't lift his head from your shoulder. He just pressed closer, his warm breath seeping through the fabric of your shirt.
You grew thoroughly confused, your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion. "What? What should feel different, Koo?"
He let out a ragged, heavy sigh, his chest expanding against your side. "Everything," he whispered. "I’ve been thinking for a while... that love, real romantic love, should feel at least as deep and all-consuming as the type of love I have for you."
The wind was completely knocked out of your lungs. For a terrifying second, you forgot how to breathe entirely. Your mind raced back over the last ten years, the late-night phone calls, the quiet domesticity of your friendship, and the heavy, burning crush you had tried so desperately to bury. You bit your lip hard, the sharp sting of pain the only thing keeping you grounded, in a desperate attempt to steady your trembling voice.
"Jeongguk," you breathed, your voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator in the quiet apartment. "What... what do you mean by that?"
He finally pulled his head back from your shoulder, shifting on the plush cushions so he could face you fully. He looked entirely undone by the alcohol and the sheer weight of his own thoughts. He started explaining with his hands, his long fingers cutting through the dim light. His intricate tattoos shifted across his skin, and the silver rings on his fingers glinted sharply in the dark as he gestured in frustration.
"I can't do casual, Y/N," he said, his eyes wide, glossy, and swimming with a desperate, heavy sensitivity. "I can't. Because I know how true love should feel. I know it because of you. Every single time I’ve tried to date, every time I’ve tried to build something with someone else, I find myself associating what I feel for them in comparison with you."
A beat.
Two beats.
Three beats.
The silence in the room became so heavy it was suffocating.
"And every single time," Jeongguk whispered, his head tilting down as he looked up at you through his lashes, completely stripping away his defenses and surrendering his heart right into your hands, "I’ve found that they always come short. In comparison with you."
You tried to diffuse the situation right then and there. Your brain was working in overdrive, frantically constructing walls because the alternative—believing him—meant stepping into a territory that could ruin everything you had built over the last years.
He was drunk. He was clearly not thinking straight. He was currently trying to be girl-sober, and in your mind, he was just projecting his deeply ingrained, serial monogamist tendencies onto the closest, safest thing he had. You.
It wasn’t true. It couldn't be true.
"Jeongguk," you said, your voice tight as you forced a breath into your lungs, desperately trying to ignore how loud your own heart was knocking against your ribs. "I think you’re just projecting. You're exhausted, you've been lonely on tour, and you're just confusing comfort for something else."
He muttered a low, ragged "Jesus..."again, his hand rising to tightly press against his forehead. He didn't even seem to fully process what you said, completely deaf to the frantic rhythm of your chest as the alcohol and the emotional weight of his own confession finally dragged him under.
The raw intensity in his eyes flickered out, replaced by heavy exhaustion. Without another word, he let his upper body slide sideways, his head plopping heavily onto the plush pillow he’d thrown on the edge of the couch.
He curled his body slightly into the cushions, his dark lashes fluttering shut as a deep, uneven breath left his parted lips, leaving you sitting there in the dim blue LED light, completely frozen next to him.
That’s when you realize his bedroom door was probably still locked, a solid block of wood protecting a room you weren't allowed to enter.
You had absolutely no option but to sleep on the couch next to him. Letting out a quiet, defeated breath, you grabbed the edge of the heavy, dark duvet he’d brought out, pulling it over both of your bodies to shield against the air conditioning. You shifted your weight, settling into the cushions as best you could, and tried to sleep.
It was impossible. Seven thousand thoughts were swirling in your mind, a chaotic storm of memory and denial.
But Jeongguk was drunk.
He was completely out of it, his deep, even breaths rising and falling against your side. He wouldn't remember this in the morning, you told yourself. Tomorrow, the sun would come up, the platonic armor would go back on, and he would just be your best friend again. You closed your eyes, letting the clean cotton scent of him anchor you as you finally drifted into a restless sleep, completely unaware of how thin the line between you had truly become.
But the next morning, he was nowhere to be seen.
When you finally opened your eyes, blinking against the harsh, bright sunlight piercing through the cracks of the heavy blackout curtains, the couch beside you was completely empty. You checked your phone—it was god knows what hour of the late morning—and the realization that you were alone in the vast, quiet space hit you like a cold splash of water. The heavy dark duvet was pulled back, the plush pillow still holding the indentation of his head, but Jeongguk was gone.
So naturally, you grew a bit anxious.
A tight, familiar knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you sat up, the silence of the multi-million dollar apartment suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. Your mind instantly began to scramble, racing back through the events of the previous night. You hoped with everything you had that he would just forget what he said last night. You prayed the tequila had completely wiped his memory, that the slurred confessions about true love and people coming up short in comparison to you would just evaporate into the morning air. If he forgot, everything could go back to normal. You could go back to being the constant, unshakeable variable in his life.
But then the darker, terrifying thoughts started to bleed in, turning your anxiety into full-blown panic.
What if he remembered? What if he woke up with a pounding headache and a crystal-clear recollection of every single word that had left his mouth? What if he was so thoroughly mortified, so repulsed by the fact that he had crossed that sacred platonic line and laid his soul bare, that he had physically chosen to flee his own home just to avoid looking you in the eye?
You stood up, your knees slightly shaky, your eyes darting toward the hallway. His bedroom door was still closed, but the heavy silence in the apartment made it feel like he had abandoned the entire place just to escape the mess he’d created in the dark.
That’s when you heard the faucet running.
The sharp, metallic hiss of rushing water cut through the suffocating silence of the apartment, drawing your attention toward the kitchen. Your heart skipped a beat, the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosening just a fraction, only to tighten again with a completely different kind of tension.
With small steps, your feet padding quietly against the cold hardwood floor, you made your way down the hall. Every single breath you took felt like lead, heavy and burning in your chest. You braced yourself for a tense, awkward confrontation, preparing to play off his drunken rambling as a massive joke.
Instead, you rounded the corner and saw him in all his glory, completely naked from the belt up.
The bright morning sunlight poured through the kitchen window, hitting the sharp, fiercely toned lines of his back and shoulders as he stood in front of the sink. He had a clean pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, exposing that dark, dangerous happy trail you’d been obsessing over the day before. His skin practically glistened, completely washed clean of the previous night's sweat and alcohol, and his dark, damp hair strands curled slightly around his nape. He was rinsing out a couple of mugs, hands moving with effortless, domestic grace.
As if sensing your presence, Jeongguk turned around.
There was no repulsion on his face. No awkwardness, no frantic desire to flee. Instead, his sweet, round eyes instantly crinkled at the corners, and a warm, lazy grin spread across his face, his silver lip piercing catching the morning light.
He greeted you in a sweet, entirely normal manner.
"Morning, sleepypants," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly morning rumble that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet air. He set the mug down and gestured toward the espresso machine on the counter. "Coffee?"
You sit down awkwardly on one of the high barstools at the marble kitchen island, your hands folded in your lap as you nod your head. "Yes, please. Black is fine."
The silence stretches between you for a bit, heavy and thick on your end, though Jeongguk seems entirely unbothered as he presses a button on the espresso machine. The low whirring of the grinder fills the space, and the rich, dark scent of coffee begins to bloom in the air. Your mind is still a frantic mess of questions, the sheer weight of his shirtless torso in the bright morning light not helping your ability to think straight.
Unable to take the suspense any longer, you clear your throat. "Koo?"
He hums in response, not turning around just yet as he watches the dark liquid drip into the mugs, patiently waiting for you to continue.
You swallow hard, tracing a invisible line on the marble counter. "Do you... do you remember last night?"
Jeongguk freezes for a split second, his shoulders tensing just a fraction before he slowly turns around to face you. He leans back against the counter, crossing his tattooed arm over his bare chest, a totally blank, deadpan expression washing over his features.
"Last night?" he repeats, blinking his eyes with exaggerated confusion. He tilts his head, looking down at his own bare torso and then back up at you. "Wait... what year is it?"
You instantly catch onto the stupid joke, a rush of exasperated relief flooding your chest. You reach out, grabbing a random crumpled tissue you found sitting on the edge of the counter, and throw it straight at his face.
He ducks, but it clips his shoulder anyway. Jeongguk bursts into a loud, boxing-glove laugh, his eyes crinkling into those familiar, endearing crescents as the heavy tension in the room instantly evaporates.
"Yes," he says, his laughter dying down into a soft, knowing smile as he holds your gaze, his voice dropping back into that low morning cadence. "I remember last night, Y/N."
Your stomach drops straight through the floor. The relief you felt a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, choking wave of heat that rises all the way to your face. You fumble with your words, your tongue feeling thick and clumsy as you try to form a coherent sentence.
"You—you remember?" you stammer, your hands nervously gripping the edge of the marble counter. "Then... what you said on the couch. Before you fell asleep. Did you... I mean, did you actually mean it?"
Jeongguk stays quiet for a while. The playful morning light suddenly feels too bright, too exposing. He doesn't move from where he’s leaning against the counter, but the easy grin vanishes from his face. He looks down at his feet, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, his chest expanding with a deep, deliberate breath.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are dead serious, devoid of any tequila-induced haze.
"Yes," he says, his voice a low, steady vibration. "I meant it."
You blink, your chest tightening so fast it hurts. "What... what did you mean, Jeongguk? Exactly?"
"I meant what I meant," he mutters, his jaw clenching as he shifts his weight. He crosses his arms tighter over his bare chest, a defensive instinct kicking in as he tries to maintain his footing. He’s trying to stay casual, trying to play the enigmatic card, but the slight twitch in his silver lip piercing gives him away.
"Yes, but what does it mean?" you push, your voice cracking slightly out of frustration. You lean forward on the barstool, completely done with the riddles. "You don't get to drop a bomb like that, tell me everyone else comes short in comparison to me, and then just say 'I meant what I meant.' What does that mean for us, Jeongguk? What are you actually saying?"
Jeongguk stares at you, the silence stretching out between you like a taut wire. You can practically hear the furious looping in his head, the terrifying friction between the decade of friendship holding him back and the raw, suffocating desire to just stop hiding.
"It means exactly what you think it means, Y/N," he says defensively, his voice rising a fraction. "Why do I have to spell it out?"
"Because you were drunk!" you snap back, your own walls going up because you're terrified of getting your hopes destroyed. "Because people say crazy things when they've had six shots of tequila! You told me I'm the standard for your love life. Do you have any idea how insane that is to hear from your best friend?"
That's the breaking point.
Jeongguk cracks. The stubborn, defensive posture completely shatters, his arms dropping to his sides as he takes a sudden, aggressive step forward, closing the distance between the counter and your stool. He looms over you, his bare chest heaving, his eyes wide and burning with a desperate, chaotic intensity.
"It's not insane!" he bursts out, his voice cracking with a raw, emotional force that echoes through the quiet kitchen. He grips the edge of the marble island right next to your thighs, leaning down until his face is just inches from yours, entirely undone. "It's not the tequila, Y/N! I've been sober for months on tour and I thought about it every single day. Every girl I look at, every person I talk to, I'm just looking for you in them. I'm tired of pretending I don't. I'm tired of the mystery. I meant that I’m in love with you, okay? I’ve been in love with you for years!"
"You're crazy!" you snap back, the pure panic in your chest bubbling over into anger as you push yourself back against the barstool. "You are completely crazy, Jeongguk! You can’t just wake up one day and decide to ruin a ten-year friendship because you had a breakthrough on tour! You don't just get to tear down everything we built because you feel like it!"
He flinches as if you physically struck him. The fierce, looming intensity drains from his posture in an instant, leaving him looking raw and incredibly small despite his broad frame. His eyes turn visibly sad, a thick, glossy sheen coating them under the bright kitchen lights. His jaw tightens, his silver lip piercing trembling just a fraction before a bitter, hurt laugh leaves his throat.
"Well, excuse the fuck out of me if I have feelings," he spits out, his voice cracking with a dangerous mix of anger and absolute rejection. He pulls his hands off the marble counter and takes a step back, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso again, as if trying to shield his chest from you. "Excuse me for actually trusting my best friend enough to be honest. I didn't decide to feel this way, Y/N."
"It’s not even about that!" you yell back, your hands flying into the air out of sheer frustration. You slide off the barstool, finally standing on your own two feet so you don't have to look up at him. "Jeongguk, think for one second! Could you actually afford to lose me if a relationship goes south? If we do this, if we cross that line and it blows up in our faces, we don't get to go back to being friends. I'm gone. You're gone. Everything is ruined. Can you honestly afford that?"
At your words, his entire demeanor shifts from heartbroken to super pissy and defensive, the vulnerability of his ego being bruised making him lash out.
"It wouldn't go south!" he barks, his chest heaving as he glares down at you, his face flushing a furious, hurt red. "Why are you already deciding we're going to fail? And you know what? It doesn't even matter because you’re standing here acting like you have the high moral ground! Like you're the only one who cares about our friendship and I'm just some reckless idiot trying to break it!"
"I don’t have a moral ground!" you shout, stepping right into his space, your voice matching his volume. "I’m just trying to be smart about this! Someone has to be, because you're clearly letting your emotions run completely wild right now!"
"Why should you be smart?!" Jeongguk erupts, his frustration completely breaking through the ceiling. He throws his hands up, the silver rings on his fingers flashing aggressively in the morning sun. He steps so close you can feel the radiating, shirtless heat of his skin, his breath hitting your face in short, ragged gasps. He looks down at you, his eyes searching your face with a suffocating anger. "Why do you always have to be the logical one? Tell me the truth, Y/N—have you ever even thought about me that way? Even once? Or am I just the only idiot who’s been suffocating in this for years?"
"Of course I’ve thought about you that way!" you burst out, the truth ripping through your throat before you could even try to stop it. "Every single day for the last ten years, Jeongguk! I have been suffocating right next to you, watching you date other people, watching you become a global superstar, completely terrified that if I said a word, I’d lose you forever!"
Jeongguk completely freezes. The furious, pissy retort dies right on his tongue, his mouth hanging open slightly as his chest heaves. His round eyes widen, the glossy unshed tears making them look impossibly huge as he processes your words.
"You..." he stammers, his voice becoming a breathless, vulnerable whisper. "You have?"
"Yes! But you’re sitting here acting like it’s so simple," you say, your voice trembling with an overwhelming mix of anger, frustration, and a decade's worth of built-up tension. You take a step closer, your eyes locking onto his parted lips, then tracing up to the raw, completely undone expression on his face. He looks so helpless, so utterly desperate for your touch, standing there shirtless in the bright morning light.
You need him to understand. You need to prove to him that this isn't just some casual, easy dynamic he can play with. You want to prove a point—to show him exactly what he's playing with, exactly how dangerous this boundary truly is.
Before he can utter another word, you reach out, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of his sweatpants at his hip to pull him in, and you slam your lips against his.
Jeongguk lets out a sharp, muffled gasp into your mouth, his entire body jolting at the sudden impact. But the hesitation lasts for less than a second. The moment he realizes you are actually kissing him, he completely shatters. A low, desperate groan rumbles deep in his chest, and his tattooed hands flies to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a terrifying, suffocating hunger.
The kiss is chaotic, fierce, and overflowing with ten years of unspoken agony. You pour everything into it—all the logic, all the smart choices, all the fear of losing him—crushing your lips against his until your teeth click. He tastes like the rich espresso he just brewed and the sharp, lingering heat of his own desperation. He follows your lead completely, surrendering to the dominance you admitted to just hours before, letting you call every single shot as he whimpers against your mouth, his frame trembling beneath your hands.
When you finally pull back, your chest heaving, your lips swollen and tingling, you try to step away to establish the boundary again. "See?" you breathe out, your voice shaky as you stare at his dark, completely blown-out pupils. "That is what we lose if—"
"No," Jeongguk whines instantly, the sudden loss of your lips making him sound incredibly small and pathetic. His hands tighten on your waist, physically yanking you right back against his bare, warm chest. His nose brushes against yours, his breath hot and ragged. "No, Y/N. Please. Just one more. One more."
"Jeongguk, I'm trying to make a point—"
"I don't care about the point," he groans, his voice turning super whiny, his bottom lip pushing out in a desperate, pouty expression that completely contrasts his heavily tattooed, muscular frame. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he practically begs. "Just one more kiss. Please. Y/N. One more, and then I’ll listen to the logical stuff. Just one more."
You melt away entirely under the pathetic, desperate drag of his voice. Every ounce of your hard-earned logic completely liquefies, dripping away into the space between your pounding hearts as you slide your hands up his radiating chest to cup the back of his neck, pulling him right back down to you.
The moment your lips meet again, Jeongguk kisses you like it’s the only thing he was ever put on this earth to do.
It is an agonizingly deep, consuming kiss that destroys any remaining illusion of your platonic past. He devours you, his plush lips parting with a fierce, wet desperation that immediately slicks your skin. He uses his tongue with a heavy, deliberate stroke, sweeping into your mouth to claim you entirely, tasting intensely of the bitter espresso and the sweet, clean mint from earlier. Every tilt of his head is a calculated shift to press deeper, his silver lip piercing sliding hot and sharp against your bottom lip, an intoxicating friction that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.
You let out a helpless, broken moan right into his mouth, the sound vibrating against his teeth.
The small noise completely undoes him. Jeongguk’s hands abandon your waist to roam frantically all over you, his palms hot and heavy as they map out your body. He slides his hands down the curve of your back, his blunt fingernails digging into your clothes, before lifting up to cup your jaw, his tattooed thumb firmly pressing against your pulse point to hold you perfectly still for his assault. His chest presses flush against you, the hard, sculpted lines of his abdomen crushing into your frame until you can feel the frantic, booming rhythm of his heart matching your own.
He is entirely consumed, a slave to the sudden shift in your dynamic.
He briefly breaks the kiss, his lips only parting a fraction of an inch from yours, leaving a string of wet, heavy breaths between you. His glossy eyes flutter open, looking at you with a gaze so completely wrecked and swimming with desire that it makes your knees buckle. He whines against your skin, a high, desperate sound cutting through his deep morning rasp as his forehead drops heavily against yours.
"I'm gonna make you feel good," he pleads, his breath hot and ragged against your swollen mouth as his hands slide back down to desperately grip your hips. "Please, Y/N... please let me make you feel good. Just let me. Please."
You don’t reply right away, your mind completely fracturing into a thousand pieces as you stand frozen in his kitchen. Your thoughts pull you in every direction, desperately trying to analyze the wreckage of the last five minutes.
The damage is done. You already kissed him—not just a gentle slip of the lips, but a fierce, devastating confession of a kiss that blew every single one of your carefully constructed boundaries right out the door. The sacred line of the friendship hasn't just been crossed; it’s been entirely incinerated.
As you stare down at his flushed face, a dark, heavy thought slips into your mind, taking root before your logic can tear it down: Would it really be so bad to just go through with it?
If everything is already broken, if the mystery is gone, why keep fighting the very thing that’s been suffocating you both for a decade? You look at his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged gasps, his skin radiating a maddening heat that pulls you in like gravity.
Before a single word can tumble past your swollen lips, Jeongguk completely unravels. His knees give out, hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud as he drops down right in front of you.
The global superstar, the man who fills stadiums worldwide, is entirely brought to his knees, looking up at you with huge, glassy, pleading eyes. He looks so sweet, so raw, and completely submissive to whatever you decide next.
"Please," he whimpers, the word spilling out of him like a broken prayer. "Please, Y/N."
He doesn't wait for your permission. His hands slide up the back of your legs, his palms scalding hot through the fabric of your clothes as he pulls your hips closer to his face. He buries his face against you, his warm forehead pressing firmly against your lower stomach as a ragged breath hitches in his throat.
"Let me make you feel good," he begs into your clothes, his voice dropping into a desperate, deep vibration that resonates straight through your skin. "Just let me do this for you. Please."
Then, his plush lips press against your clothed thighs.
He kisses you right through the fabric, his mouth hot and damp, leaving heavy, branding presses of his lips along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He nuzzles his face deeper against your legs, whining softly when you don't immediately push him away. The absolute friction of his silver lip piercing catching against the material, combined with the desperate, worshipful way his hands tighten on the back of your thighs, makes your breath hitch sharply in your throat. Your hands fly to his bare shoulders just to keep yourself steady, your fingers digging into his smooth, firm skin as the room tilts on its axis.
Your fingers sink deeper into the smooth muscle of his bare shoulders as the sheer weight of his worship pulls you under. The internal debate, the frantic logic, the fear of what happens when the dust settles—it all completely evaporates.
"Okay," you finally whisper, the single word cutting through his desperate, ragged breaths. "Okay, Jeongguk. Do it."
The permission hits him like an electric shock. He doesn't waste a single second, his hands moving with an frantic, desperate urgency. He grips the waistband of your pants and underwear together, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he tugs them down your legs in a breathless hurry. You kick out of them, your feet hitting the cool hardwood floor, leaving you completely exposed to him in the middle of the bright kitchen.
When he leans his head back in, you let out a sharp, involuntary hiss as the hot, concentrated burst of his breath hits your sensitive pubic area.
But he doesn't touch you yet. Jeongguk just stays frozen on his knees, his hands still tightly gripping the back of your thighs to anchor you in place. He’s just looking. His sweet eyes are wide and completely dark with a devastating mixture of awe and pure hunger. His chest heaves, his silver lip piercing glinting as his lips part slightly, his gaze completely tracing every inch of you as if he’s memorizing a holy text.
The intense, unblinking weight of his stare makes you shift your weight, a sudden spike of heat rushing to your face. "Jeongguk," you breathe out, your voice trembling. "What... what are you doing?"
"I need more room," he rasps, his voice dropping into a thick, desperate growl.
Before you can even process the words, his large hands slide under your thighs and around your back. In one swift, effortless motion, he lifts you completely off the ground. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you out of the kitchen. He moves with a singular, fierce focus, and in a matter of seconds, you’re in his bedroom.
He lays you down onto the mattress, and you find yourself completely sprawled across the dark, silk sheets of his bed, the heavy clean cotton scent of him enveloping you entirely.
Jeongguk doesn't even let you catch your breath. He crawls up onto the mattress immediately, his large, heavy body looming over yours for a fraction of a second before he slides right back down between your thighs. He hooks your knees over his shoulders, pinning you open, and buries his face directly between your legs.
The first touch of his tongue is a wet, heavy stroke that makes your entire body arches off the bed. He eats you out like it’s a form of salvation, his mouth hot, wide, and utterly ravenous against your wet skin. He uses his tongue with a frantic, consuming rhythm, lapping at you with deep, deliberate strokes that pull a loud, undone moan right from your throat. The slick, wet sounds of his mouth against you echo in the quiet room, completely destroying any lingering sanity.
Even as he devours you, the desperate, pleading energy from the kitchen doesn't leave him. Every time you twist your fingers into his damp, dark hair to pull him closer, a muffled, high whine breaks from his throat, vibrating directly against your clit. He nuzzles his face deeper into your heat, his silver lip piercing sliding sharp and intoxicating against your most sensitive spots, making you sob his name into the empty air.
"Please," he whimpers against your wet flesh, breaking his rhythm for only a split second to breathe your name, his voice cracked and completely wrecked. His hands grip your hips so tightly his knuckles turn white, silently begging you to hold him there, to let him keep drowning in you. "Please tell me it's good. Tell me you like it, Y/N. Just let me stay right here."
You can only cry out in response, your hips instinctively rolling into his mouth as his tongue darts back inside, deeper and more desperate than before, completely surrendering his entire existence to the rhythm of your pleasure.
The sound of his name ripping from your throat sends a visible shiver straight through his broad, shirtless frame. Hearing how undone you are only makes him more desperate, his tongue working with a frantic, wet rhythm that has your hips rolling blindly into his face.
"You're so good, Koo," you gasp out, your knuckles turning white as you fist your fingers into his damp, dark hair, pressing him closer. "Ah—yes, right there. You're making me feel so good. So good..."
Jeongguk lets out a muffled, high whine directly against your core, the high-pitched, needy sound vibrating straight through you. The praise completely undoes him. He sucks a hard, bruising path up your inner lip, his silver piercing scraping perfectly against your most sensitive flesh, pulling a loud, broken sob from your lungs. He is utterly buried in you, his hands gripping the undersides of your thighs so tightly that his bicep muscles bulge under his smooth, tattooed skin. He nuzzles deeper, lapping at your slick heat with a ravenous, worshipful speed, swallowing your whimpers like they are the only thing keeping him alive.
The friction is too much. The intense, deep heat building in your lower stomach is expanding so fast it feels dangerous, blinding you to everything else in the room. You are getting so entirely into it, the overwhelming pleasure clouding your logic until you can't breathe, can't think, can't handle the agonizingly slow burn of just his mouth anymore.
You want him. You want all of him.
With a breathless cry, you pull your hands out of his hair and adjust the position you're in, your palms sliding down his broad chest, past his tensed abs, to the low waistband of his grey sweatpants. Jeongguk senses the shift immediately, his head lifting, his lips glistening, dark hair falling wildly over his wide, blown-out eyes as he looks up at you with a breathless, questioning whimper.
You don't say a word. You simply hook your fingers into the cotton of his sweats and underwear, tugging them down past his hips in one swift, demanding motion.
His cock springs free, thick, heavy, and leaking a bead of pre-cum that glints in the bedroom light. It twitches against his lower stomach, fully erect and radiating a maddening heat. Jeongguk lets out a raw, hitched breath, his hands trembling on your mattress as he hovers over you, completely exposed, his chest heaving as he waits in agonizing suspense for what you're going to do to him next.
You wrap your fingers firmly around the thick, pulsing base of his shaft, the skin scalding hot against your palm. Jeongguk lets out a shaky, pathetic gasp the moment your hand closes around him, his hips twitching forward instinctively. Without giving him a second to recover, you lean forward, parting your lips, and slide the plush, leaking head of his cock straight into your mouth.
He completely loses his mind.
A loud, ragged moan rips from his throat, echoing sharply in the quiet bedroom. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, catching the slick pre-cum, before sinking your mouth lower, drawing him deeper down your throat. The rich, clean scent of him mixes with the musk of his arousal, entirely consuming your senses. You use your tongue to stroke the sensitive underside of his shaft, your lips wrapping tight around him to create a fierce, suffocating vacuum as you bob your head in a steady, demanding rhythm.
He throws his head back, hair spilling over his forehead as a continuous string of broken groans and breathless whimpers spills from his parted lips. He doesn't try to hold back, his chest heaving as he watches you through hooded, blown-out eyes, his silver piercing catching the light every time his jaw slacks.
"Ah, God, Y/N," he pants, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated worship. His large, tattooed hand flies to your hair, but he doesn't push you down—he just cradles your head with a trembling, gentle grip, completely submissive to your pace. "You're so perfect. Look at you... fucking hell, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Please, you're destroying me."
The praises are heavy, thick with a devotion that makes your chest ache. He’s praising you in a way you've never been praised before, treating your mouth like a sanctuary, completely unbothered by his own ego. You take him deeper, your thumb rubbing over his balls, and the combination makes his hips roll blindly against your lips, a low, desperate whine vibrating in his chest.
The edge is getting too sharp for him. The friction of your wet mouth and the agonizingly sweet torture of the rhythm has him shaking from head to toe. His fingers tighten in your hair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he feels himself reaching a dangerous point of no return.
He suddenly pulls back just enough to slip his cock from your lips, a heavy string of saliva connecting you for a fraction of a second. Jeongguk hovers over you on his knees, his entire body trembling, his face flushed a dark, beautiful red as he looks down at your wet, swollen lips.
"I can't—I can't just take," he begs, his voice breaking completely as he drops his forehead against your chest, his chest heaving against your skin. He is entirely undone, crying out as his hands slide down to grip your hips, physically pulling you back down onto the mattress. He positions himself right between your soaked, aching thighs, the heavy head of his cock rubbing torturously against your wet core. "Please, Y/N. I need to be inside you. Please let me come home. Please let me inside."
A dark, heady rush of power floods your veins as you look down at him. Seeing the man who fills stadiums worldwide reduced to a trembling, pleading mess right under you is intoxicating. You smirk against the flushed skin, your fingers sliding up his damp neck to tilt his face up.
"Put it on then, Koo," you murmur.
You say your consent, and the word acts like a green light. Jeongguk scrambles, blindly fishing a condom from the nightstand drawer—you aren't even paying attention to where he gets it from, your eyes locked onto the sharp, beautiful lines of his tensed muscles as he tears the foil open with his teeth.
His hands are shaking so violently it takes him two tries to roll the latex down his thick, pulsing length.
The moment he’s protected, he doesn't wait. He lines the wet, heavy head of his cock against your slick opening and sinks into you in one deep, agonizingly slow push.
A loud, broken sob rips from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you out until you're entirely consumed by the sheer size of him. Jeongguk lets out a guttural, trembling groan into the crook of your neck, his large frame collapsing over yours, his full, shirtless weight pinning you into the dark silk sheets.
"Ah, God, Y/N... you're so tight, you're so warm," he whimpers, his voice completely wrecked as he begins to move.
The friction is instant and overwhelming. Jeongguk doesn't fuck you with the practiced, cocky rhythm of a man in control; he fucks you with a desperate, frantic hunger, his hips snapping forward in deep, heavy thrusts that rock the entire bed. He is completely starved for you, his tattooed hand sliding under your lower back to lift your hips higher, taking every single inch you have to offer. The wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting yours echoes in the quiet bedroom, mixed with his continuous, vocal praises.
He’s riding the absolute edge from the very first stroke, the decade of built-up desire making him impossibly sensitive. His breath comes in short, panicked gasps against your ear, his silver lip piercing grazing your pulse point as his pace turns frantic, unhinged.
"I'm gonna—Y/N, I'm close, I can't hold it," he cries out, his voice cracking. He gives three more deep, blind thrusts, his entire body locking up as a low, ragged scream tears from his lungs. He spasms against you, his cock twitching violently inside your walls as he finishes first, spilling himself entirely into the condom.
But he doesn't stop.
Even as his climax ripples through him, leaving him completely overstimulated and trembling, he refuses to pull out. He knows you haven't crossed the line yet. With his jaw clenched and his eyes swimming with tears from the sheer, burning sensitivity of his post-nut state, Jeongguk forces his hips to keep moving.
He whimpers miserably with every single stroke, the friction against his overstimulated skin clearly driving him crazy, but he keeps pushing inside you anyway.
"I've got you," he pants, a high, needy whine breaking from his lips as he drags his body up and down yours, his movements slower now, heavier, grinding his pelvis right against your clit with agonizing precision. "I'm not stopping... please, baby, come for me. Let me feel you clamp down on me. Please."
The sight of him pushing through his own overstimulation just to please you completely shatters whatever restraint you have left. Your internal walls collapse. Your hips begin to roll frantically against his, your toes curling into the silk sheets as the tight coil in your lower stomach snaps.
You scream his name as a violent, crushing orgasm ripples through your body. Your internal muscles clamp down tightly around his thick shaft, milking him through the latex. Jeongguk lets out a loud, pathetic whimper at the tight squeeze, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder as he rides out the wave of your climax with you, completely spent, completely yours.
He collapses right besides you, his massive, shirtless frame molding perfectly against you as he pulls you into his chest. Both of your chests are heaving in the quiet room, the only sound the ragged asymmetry of your breathing slowing down. Jeongguk nuzzles his face into your hair, tracing his plush, swollen lips along your jawline before kissing you tenderly on the cheek—a soft, lingering pressure that feels entirely detached from the frantic, consuming chaos of just moments ago.
You lie there, the cool air of the bedroom hitting your bare skin where his body isn't pinning you down. The reality of what just happened begins to settle into your bones, the heavy fog of pleasure lifting to reveal the massive, uncharted territory you’ve both just stepped into.
"Jeongguk," you breathe out, your voice still a little raspy. You turn your head slightly, trying to look at him. "We should talk about it. About... us. What this means."
He lets out a soft, tired groan, burying his face deeper into your neck. His large, tattooed arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you so close there isn't a single millimeter of space left between you.
"We will," he promises, his low rumble vibrating right against your skin. "I promise we’ll talk about everything you want. Just... please let me enjoy this moment for a second. Let me just hold you."
You agree, nodding your head slightly against his chest, but you are visibly lost in your thoughts. Your eyes trace the unfamiliar contours of his bedroom, the dark silk sheets, the heavy shadows on the wall. The anxiety hasn't completely vanished, it's just waiting on the periphery, whispering questions about tomorrow, about his career, about the fragile ten-year foundation you just risked.
As if sensing the sudden shift in your energy, Jeongguk shifts. He props himself up on one elbow, hovering over you just enough to look down into your face. His eyes are incredibly soft, completely clear of the tequila from last night and the blinding lust from minutes ago. He reaches up, his gentle thumb tracing your cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat.
"Hey," he murmurs, his piercing catching the soft light. He looks at you with an unwavering certainty that makes your heart skip a beat. "I’m going to make sure nothing goes south. I promise you. I love you, Y/N."
Hearing the words spoken so clearly, without a drop of alcohol or adrenaline to hide behind, makes the last of your defenses crumble.
"I love you too," you whisper back.
He smiles—a genuine, boyish grin that reminds you exactly of the teenager you met a decade ago—and pulls you back down against him. As you nuzzle your nose deep into the warm, clean-scented crook of his neck, listening to the steady, unshakeable beat of his heart beneath your cheek, the frantic thoughts in your mind finally begin to quiet down.
Maybe the logic didn't matter. Maybe, against all odds, it really was going to be okay.
|| jungkook finds himself pathetically begging for you to stop ignoring him - to the point he's quite literally, on his knees.
content : age gap relationship !! (22 & 31) , implied jealousy, slight argument and silent treatment, subby kook !! grumpy but obsessed, SMUT. begging, praise, male whimpers !!! <3, oral fem.- rec., multiple orgasm, cowgirl p in v, lots of talking, hes so needy guys,, lil tit play, clit play, light hair pulling, aftercare <3
♡ bunny´s notes : our fav dilf is back !! do we like this version of mr jeon? thank u to anonie for requesting !! may contain typos & errors as usual,, even more so bc its late and not proofread lolz
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If bringing over Jukyung to Soojin's house was a sin, Jungkook would be a sinner right now.
It's not like he brought him over to Soojin, he thinks - their kids have been friends before you had even stepped foot in Jungkook's house, much less, expressed your dislike toward Soojin.
Yet, in your book, Jungkook has definitely sinned.
"But don't you understand what i'm trying to say here?"
He watches your hands gesture the way they always would when you're frustrated; palms up, moving up and down with every word coming out of your mouth - empathizing their weight appropriately.
"I do, but he wanted to visit his friend. What was i supposed to do baby, say no because you weren't there?"
"Yes, that's exactly what. You could have waited those 30 minutes until i came to bring him over myself"
Jungkook groans, running his promise ring adorned hand through his messy hair, rolled up sleeves reveal the beautiful stories trapped in his body art. Somehow that made the situation at hand ten times worse in your mind.
"You're being immature __ , nothing happend and i promise i won't do it again but we don't need to drag this out"
Immature.
You hated this word so much- and Jungkook knows, the moment his eyes find yours again, narrowed below the soft frown blooming between your eyebrows. The age difference between the both of you is an unspoken sore spot, a sensitivity you bump into often - without ever really speaking of it.
For the moment of silence, your hearts beat in sync, lining up only to be rattled by the soft scoff passing through your lips.
It stayed silent for long after that.
During dinner about an hour later that was eaten separately, one person on the couch - one in the kitchen, and during the thirty minutes afterward, when jungkook had enough of washing dishes and being in the wrong. The water shuts off, he shakes his hands once before walking over to where you're laying on the couch.
"Baby" he says, your eyes flicker toward him in reaction - only to glue themselves back on to the screen in front of you. Voices of a show you hate watching fill the room quietly, but the remote is too far away to grab and there's no way you're acknowledging Jungkook right now.
"Come on love" he sighs, sitting down next to you. The presence and smell of his fresh scent is a comfort you try your hardest not to welcome, though it doesn't work quite as much as you want it to.
From the outside however, you don't budge. Eyes trained foward, head resting in your hand, silent as a statue.
Jungkook is a patient man.
" __ , i'm sorry baby. I should'nt have.. said that. It was important to you. Maybe i don't.. see it the same way, but i should have respected it anyway"
His large palm moves up and down on the curve of your hip, down the the edge of your silky shorts. Warm and sweet even through the fabric, the warmth of his words also seep through to you - reaching the stubborn part that's been holding on to your heart.
But not fully, not yet.
Jungkook's doe eyes run over the smooth expanse of your legs, up to the neutral expression on your pretty face. When you fail to acknowledge him again, the hand on your hip tightens it's grip slightly, squeezing,
"Baby"
"Baby? Come on, please"
There's nothing youre giving him, not after his sincere apology, not after repeatedly kissing your cheek and jaw,
Nothing.
With nothing left to do for him either, he groans, mumbling about you being a brat while making his way down from the couch - knees hitting the carpeted floor with a light thump.
Your heart skips a beat when his hands find your hips again, only for them to run down your thighs, pulling them off the couch.
Finally, your gaze collides with his.
"I said, i'm sorry. Please baby, you can stop ignoring me"
There's a want in his eyes, a needy glint for attention shining up at you. You hum, the sound low and barely audible - nonetheless more than you'd granted him so far. With your knees still in his hands, he waits for more.
"Talk to me" he mumbles between kisses, dragging his plump and pierced bottom lip down the side of your leg, against the risen goosebumps that betray your pissed off act wordlessly.
"Don't do this to me hm?"
You sigh, the breath coming from the bottom of your lungs - releasing any ounce of annoyance you truly had for him. His tongue flicks over your inner thigh the instant one of his hands found grounding there, resting promisingly. The breath of his needy voice dances against your skin like a slow walz, complimenting the rhymic steps of his lips on your skin, traveling closer to the edge of your shorts.
"I'm mad at you kook"
"I know you are. But please, please stop ignoring me" he rasps, the flat tip of his round nose grazing just under your shorts, fingers skimming the lines on either thigh with an underlying ache in their tips. He wants to touch you, kiss you, feel you - all of your affection, your attention.
"I can't stand this, please baby, i'm literally on my fucking knees here"
You reach down to cup his chin between your thumb and pointer finger, his focus redirects to your face obediently - to your lips as they move with more than just a passive reply.
"You're sorry right? Won't do it again, not without talking to me, yeah?"
He nods, a messy strand of his dark hair falling over his forehead, the desprate edge in his grumpy tone makes more heat pool on your lower tummy - where it'd started acquiring the moment his knees had hit the ground. As much as he pretended to be convinced by your act, jungkook and you both know - this is just a little powerplay to you, a way to reclaim what he took by calling you immature.
And to hell if he isn't deeply, deeply into it.
"I swear, and i said it a million times baby, just - fuck, just let me make you feel good. C'mon"
Your shorts are tossed away, his hands hold your thighs open wide and secure, making space for his face to nuzzle into the space between without a second to spare. Nose running against your damp cotton panties, tongue eager to taste the tangy sweetness off the fabric.
He's starving for you.
Groans of his satisfaction sink into your dripping cunt alongside a single one of his thick fingers. Your own, softer moans fill his ears like the prize he worked oh so hard for. As his greedy tongue laps on your clit, accompanying the shallow thrust of his digit, your sounds of pleasure grow louder - more rewarding.
"That's it - ahh - right there"
"Mhhh- yes, yeahh, you're so good, good job"
Jungkook's cock strains painfully against his slacks, the outline of his curved, girthy length giving away as much of his own enjoyment as the furrow in his brows and the whimpers shamelessy spilling from his busy lips.
As he sucks on your clit, feeling your walls spasm around him - his eyes stare up at your blissful expression, chaining your gazes together, intertwining your joined pleasure further. He lets his spit run down your puffy folds, lapping it back up to spread on your swollen pearl as he whines beneath breathy words,
"Gonna cum for me? Please baby, give it to me"
You nod, a broken up yes managing to escape as well. With your fingers tightening around his hair, you pull him closer between your thighs, his entire tongue grinds against your pussy - his moans vibrating against the wet skin adding to final push.
The taste flooding his mouth is enough to nearly tip him over, his hand quickly stalling their rough palming - he wanted to be fully indulged in your high - your open mouth, lolled back head and twitching cunt. Tasting the forgiveness on his lips as he licks them, he's making his way on the couch, kissing up your neck, thumbing your sensitive clit.
"You taste so good, so so good for me"
The sore feeling in his knees fades into the background even as you swing your thighs on either side of him, hands swift to reach for his zipper. The noise rings in your ears similar to a bell realising everyone after a long day. The addition of rough, open mouthed kisses on his jaw make Jungkook circle back to helplessly whimpering - suppressing the itch in his hands to flip you over and dominate, claim, take.
You deserve this control.
"Want my attention don't you?" you speak against his ear, nipping at the lobe briefly. Jungkook exhales, relaxed back against the cushions, eyes heavy lidded.
"Yes angel, all of it"
You push up the bottom of his shirt, revealing the lower part of his toned stomach, burning your fingerprints into him and wishing they'd be as visible to everyone else as they are to you two. He nibbles on his bottom lip, pushing his hips upwards in hopes to feel something, some part of your body meeting his ache.
Feeling generous, you finish undoing his pants and wrap your delicate hand around the twitching cock beneath his boxers. His breath hitches, abs tensing once skin to skin. You move your hand for one beat, spreading the drop of saliva you'd spit down before raising your hips.
Both of Jungkook's hands couldn't stay off of you for too long, finding their rightful home on your waist right over your baggy tshirt, feeling out the familiar curves and dips underneath. His reddend tip nudges your tight hole - intruding the clenching slowly, way too slowly for his liking. His chest bristles as your hands support your weight on it, hips sunken down until you meet his pelvis.
"Fuck, fuck baby" he mumbles roughly, opening his shut eyes to find you staring at him already - looking for approval. With a chaste kiss to his lips, your hips start off languid - adjusting to the deep pressure, riding out the initial stretch until a consuming sense of satisfaction settles in, motivating sloppier, faster movements. His hands on your waist stabilize every rise and fall, his moans and higher pitched praises mirror your own in a submission you weren't used to seeing from your older boyfriend.
"You feel so good baby, yeahhh, yeah take it. Take what you need" he says, dropping his hands to fumble with your t-shirt, tossing it over your head, baring your torso into view.
"Keep going, take what's yours angel, this cock is allll yours" he murmurs into your neck, squeezing your chest in his hands, the small weight feeling like it was made just for him, him and him alone. You moan, arching your back into his touch - then into his mouth once his slick lips enclose your stiff, pink tips.
He tugs with his teeth, soothes with his tongue all while gripping your full ass in his desprate and grateful hands. Your movements narrowed down to deep grinds, your vocal praises reduced to half breathed groans in a mess of skin slapping and raw, honest love.
Without announcing it- rather , without needing to, he spills, tipped over by a kiss that's equal parts messy and gentle.
The warmth welcomes your own orgasm to wash over for a second time, whispering encouraging words into his mouth, pulling from the roots of his raven strands as if it were possible to mold him closer.
Your kisses linger past sliding him out of you, continue between smiles and rooms as he carries you into the nearby downstairs bathroom.
"You know i really am sorry, don't you?"
He asks, running the damp cloth under more warm water. His wrist flexes, turning the faucet off. You rub his shoulders, hiking up one knee for his better acess. As the warm cloth runs carefully between your thighs, you find your words to his question.
"Yeah. I know baby"
"Good" he starts, pressing a kiss right in the center of your forehead, "For calling you immature too. You aren't. Your mind doesn't work like mine, that's okay, i have to be more sensitive" he mumbles, dragging the kiss down to your temple, your cheek, then your jaw. Smiling a little, you swat his hand away as it finished cleaning you up.
"It's okay. I didn't have to make it a big deal"
He lets out a huff, rolling his eyes at your last words. Picking up his touch to line up your shaky thighs, his lips attach to yours, speaking against them with the hint of a grin hiding behind the kiss.
"If it's a big deal to my baby, it's a big deal to me. We're picking him up together later. Got it?"
You nip at his piercing, giggling when he hisses in response.
"Brat"
"I love you" you say, catching his fingers before they can start their slick plan of tickling your sides. He smiles, amused at how easily you read him - but his voice remains low and grumpy, sounding into another comforting kiss,
the subkoo agenda is being recognized due to how insane he´s been on this tour, on his knees, choking himself cross eyed - so reminder to read this !! also hi im back,, its been,,, two months lol sawwry.
After a four day long bout of insomnia, Spencer calls you to help him through it.
ellie talks- this ended up being WAY longer than i thought it would, which is why it's late. but i actually loved writing this sm. i love him your honour.
wc- 4.2k
cw- s1!Spencer fluff, oral f!receiving, Spencer is an eater okay, protected sex.
Spencer’s hands pulled through his hair, pushing it back as his elbows dropped to his knees. A long, laboured exhale left his lips as he looked up at the clock on the bedside table, and scratched the back of his neck. 3.17am. The numbers burned into his retinas, a glowing green reminder of his latest failure to do what billions of people accomplish every night. Fall asleep. This was his fourth night in a row being unable to sleep for more than two hours, and it had begun to be noticeable, Morgan had pointed out the purple crescents under his eyes at the morning’s briefing. He brushed it off, but the truth was that he was struggling. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw images, dismembered limbs, case files accidentally memorised, even this morning’s paper's mathematical equation that he hadn’t been able to solve because he was just so tired. He had tried everything he could think of, reading, both fiction and non-fiction, pacing the hardwood floor, drinking copious amounts of “Night Blend” tea. Nothing was working. The silence in his apartment was too loud, too suffocating, too… lonely.
He reached for his phone, flipping it open and blinking in the light from the small screen as his thumb pressed down on the button to move through his contacts. There was Morgan, who probably fell asleep hours ago after picking someone up from the bar. Then Hotch, who was almost definitely asleep next to his wife. His thumb stopped when his eyes scanned your name, realising that you might be the only person that he couldn’t be sure what you were doing. The probability that you were asleep was high, and that the phone call would wake you up before a long day did cross his mind. He didn’t want to wake you, he didn’t expect you to answer, he just needed to feel, even for a moment, that someone might. His thumb pressed onto the phone button, and held the phone to his ear, counting the rings as they vibrated against him. One. Two. Thr-
“Spencer?”
Your voice was quiet, sleepily soft and raspy, his back straightened at the sound of it. His chest tightened with guilt, immediately regretting his decision, that he had interrupted your night’s sleep.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as he cursed his insomnia fuelled decision making. “I didn’t think you’d answer. I’m so sorry, I just… I couldn’t sleep, and my probability calculations for waking you were much lower than reality, and I should let you go back to sleep-”
“Hey, Spencer… breathe,” you interrupted gently, and he could hear the shifting of your comforter as you sat up against your pillow. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No… Physically, yes. Cognitively, I’m at a standstill.” He murmured, dragging his hand down his face as he flopped back against his bed, his free hand resting on his stomach. “It’s been four days. I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Your heart dropped at the profound exhaustion in his voice, the tremor of defeat that bled through. Spencer had opened up to you about his insomnia before, and you recognised how bad it had gotten. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” You said, pinning your phone between your ear and your shoulder, already pulling on your sneakers.
“Wait, no it’s-” He sat upright, his fingers curling into his t-shirt as he heard the jingle of your keys through the line. “It’s past three in the morning, the safety risks of driving at this hour-”
“I’ll lock my doors. See you in fifteen, Spence.”
The call ended with the dial tone and he pulled it away from his ear, staring down at the phone as he flipped it closed. A warmth spread through his chest as he realised how quickly you had helped, without even needing to be asked. And the way you had called him “Spence”.
When you arrived at Spencer’s apartment twelve minutes later, he opened it after your soft knock, and your heart ached a little at the sight of him. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, his hair mussed at the back where he had been tossing and turning against his pillows. His eyes dropped to your pyjama pants, green and white striped with little cartoon characters dotted around the fabric, and the oversized hoodie that hung from your shoulders. “You didn’t have to come.” He said, though he stepped aside to let you in, his eyes fixed on you as if you were a holy being.
“Well I’m here now.” You smiled softly, setting your keys on the counter as he closed the door with a gentle click. “You eaten anything? Had something to drink?”
“I had tea. It didn’t help.” He said, shuffling awkwardly behind you as you moved to his worn velvet couch. He sat down stiffly beside you, his hands tucked between his knees, looking like a nervous guest in his own home.
“Talk to me.” You said. “Or don’t. You don’t have to explain anything.”
Spencer looked at you, his brown eyes wide, and glassy with fatigue. He paused for a moment, his shoulders losing some of their tension as he watched you sitting comfortably in his apartment, as if you belonged there. “Can I just…?” He gestured vaguely towards you, a rare moment of hesitation from someone who usually had all the words.
You nodded, lifting your arm along the back of the couch. He didn’t need to be told twice. Spencer shifted, sinking sideways against you, hesitating for a fraction of a second before letting his head drop onto your shoulder. His long legs tangled awkwardly on the small couch, but as your hand dropped back down to his shoulder, you felt him sigh, finally letting go of the tension he’d been holding onto for days.
“Your heart rate is remarkably steady,” Spencer mumbled, his eyes drooping slightly from the warmth of your body, the comforting scent of you enveloping him. “It’s roughly sixty-five beats per minute.” You smiled at his calculations, even when he was suffering with insomnia, his mind still wouldn’t stop noticing things. “It’s very soothing.” He added quietly, almost as an afterthought.
“Good.” You said gently, resting your cheek against the top of his head, tracing slow, lazy patterns against his arm, just below the hem of his t-shirt sleeve. “Focus on that.” You hummed.
For a few minutes, he kept talking in a low, drowsy monotone, his voice vibrating softly against your collarbone. “There’s a biological phenomenon known as physiological synchrony.” He mumbled, his eyelids fluttering as he fought to keep them open. “When two individuals are in close physical proximity, especially during moments of shared trust… their autonomic nervous systems begin to mimic one another.” He paused as your hand moved up into his hair, slowly brushing your nails along his scalp. “Your steady heart rate is effectively acting as an external pacemaker for my overstimulated amygdala… lowering my cortisol levels… by approximately…”
His voice trailed off, the precise percentage losing its battle against his exhaustion. The spaces between his words stretched longer, turning into quiet, shallow breaths.
“...it’s very…efficient.” He sighed deeply. You held your breath for a moment, listening. The frantic, nervous energy that usually radiated off him had completely evaporated. His breathing had deepened, turning into a rhythmic, peaceful rise and fall against your chest. He was asleep. Truly, deeply asleep.
You gently leaned back, holding his head in careful hands as you maneuvered it into your lap, his cheek pressing against your thigh as you let go. You ran your fingers through his hair again, looking down at him, completely safe, using you as a pillow. And you had no intention of moving until morning.
The pale glow of afternoon light filtering through the blinds was what finally woke Spencer. He didn’t move at first. His brain, usually firing at a mile a minute from the second he opened his eyes, was blissfully quiet. He became aware of three things in record timing, even for his brain: the heavy weight of exhaustion lifting from his chest, the faint scent of familiar perfume, and the fact that he was still completely sprawled against you on his narrow couch. You were awake, propped up against the arm rest, your eyes watching the muted TV while your hand was still tangled in his hair.
You looked down as Spencer slowly lifted his head from your lap, and let your hand drop from his hair. He looked away as his cheeks flushed, finding the textbook on the coffee table more interesting than it should be. You pushed yourself more upright from the slouched position you had been in for the last ten hours. “How are you feeling?” You asked, leaning forward slightly in an attempt to catch his eyes, but they were fixated on the book.
“Yeah-” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, shaking his head in embarrassment before trying again. “Better. Um… I’m sorry for essentially using you as a human sedative and trapping you against the couch.” He said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“There are worse places to be.” You laughed softly. That made him look at you, his eyes quickly moving between yours as if trying to deduce a deeper meaning from your statement. “Besides, you desperately needed sleep.”
His fingers twisted together between his knees, and his gaze dropped to his fidgeting hands. His lips pursed as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, his brows creased in thought. The blush on his cheeks didn’t fade, if anything, it crept down his neck. Finally, he spoke. “I didn’t just sleep because I was tired.” He murmured, his voice dropping to that quiet, vulnerable tone he rarely used.
“What do you mean?” You asked, meeting his brown eyes as he looked back up at you, searching your face with the analytical precision of a profiler, but stripped of all professionalism. “I’ve tried prescription medication, cognitive behavioral therapy, white noise machines, sleep deprivation techniques…” He said softly, gesturing his hand as he listed his methods. “Nothing overrides the hypervigilance. But last night… my brain calculated the highest probability of safety simply because you were in the room…” He looked down at his hands again, swallowing thickly. “Because I was holding onto you.”
You felt your breath hitch a little, your eyes darting between his. “Spencer… you don’t hav-”
“No, I-” He started, running his hand through his hair before realising how abruptly he had cut you off. “Sorry… I just- I noticed it months ago, how my anxiety decreases significantly whenever you’re around, how my heartbeat increases when I can see you from afar,” he continued, taking a slow, shaky breath. Unconsciously leaning in a fraction closer as his thumb picked at the skin around his finger. The slight shift had the space between you feeling charged, and you dipped your head to attempt to meet his eyes. He noticed, and lifted his eyes to you, they moved slower than usual, lingering on your mouth before finally meeting yours. “There was nothing statistical about the way you comforted me last night.” He admitted, the honesty of it hung in the quiet afternoon air.
The corner of your mouth lifted slightly, watching the way Spencer anxiously chewed on his lip. Your arm lifted, reaching out to brush your fingers against his jaw, before your hand settled against his face. “Spence..” You murmured, your eyes dropping to his lip as his teeth finally released it, his throat bobbed as he swallowed, his lips parting as he leaned forward another inch. His skin goose-pimpled underneath your fingertips as you mirrored the action, bringing your faces inches apart. His eyes fluttered closed, and nose brushed yours as his head tilted slowly, your breaths mingling in the minimal space between you. His lips brushed yours gently, not a kiss, but more of a question, asking for permission. Your fingers moved into his hair as you finally closed the gap, sliding your lips between his. The sigh that he let out against you was one of relief as his hands moved to cradle your head, his long fingers holding you against him as if he never wanted to let you go.
The way his lips slotted against yours grew more heated, his fingers curling into your hair as his apprehensive trembling faded. He gasped as your tongue flicked against his, one of his hands moving from your hair to the back of your neck, before his fingertips moved down the line of your spine, the motion sending a shiver through you. You began to lean back, using both arms wrapped around his neck to pull him down with you. He scrambled against the couch to a more comfortable position as he leaned down over you, the hand that had been tracing your back dipped underneath your hoodie, his thumb gently brushing your hip, as he braced himself on the other arm to hold himself above you. His tongue traced against yours, letting out a soft hum in satisfaction of the feeling of you against him.
Your hands tugged at his hair softly, tilting your head as your lips moved against his in a slow, sensual rhythm. His lips pulled away momentarily as he repositioned his head, his eyes stayed closed, his nose brushed against yours, his breath hitching as he leaned back in. His hand traced up your side, his thumb gently caressing the dip of your waist as his body settled flush against yours, melting against you. “Spence.” You mumbled against his lips between kisses. He pulled back, his brow furrowed in concern, his mind racing with the possibilities of what you were about to say, had he done something wrong? Had he taken it too far?
“What is it? What’s wrong?” He panicked, his voice quivering with both want, and nerves. You smiled gently, tucking a stray hair behind his ear before resting your palm against his face.
“Nothing.” You shook your head, pulling your bottom lip into your mouth, watching his eyes drop to the movement, his pupils dilating and his breathing growing more laboured. “Just wondering if you own a bed, or whether you just sleep on the couch every night.” You hummed, twisting his hair around your fingers absently. He let out an amused exhale, half his mouth lifting into a sheepish smile, ducking his head and squeezing one eye closed as he nodded.
“Yeah… Yes I-” He sat back, letting his thumb brush against your waist slowly. “Yes, I own a bed.” He finished, his voice dropping to a quiet, almost shy tone. You stood from the couch, Spencer's hand still on your waist, tilting his head to look up at you for a moment before following suit.
His bedroom was what you would call an organised mess. Books scattered across every surface, empty abandoned mugs around the room. The glow from behind the orange curtains made his features look softer, and the smell of a burnt out candle enveloped you, comforting and warm. Spencer’s hands wrapped around your hips as yours settled against his shoulders as his mouth lowered back to yours, more sure now that he knew you wouldn’t pull away. His fingers toyed with the hem of your hoodie, silently asking for permission. You broke away to pull the hoodie over your head, your shirt coming with it, leaving you in only your bra. Spencer swallowed, an involuntary, breathy “wow,” leaving his lips before he could stop it. You smiled softly, lacing your fingers through his and pulling him with you as you backed towards the bed.
He kneeled on the bed as you lay back, pulling his shirt off before settling over you, his body between your thighs. His skin was warm against yours, his lips catching yours in another deep, deliberate kiss as your fingertips traced down his back, the contact pulling a soft moan from his throat as his hips shifted against you. His lips moved down to your jaw, pressing a line of soft kisses along your neck towards your collarbone, the soft brush of his mouth combined with his breath against your skin had your back arching, pressing your chest against his.
“Is this okay?” He asked as his lips moved down over your chest, pausing just above the line of your bra. You nodded, lifting yourself up slightly to unclasp your bra, and pull it from you. Spencer swallowed thickly, before lowering his mouth back to your skin, slowly moving his lips down toward your nipple. He closed his mouth around the sensitive bud, his hands steady on your ribs as he dragged his tongue over your sensitive skin, his confidence growing with the breathy moans that left your lips. He lifted his eyes to watch the way your head tilted back, the way your lips stayed parted around sighs and gasps as he continued, responding to when his actions gained an arch of your back or a tightening of your fingers in his hair.
Eventually, he brought his mouth away from your chest, only to press soft kisses along your stomach, shifting backwards on the bed as he brought his mouth lower. His shaky hands moved to the waistband of your pyjama pants, eyes flicking up again, his brow creased in a question you answered by lifting your hips to give him the space to drag them down. His tongue moved out to wet his lips as he pulled your pants down your thighs, placing them gently on the floor as if he would hurt the fabric by throwing it carelessly. He inhaled unevenly, his eyes still locked on yours as he lowered himself down towards you. His lips landed on your hip first, his fingers gently tracing your inner thigh as he moved his mouth down further with each kiss. You gasped when his mouth finally closed around your clit, a soft, gentle movement that already had your body writhing and desperate for more. Spencer’s head spun with want, eagerly obliging in your twitching hips, delving his tongue deeper through your folds. He moaned at the taste of you, a low vibration shaking through your core, his eyes closed as he focused on flicking his tongue in the way you liked.
His fingers drew up your inner thigh until they reached where his mouth was already hungrily lapping at you. You moaned as one finger gently pressed into you, slowly at first, working you open with extreme preciseness and care as he gradually pushed it further. He crooked his finger in time with his tongue, his other hand gripping your hip as he responded to every signal your body gave him. Every moan, every tightening of your stomach, every time your fingers tugged at his hair, every time he felt his hand wet from your arousal, he studied them, locking the information safely in his brain to calculate the best way to bring you to your peak. He moaned against you again as he inserted another finger, feeling you clamp down around them as he curled them just right.
“Spencer…” You moaned, the sound of his husky name from your lips sent ripples of pleasure through his body. “Right there, Spence..” You sighed, your hips bucking into his face as he continued moving his tongue over your clit. Time slowed as he watched you fall apart, the way your body clamped down on his fingers, your thighs closing around his head, squeezing him as you moaned loudly, the sound echoing off the walls. He slowed his movements, letting you ride out your high as your back arched, your fingers tightly tangled in his hair. When your moans turned to laboured breathing, he lifted his mouth away, and carefully withdrew his hand from you.
“What that… Was it okay?” He asked softly, his brow furrowed in genuine question. You opened your eyes and propped yourself up on your elbows, he smiled at the way your hair was messed from the pillows, and the flush across your skin that hadn’t faded.
“More than.” You said, your voice still breathy, and your chest heaving as you tried to regain composure. You watched him wipe his mouth on his arm, and you sat up fully, your hands trailing down his stomach to the top of his sweatpants. His breath hitched as your nails gently scraped his skin. “Do you have…”
“Oh, um… yeah. Somewhere. Hold on.” He moved almost immediately, his long frame extending as he leaned over the edge of the bed to rummage through his pile of clothes. He located his wallet, and pulled out a blue wrapper. “Just check it’s still…” He murmured as he turned it over in his hands to find the expiration date, it had been a long time since he needed one of these. “Yeah it’s um-” He glanced back up at you, at the way you were propped up on one arm, your hair falling behind your back, tangled around your shoulder, the light filtering through the curtains painting you as some kind of sun goddess. “You’re so pretty.” The words rushed out of him in a single breath as he moved back towards you. You smiled gently, using one leg to wrap around his hip and pull him down over you, his mouth met yours with no hesitation this time. Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled, he dropped one hand to help, the other stayed in your hair as he kissed you deeply.
Once his sweatpants were discarded, your hand moved to his cock, wrapping around the considerable length as his eyes squeezed closed. “Oh-” He rasped, his mouth staying open and eyebrows shooting upwards as your hand slowly moved. His jaw stuttered as you worked him slowly for a long moment, he finally found it within him to close his mouth, and swallowed hard.
“Okay?” You asked, smiling when he nodded desperately, unable to form any other coherent thought than the feeling of your hand wrapped around him, moving so deliciously slow. Eventually, he fumbled with the wrapper for a moment before finally tearing it open, only then did you let go for him to roll the latex down his length. He leaned over you as you lay back, eyes flicking to yours as he positioned himself, and rolled his hips forwards. He moaned against your lips as you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails biting into his soft skin as he dropped to his elbow. “Spence-” You whispered as he pulled his hips back before setting a slow, steady pace. His breath was against your ear, his eyes squeezed closed as he let out a low groan at the feeling of you wrapped around him.
“You- God… You feel so-” He choked out, every thought slipping his mind other than the way you felt digging your nails into his shoulders, the way your leg lifted to hook over his hip and pull him deeper, the sounds you were making every time he pushed forwards. He moved his mouth back to yours, catching your lips in a fierce kiss, his tongue tangled with yours as he kept his steady, aching pace. Your chest pressed against his as your back arched, one of his hands splayed across your thigh, holding it against him as if he couldn’t bear to have any part of you not touching him. His cock dragged through you slowly, a perfectly gentle pace that had you moaning against his mouth, your hand threading through his hair. His slow, deep thrusts had your head spinning as you reached your free hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit to rub tight circles. The extra stimulation had you clenching around him already, his hips faltering for a moment as you grew tighter around his cock.
“I-” He stuttered against your mouth, “I’m gon-” he couldn’t finish his sentence as the ripples of pleasure washed through him, his stomach tensing as he came, his forehead pressed against yours and his eyes squeezed closed, and his fingers tightened on your thigh. Long, loud moans spilled from his mouth as he stilled, his breathing ragged and uneven. As his head stopped spinning, he lowered it to your shoulder, nuzzling his face into your neck as your arms wrapped around him, your fingers carding gently through his hair as his breathing returned to its normal pace. His mind was quiet, for once in his life, he could enjoy the moment, enjoy the feeling of your body under his, enjoy the-
“Spence.” Your soft voice broke his train of thought, and he lifted his head to look at you with sleepy eyes. “You might wanna take that off.” You said, at first, he furrowed his brows, unsure of what you meant, but then it registered, and he laughed softly before reaching down to pull the condom off, before rolling over to discard it in the trash by his bed. He wasted no time returning to his position with his head on your shoulder, his arm slung over your stomach, listening to your heart rate returning to normal as you traced your fingers up and down his spine.
He could definitely get used to this cure for insomnia.
character has no physical description other than having boobs, pic is just for vibes
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
word count: ~9k
summary: a quiet Saturday, a doctor who marathon, and spencer reid trying to act casual about reader's tits in a sundress
includes: smut (MDNI), no use of y/n, established relationship, first time, heavy making out, boob fixation, reader has boobs, soft dom!reader vibes, awkward/flustered spencer, spencer reid vs boobs (battle of the century), oral fixation, nipple play, breast worship, fingering, p in v, riding/cowgirl, emotional intimacy, light humor, dirty talk, slight overstim themes, reader wears a dress, unprotected sex, he's trying so hard to be professional, he's also a lil clueless
based on this request
Saturday arrives like a soft bell chime you can almost hear before it happens.
You’ve got the apartment half-lit, curtains pulled back just enough to let in honeyed afternoon sun. There’s a faint stack of snacks on the coffee table, a questionable amount of blankets piled like you’re preparing for emotional weather, and the TV already paused on the opening menu of Doctor Who, glowing patiently like it knows it’s about to be emotionally overused.
You hear the knock.
Not loud. Never loud with him. Two beats, careful, like he’s asking permission from the door itself.
You pad over barefoot, smoothing your hands down your dress out of habit more than necessity. The fabric is light purple, soft as early twilight. It fits you neatly at the top before easing outward into something airy and floaty that shifts when you walk, like it can’t decide whether it wants to stay still or drift.
You open the door, and there he is.
Spencer looks like he always does when he’s trying to be normal and failing in the most quiet, devastating way possible. Button-up slightly rumpled from sitting on the train. Messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Hair already doing whatever it wants, curling forward like it has opinions about gravity.
His mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
It’s subtle at first, the way his expression shifts, like a thought trips over itself inside his head and refuses to stand back up. His eyes flick up to your face, hold there for a respectful second too long, then betray him almost immediately by dropping, catching on you in a way he clearly did not intend.
You tilt your head slightly. “Hey.”
That seems to reboot him, but only halfway.
“Hi,” he says, too quickly. Then, like he’s correcting a mistake only he can hear, “Hello. Hi. I mean. Hi.”
There’s a beat where he looks like he’s considering reassembling the sentence in his hands.
You lean lightly against the doorframe, watching him with growing amusement. “You’re doing great.”
“I am,” he agrees immediately, then stops. Swallows. Adjusts his grip on his bag strap like it has suddenly become very interesting. “I’m doing… normal levels of greeting.”
“Normal levels,” you repeat.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
His gaze flickers again, just for a fraction of a second, before he catches himself and snaps it back to your face so fast it almost looks like a reflex. His ears have gone a little pink already, which is never a good sign for his composure.
You step back and open the door wider. “Come in before you short-circuit on my porch.”
“I’m not short-circuiting,” he says, immediately proving the opposite by stepping inside and nearly forgetting how to move his own limbs.
You don’t comment on it right away.
Because the thing about Spencer is that he always thinks he’s being subtle. Like his attention is something he can fold neatly into his lap and hide under polite conversation. But you’re starting to learn the language of him anyway, the small tells that give him away before he realizes he’s been read.
The couch dips when he sits, all careful angles and nervous adjustments, like he’s negotiating peace treaties with cushions. You settle beside him with the easy confidence of someone who has already claimed this space a dozen times before.
The episode starts.
TARDIS glow. Theme music. The familiar whirl of escapism wrapping around the room like a spell.
Spencer exhales softly, tension loosening from his shoulders in a way that makes him look almost younger. Less like an FBI profiler and more like a man allowed, briefly, to exist without solving anything.
You shift closer without thinking.
It starts innocently.
Your legs stretch across the couch, dangling lazily over the cushions. Your back presses against Spencer's chest as you snuggle into him. He adjusts immediately, like it’s instinct, like your body near his is something his nervous system has already been trained to accommodate. One arm settles around your shoulder, careful but certain, pulling you in just enough that your weight rests comfortably against him.
The episode keeps playing, but you feel it before you see it.
That shift in the air behind you. Not movement exactly, more like attention becoming tangible. Like someone has turned a page too slowly and the silence between words has started to mean something.
Spencer’s arm is still around you. Still steady. Still careful in the way he always is when he thinks about touching you too much.
And yet.
There’s a pause in his breathing that doesn’t match the rhythm of the scene on the TV.
You don’t turn right away.
You just tilt your head a fraction, like you’re listening to the room instead of the show. “Spence.”
A beat.
“Yeah?” he answers too quickly.
That’s enough.
You glance up. And there it is.
He’s looking at you.
Not the TV. Not the snack table. Not anywhere defensible.
Just you.
For a second he doesn’t move at all, like he’s been caught mid-thought and forgot how to pretend otherwise. His eyes flicker when they meet yours properly, caught in the act of being unguarded.
Then his brain clearly returns to the scene all at once.
“Oh—” he starts.
It comes out small. Almost soundless. Like the word itself is embarrassed to be involved.
His cheeks bloom pink so fast it’s almost unfair, color rushing up beneath his skin in a way that gives him away completely. He tries to look away immediately, but it’s too late now, the moment already exposed between you like a page turned too far.
“I wasn’t—” he begins again.
Stops.
Swallows.
His hand, still resting around your shoulder, tightens just slightly like it forgot it was supposed to be relaxed. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough that you notice.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says, which is objectively not an explanation but sounds like he needed to say it anyway.
You shift just enough to angle yourself toward him.
“Oh?” you murmur.
That single syllable does something catastrophic to him.
His gaze flicks away again, immediate and reflexive, like eye contact has become too loud. “I mean, I am doing things. Just… not the things you’re thinking I’m doing.”
“That’s very specific,” you say softly.
His cheeks are fully pink now.
You let the silence stretch just a little, like you’re testing how far it will go before he tries to fill it.
The TV hums on in the background, all blue light and distant alien drama, but it feels secondary now. Like the room has quietly rerouted itself around the two of you without asking permission.
You glance back at him, lips curving. “I thought this was your favorite show.”
Spencer blinks once.
Twice.
Then, a little too fast, “It is.”
There’s immediate conviction in it, but also something strained underneath, like he’s trying to hold the answer in place with both hands.
You hum, tilting your head against his shoulder slightly, settling in even more like you belong there. “Mm. Strange behavior for someone watching his favorite show.”
His throat works as he swallows.
“I’m watching it,” he says.
“You’re watching me.”
His gaze darts to the TV for half a second, as if checking whether it still exists. It does. Unfortunately for him, it is not helping.
“I’m doing both,” he insists, but it comes out softer now, less like an argument and more like a confession he didn’t plan to make.
You shift slightly so you can look up at him properly.
His arm around you tightens again, subtle enough that it could almost pass for unconscious. Almost.
“Both,” you repeat, slow and amused. “So the Doctor is saving the universe, and you’re… what? Multitasking emotionally?”
A faint huff of air leaves him that might be a laugh if it had more confidence behind it.
“I’m not emotionally multitasking,” he says. “That would imply I’m managing it well.”
You don’t answer him right away.
Because the look on his face is doing something quiet and dangerous to you too.
Spencer sits there like he’s holding himself very carefully in place, as if any sudden movement might tip the whole moment over. His arm is still around you, but now it feels less like comfort and more like containment. Like he’s forgotten where he’s supposed to stop and start.
His eyes flick to your mouth for half a second.
He catches himself immediately, of course. But you see it anyway.
That’s enough.
You lift a hand to his cheek first, slow enough that he has time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. His breath catches instead, a small break in the careful rhythm he’s been maintaining all afternoon.
He looks at you like he’s bracing for a math problem that might change his life.
You kiss him.
It’s not rushed. Not theatrical. Just simple and certain, like you’ve finally decided to stop pretending there’s any other logical outcome for the way he’s been looking at you.
For a second, he doesn’t move at all.
Then he makes a sound under his breath that disappears into you before it can become anything fully formed, and suddenly he’s kissing you back like something in him has finally been allowed to exist without permission slips.
It’s Spencer in every detail: careful at first, almost hesitant, like he’s checking if this is still real.
Then it changes.
His hand shifts from your shoulder to the side of your neck, fingers curling gently there as if he’s learning your shape by memory instead of sight. The hesitation doesn’t vanish so much as dissolve into something warmer, something more certain.
The TV continues in the background, forgotten.
Time does not so much pass as it gives up.
When you finally pull back just slightly, it’s only enough to breathe.
Spencer’s eyes are half-lidded, unfocused in a way that makes him look undone. Like someone has quietly rearranged the air inside him and he hasn’t figured out where to put his thoughts yet.
You don’t let the distance last.
You shift.
It starts small, just repositioning your legs, but the intent changes everything. You move fully onto him, straddling his hips in a way that makes the entire world narrow down to the couch beneath you and the warmth of him under your hands.
Spencer goes still.
His hands hover for a fraction of a second at your waist like they’re asking questions without words.
“Is this—” he starts.
His voice is rougher now, threaded with something he hasn’t figured out how to regulate yet.
You lean in before he can finish the sentence and kiss him again.
That seems to answer it better than language ever could.
His hands finally settle.
Carefully. Like he’s choosing you on purpose.
One at your waist, steady. The other sliding up your back in a slow, cautious motion that makes your skin feel suddenly too aware of itself. He exhales into the kiss like he’s been holding it in for too long.
You pull back just enough to breathe again, forehead still hovering close to his.
The room feels warmer now. Not in a dramatic way, just subtly rearranged, like the air itself has decided to sit closer.
Spencer’s eyes open slowly.
And immediately, they drop.
It’s quick. Instinctive. Like gravity briefly forgets its manners.
Then he freezes as if he’s been caught committing a crime he didn’t realize was visible.
His throat bobs. His hands, still resting at your waist, go very still in a way that somehow feels louder than movement.
You don’t move right away. Just watch him for a second longer than strictly necessary.
“Spence,” you say softly.
His eyes snap up immediately.
Too fast. Too guilty.
“I wasn’t—” he starts.
Stops.
Swallows.
His grip at your waist tightens just a fraction, not pulling you in, just anchoring himself like he’s trying not to float away inside his own thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, quieter now.
You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a puzzle you already know the answer to. “You’ve been doing that all afternoon.”
You can see it. The way his brain tries to compute whether there is any version of reality where he hasn’t been entirely obvious.
“I have not been—” he begins, immediate reflex.
Then his gaze slips again.
Just for a second.
Down.
And that tiny lapse undoes the whole sentence.
You let out a slow breath, almost amused. “You have.”
His ears go pink again, softer this time but spreading quickly.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says, and that’s the thing that always sits under everything with him. Not denial. Not ego. Just concern, threaded through every reaction like a nervous stitch.
You shift slightly closer, fingers sliding up to rest at his jaw.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” you say.
You feel it then.
The smallest shift of his fingers at your waist. A subtle tightening, like he’s grounding himself through touch because looking is getting harder to regulate.
He notices your expression immediately and stills again, as if he’s afraid even that small movement gave too much away.
You don’t let him retreat into politeness.
“Spence,” you murmur again.
His eyes lift again, already softer now, already a little lost.
You wait until he’s actually looking at you.
“Just say it,” you say gently.
His breath catches.
For a second, he looks like he might actually obey. Like the words are right there, lined up behind his teeth, just waiting for permission to exist.
Instead, what comes out is smaller.
“…That dress is just…”
He trails off.
His gaze drops again, slower this time, less like a reflex and more like he forgot how not to look.
His fingers at your waist twitch again, betraying him completely.
He clears his throat, embarrassed at himself, and tries to recover, but it’s already gone. The sentence has dissolved.
You let the silence sit between you, warm and expectant.
When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.
“I’m trying not to be obvious,” he admits.
His eyes finally lift back to yours, fully honest now in a way that makes something in your chest go quietly still.
“And I’m… not doing a very good job.”
“You don't say?”
Spencer looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether he’s misunderstood something fundamental about language.
His hands are still at your waist, warm and careful, like they’ve forgotten they’re allowed to exist anywhere else. His thumbs make a tiny, unconscious movement against your sides, then still again as if he’s caught himself thinking too loudly.
“I’m serious,” he says quietly.
“I know,” you answer, softer now. No teasing in it this time. Just certainty.
That seems to make things worse, in the way truth often does when someone has been bracing for correction.
His gaze drops again. Not greedy. Not reckless. Just helpless in its honesty. Like his eyes keep slipping out of his control.
You shift closer instead of giving him space to retreat into his head.
“You’re allowed to touch me.”
It lands differently than everything before it.
His entire body stills.
Not tense exactly. More like all his nervous movement has been paused mid-thought, hands frozen at your waist as if the concept needs time to render.
“I am,” he repeats, like he’s testing whether the sentence is real.
You nod once. “Yes.”
A beat.
His throat works as he swallows. “I just don’t want to assume anything.”
“I know,” you say again, and there’s something warm in it now, something that softens the edges of his restraint instead of pushing against it. “You don’t have to guess.”
That does it.
You feel the shift before you see it. The smallest exhale breaking out of him, like something inside finally loosens just a fraction.
Still, he doesn’t move.
His hands stay exactly where they are, fingers slightly curled into the fabric at your waist, as if even this is already more than he’s sure he’s been granted.
So you take the decision away from him.
You reach down, sliding your fingers over the backs of his hands where they rest tensely against your ribs. You don’t ask again. You don’t give him the chance to overthink the geometry of the question.
You just pull.
His breath hitches in a way that sounds almost like a stopped note, a sharp intake of air that he doesn’t quite manage to swallow. You guide his hands upward, slow and deliberate, sliding them up your ribcage until his palms settle fully against your breasts.
For a second, Spencer doesn’t seem to breathe at all.
It’s like a system crash in real time. His eyes go wide, dark and unfocused, staring at you like you’ve just performed a magic trick that violates the laws of physics. His hands rest against your chest, heavy and warm through the light fabric of your dress, but he’s holding them so rigidly it’s like he’s terrified they might burn through the material.
“Is this—” His voice cracks, splintering on the word. He clears his throat, tries again, and it comes out thin and high. “Is this okay? I feel like I should be asking for a notarized statement of consent.”
"Jeez, Spencer, you'd think you'd take me having you touch my boobs would be enough consent," you tease.
Spencer lets out a sound that’s halfway between a huff of breath and a genuinely startled laugh, his eyes widening a fraction more.
“That is not—” He stops, his gaze darting from your face to his own hands and back again, color climbing up his neck so fast you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. “That is not the point. The point is statutory interpretation is much clearer than non-verbal cues, and I have a history of misinterpreting data sets that are… significantly less high-stakes than this.”
You smile, feeling the way his fingers are still curled slightly inward, hovering against you without actually applying pressure. He’s touching you, but he’s terrified of holding on.
You let out a quiet laugh, soft and breathless, and lean forward just enough to rest your forehead against his. “Yes, Spencer. This is okay.”
You feel the exhale leave him, shuddering and uneven, like a breath he’s been holding for weeks finally escaping.
“Okay,” he whispers, mostly to himself. “Okay. Good. This is… good.”
The word “good” has barely left his lips before his hands move.
It’s not calculated. It doesn’t feel like a decision his brain made and then communicated to his body. It feels like gravity. Like his hands have been wanting to do this for so long that the moment you gave them permission, they just… stopped fighting it.
He squeezes.
It isn't rough or greedy, though you can feel the potential for it trembling in his fingertips. It’s careful. Reverent, almost. His palms mold to the weight of you, thumbs brushing experimentally over the curve of your chest, and the sensation is so electric that your breath hitches audibly.
That sound seems to break something inside him.
His fingers curl in, just a fraction, testing the give of you against his hands. A low, broken sound escapes him—half a groan, half a sigh—and his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to memorize the topography by touch alone.
“Oh,” he breathes out, like he’s just solved an equation he didn’t know he was working on.
He doesn’t stop. The squeeze turns into a slow, kneading motion, his palms heavy and warm through the fabric of your dress. He’s exploring, mapping the shape of you with a focus that borders on academic, but the feeling behind it is anything but clinical. His thumbs sweep over the swell of you, hesitating slightly when they graze the edge of your bra, then circling back like he’s found a favorite page in a book.
You rock forward involuntarily, your body chasing the friction before your brain catches up.
Spencer reacts like he’s been burned, but in the best possible way.
His hands stutter to a halt for a fraction of a second, palms pressing flat against you like he’s trying to anchor himself to the earth, and then his head falls back against the couch. His eyes are squeezed shut, his throat exposed, a long, vulnerable line of skin that makes your mouth go dry.
“You moved,” he chokes out. It sounds like an accusation, but his tone is ruined. It’s wrecked.
“I felt you do it,” you point out, amused breathless. You grind down again, slower this time, deliberate. “I’m supposed to move, Spencer.”
He makes a noise that is dangerously close to a whine, high in the back of his throat. His fingers twitch against you, no longer kneading, just pressing in like he’s trying to anchor himself to the only solid thing in the room.
“I know,” he gasps, his head tipping back even further, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. He looks like he’s in pain, but you know better. It’s too much sensation and not enough friction all at once. “I know you’re supposed to. I just— I wasn’t prepared for the kinetic energy transfer.”
You laugh again, but it’s breathless now, caught somewhere between amusement and the sudden, sharp heat that’s taken up residence in your own lungs. “You’re thinking about physics while you’re feeling me up?”
Spencer opens his eyes at that, blinking up at you like he’s surfacing from deep water. They’re dark, pupils blown so wide the iris is just a thin, burning ring of hazel.
“I’m always thinking,” he manages, but his voice is wrecked. It cracks in the middle, betraying him completely. He looks at his hands on you, then back up at your face, and the sheer adoration mixed with hunger on his expression makes your heart trip over itself. “It’s how I process. If I don’t categorize the input, I’m going to—” He cuts himself off, his breath hitching as his thumbs brush the underside of your breast again. “I’m going to lose it.”
You rock your hips down again, harder this time, watching the way his composure fractures like glass under a hammer.
“Then lose it,” you whisper.
You lean down, bracketing his face with your arms so he has nowhere else to look. His hair is a mess against the cushion, his lips red and swollen, and he looks at you like you’re the only gravitational constant in the universe.
It’s not a request. It’s a permission slip for a system failure.
Spencer stares up at you, his eyes wide and wet and unblinking, like he’s seeing the solution to a problem that’s been haunting him for months. His breath shudders out of him, a ragged, uneven exhale that fans against your cheek.
“You’re—” He starts, then stops, his voice cracking on the word. His hands flex against you, no longer careful, no longer testing the weight. They just hold. His fingers dig into the soft fabric of your dress, dragging over the curve of your chest with a desperation that makes your own head spin. “You’re dangerous.”
You smile, but it’s not sweet. It’s slow, knowing, a smile that acknowledges exactly what kind of power you have over him right now.
“You have no idea,” you murmur.
You reach up, hooking your fingers into the thin straps of your dress. You don’t look at him as you slide them down your shoulders—you keep your eyes locked on his, watching the dilation of his pupils until they almost swallow the color.
The fabric sighs as it slides down your arms, pooling at your waist.
Spencer doesn't blink. He physically cannot.
His eyes track the movement like it’s the most critical data stream he’s ever analyzed, dropping from your face to your shoulders, and then lower. The air between you feels suddenly oxygen-thin.
For a moment, the world is absolutely silent.
Spencer just stares.
It’s not a leer. It’s not even particularly sexual in the way you’re used to men looking. It’s captivated. His eyes roam over the lace, the shadow of skin beneath it, the way your chest rises and falls with your shortened breath. He looks like he’s trying to commit the image to memory with the same intensity he usually reserves for crime scene photos or quantum physics equations.
"Spence."
His name snaps him out of the trance, but his eyes don't lift. They stay glued to you, dark and reverent, like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.
"You can touch me," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels like the only sound in the room.
For a second, you think he might actually argue.
His hands hover over your bare skin, trembling slightly, fingers curling into loose fists like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching out. He looks stricken, caught between the overwhelming urge to touch and the terrifying reality that he finally can.
"I don't want to..." He trails off, swallowing hard. He looks up at you finally, and his expression is so open it’s almost painful. "I don't want to ruin this. I don't want to be too much.”
You smile, soft around the edges, stripping away any lingering teasing until all that’s left is the truth. You lean in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the way his breath stutters against your lips.
“You’d never be too much for me,” you whisper against his skin. “I want exactly what you’re giving me, Spencer. Not less.”
He breathes. A sharp intake of breath through his nose, followed by a ragged exhale that sounds like a deflation. The tension that has been holding his shoulders rigid evaporates, replaced instantly by a kind of trembling intent.
His hands aren't hovering anymore.
They settle on you with a kind of desperate, aching gravity.
His palms are warm, slightly damp with nervous sweat, and they cup the weight of your lace-covered breasts like he’s handling something volatile. Precious. Unstable.
He doesn’t hesitate this time. The second his skin makes contact with the lace, something inside him just—unspools.
He squeezes, harder than before, no longer treating you like something that might shatter. A rough, broken sound tears out of his throat, halfway between a groan and a sigh, and his eyes flutter shut as his fingers dig into the soft fabric.
“God,” he breathes, the word sounding like it’s been dragged out of him. “You're... You're beautiful."
He says it like a discovery. Like he’s the first person to ever find land.
He dips his head then, not waiting for encouragement, not giving himself time to second-guess the trajectory. He presses his face against your chest, burying himself in the soft curve of you with a desperation that makes your breath catch.
His lips are hot against the lace, dragging over the sensitive skin beneath with an open-mouthed kiss that feels more like worship than foreplay.
You gasp, your fingers tangling automatically into his hair, holding him there as he mouthes at the fabric. He doesn't seem to care that there’s still a layer of lace between his mouth and your skin; if anything, the friction seems to undo him.
His hands are restless now, roaming the shape of you with a focus that makes your head spin. He squeezes the weight of you, thumbs sweeping over the lace just to feel the texture of it against your skin. He’s mapping you. Memorizing the give of you under his palms, the way your breath hitches when his thumb grazes a sensitive spot.
Then he nips.
It’s shocking.
Not enough to hurt, just a sharp, intentional pressure of his teeth against the sensitive curve of your breast, right through the lace. A spark of heat jolts through you, electric and sudden, and your hips jerk against his before you can stop them.
“Spencer,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan.
The sound of his name on your lips seems to snap whatever remaining thread of control he’s been clinging to. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his expression dazed, mouth wet and eyes completely blown. There is a desperation in his gaze that seeps right into your bones.
"Off," he says.
It comes out wrecked, barely a word at all. Just a harsh, expelled breath shaped by consonants. He sounds almost pained, his voice cracking on the single syllable like it’s costing him something just to say it.
"Please."
The addition is ragged, tacked onto the end like a prayer he forgot he was saying. His hands are still cupping you, thumbs dragging over the lace with a restless, repetitive motion, like he’s trying to soothe an itch he can’t scratch.
You nod immediately.
His hands leave you, leaving a sudden cool space against your skin that makes you shiver. But before you can miss the warmth, his long fingers are skating up your back, searching for the clasp.
He doesn’t fumble. You expected him to—Spencer fumbles with doorknobs and coffee cup sleeves—but his hands are steady on your spine. There is a terrifying precision in the way his index finger finds the hook, the way his thumb slides the metal eye free with a click that sounds loud in the quiet room.
The tension in the band gives way with a second and third soft click, and then the pressure against your back simply... vanishes.
You feel the lace loosen immediately, the support slipping away, but Spencer doesn’t pull it off you right away. He leaves his hands resting against your spine for a moment, his splayed fingers spanning the width of your back, grounding himself against the reality of what he’s about to do. He’s breathing hard, you can feel the expansion of his chest against yours, a rapid, unsteady rhythm that matches your own.
Then, slowly, so slowly it feels like time has stretched thin, he slides his hands forward. He drags his palms around your ribcage, following the line of your bra until he reaches the straps. With a gentle tug, he pulls them down your arms, peeling the fabric away until it joins your dress at your waist.
The air hits your skin, cooler than you expected, and the sensation makes you shiver. But the reaction is purely physical. Emotionally, you are burning.
His eyes are locked on your chest in pure, unadulterated awe, like he’s just walked into a library he’s spent his entire life dreaming about and realized he’s allowed to read the books.
For a moment, he does absolutely nothing but look.
He doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t lean in. He just stares, his eyes cataloging every inch of newly exposed skin like he’s trying to build a photographic memory in real-time. It’s the kind of attention that would usually make you feel self-conscious, the kind that feels like a spotlight, but coming from Spencer it just feels… heavy. Like being known without speaking.
"You're so pretty," he breathes, and it sounds like a confession.
It’s soft, barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears, but the reverence in it knocks the air out of your lungs. He doesn’t say it like he’s commenting on your appearance; he says it like he’s acknowledging a force of nature, something inevitable and beautiful that he is helpless to resist.
Before the echo of the words has even faded, his restraint dissolves completely.
Before you can process the compliment, his head dips.
He doesn’t ease into it. He doesn’t start with the slow, drag of lips you were expecting. He just surges forward, his mouth closing over your nipple with a desperation that borders on clumsy.
The contact is electric—hot and wet and sudden. A sharp gasp tears out of your throat, your back bowing instinctively, pushing you deeper into the heat of his mouth. It feels like he’s trying to consume you, like he’s been starving for this exact moment for months and finally remembered how to eat.
His other hand moves to your neglected breast almost on instinct, his palm molding to the curve with a kind of desperate, grateful pressure. He’s greedy with it, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that matches the pull of his mouth, the circle of his tongue, like he can’t get enough of the way you fill his hands.
He’s mapping you by touch and taste simultaneously, and you can feel him trembling against you, vibrating with the sheer effort of holding himself back from completely falling apart.
You look down at him, your fingers tangling tight in his hair, and the sight nearly undoes you. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He looks lost in you, wrecked in the most beautiful way, like the entire world has narrowed down to the feeling of your skin under his hands and the taste of you on his tongue.
He doesn't stay there long. It seems he needs to ensure equity in his research, or perhaps he just needs to know if the other side tastes just as overwhelming. He pulls away with a wet, audible pop that sends a jolt straight down your spine, his breath panting hot against the damp skin he's left behind.
Before you can even miss the heat, he’s shifting, turning his face to capture your other breast. He treats this one with the same desperate reverence, his tongue swirling over the peak before he sucks it deep into the heat of his mouth.
Your body reacts instinctively, your hips grinding down against his, seeking friction to match the wet heat of his mouth. You expect his hand to follow the lead, to switch sides so he can touch and taste in tandem, maintaining the rhythm he’d established.
But his hand doesn't move up.
Instead, his long, clever fingers trace a distracted path down your ribs, his palm skating over the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the bunched fabric of your sundress.
The air feels cool against your skin for a split second before his hand makes contact, sliding over the heated expanse of your stomach. He maps the terrain of your body with single-minded focus, bypassing the tease of your hip to slide directly toward the apex of your thighs.
He pulls his mouth away from your nipple with a wet, ragged gasp, but he doesn't give you—or himself—a moment of stillness. His lips immediately find the soft swell of your breast again, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin, his breath hot and uneven.
"You're so... God, you're perfect," he mumbles, the words muffled against your skin. He sounds delirious.
His hand doesn't hesitate beneath the fabric of your dress. His fingers trace the edge of your underwear, just for a second, a fleeting tactile confirmation of what lies beneath, before he’s hooking his fingers into the lace and pulling it to the side.
The drag of the lace against your hip is sharp and fleeting, but the touch of his fingers following immediately after is searing. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask for permission again—he’s already past the point of being able to form coherent sentences. He simply slides his fingers through the slick heat of you, his touch exploratory but devastatingly sure.
"Oh," he breathes, the sound vibrating against your chest. "You're... you're wet."
It’s a statement of fact, delivered with the same wonder he’d use to identify a rare botanical species. He pauses there for a beat, his fingers coated in the evidence of how much you want him, seemingly stunned by the data.
“So that’s—” He swallows hard, his voice cracking on a dry throat. “That’s for me?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your head tipping back as his fingers slide through the wetness again, testing the slickness with a fascination that makes your toes curl. “It’s all for you, Spencer.”
He makes a sound that is purely involuntary—a choked-off groan that vibrates against your ribs. He can’t seem to decide where to put his hands. He wants to touch you everywhere, memorize every reaction, but his focus keeps snapping back to the heat between your legs.
He seems to accept the data, files it away under a header labeled Miraculous, and then his brain clearly short-circuits from the overload of sensory input. Because his hand moves, but his mouth doesn't abandon its post.
He slides two long fingers inside you, slow and deliberate and the sensation makes your vision white out at the edges. It’s a stretch, a burning pressure that feels exactly like relief, and he seems just as overwhelmed by it as you are. His other hand remains on your breast, kneading the soft flesh with a rhythmic, desperate squeeze, his palm dragging over your nipple in a way that makes you gasp.
“You feel—” He chokes on the word, his breath fanning hotly over your damp skin. He presses a messy, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver. “You feel incredible.”
He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the intrusion. He starts to move, curling his fingers in a slow, devastating arc that drags against your inner walls with terrifying precision. It’s practiced in theory, even if he’s shaking with nerves, his mind clearly cataloging the anatomy of your pleasure even as he loses himself in the reality of it.
"Spencer," you gasp, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss against your skin.
He takes the sound as encouragement. He shifts his weight, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit in a way that makes your hips buck off the couch, a desperate, involuntary motion that chases more friction.
He catches the rhythm of your hips immediately, his brain fast-tracking the mechanics of your pleasure even as he’s losing the battle for his own composure. The heel of his hand grinds down in slow, deliberate circles, matching the curl of his fingers inside you, and the dual sensation is so sharp, so perfect, that your nails dig involuntarily into his scalp.
“God, yes,” he breathes, the words damp and hot against your skin. He doesn’t lift his head; he’s too consumed. He presses his face into the valley between your breasts, nipping at the sensitive skin there, kissing the marks he leaves like he’s trying to soothe the sting even as he inflicts it. “You’re so tight, I can’t—I can’t believe how you feel.”
His other hand is still busy on your breast, kneading with a desperation that borders on worship. He drags his thumb over your nipple, catching the peak just as his fingers curl inside you again, hitting a spot that makes your whole body jerk.
"Wait," you gasp, the word scraping against your throat.
Spencer stops instantly. It’s not a gradual slowdown; it’s a full cessation of motion, like a puppet whose strings were cut. His fingers still inside you, his hand pauses its ruthless rhythm, and his mouth lifts from your skin, though he stays close enough that his breath fans hot and damp against your sternum.
He looks up at you, eyes wide and wild, blinking rapidly like he’s waking from a deep sleep. There’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, his hair is a complete wreck from your fingers, and his mouth is swollen and red. He looks dazed, dangerously undone, but mostly he looks terrified.
“Did I hurt you?” The question tumbles out in a rush, his voice cracking on the syllables. His hand twitches against you, like he wants to pull away but is paralyzed by the fear that moving might make it worse. “Oh god, I hurt you, didn’t I? I was moving too fast, I should have been more careful, I know the anatomy but I didn’t—”
“Spencer,” you cut in softly, trying to catch his frantic gaze. You reach up, smoothing a hand over his messy hair, your thumb brushing his temple. He leans into the touch immediately, his eyes fluttering shut for a split second before snapping back open to search your face for any sign of pain. “Spencer, breathe. You didn’t hurt me.”
"But if it wasn't pain..." He falters, his brow furrowing so deeply it looks like it hurts. He looks confused, genuinely baffled as to why you would call a halt to something that seemed to be going so well. "Did I do it wrong? I know the statistics on female pleasure are often exaggerated in media, and I thought I was hitting the anterior wall but I might have miscalculated the angle, and if the pressure was too much—"
You can't help it; a soft laugh bubbles up in your chest, spilling out before you can stop it.
Spencer blinks, the rambling cutting off mid-syllable. The confusion in his eyes shifts, melting into something softer, though no less intense.
"Sorry," you murmur, your thumb stroking his cheekbone, feeling the frantic pulse of his heart hammering against his ribs where your bodies press together. "I didn't want to come yet."
The silence that follows is absolute.
Spencer stares at you, his mouth slightly open, the frantic apology dying on his tongue. The sheer confusion on his face would be funny if he didn't look so completely floored.
You just smile, shaking your head gently at his disbelief, and drop your hands to his waistband.
It takes him a second to process the shift. His brain is still stuck back on the confession, trying to calculate the variables of why exactly stopping is a good thing when the outcome was so promising, but then your fingers are working at the button of his dress slacks, and his thought process whites out entirely.
His breath hitches—a sharp, jagged intake of air that sounds almost like a sob. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly over your hips, snap down to grip your thighs, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"Is this—?" he starts, his voice pitching up high and tight, cracking on the question. He doesn't finish it. He can't. His eyes are glued to your hands, watching your fingers deftly slide the metal button through the loophole.
The sound of his zipper lowering in the quiet room is obscenely loud. It feels like a gunshot in the heavy atmosphere between you.
You tug the fabric of his slacks and boxers down just enough to free him, and the reaction is immediate. Spencer gasps, a full-body shudder racking his frame, his hips jerking up off the couch to help you, desperate to be rid of the barrier.
He’s hard—achingly, undeniably hard.
The sight of him, flushed and straining against his stomach, makes your mouth go dry. He feels heavy in your hand, hot to the touch, and when you wrap your fingers around the base, his entire body jerks like he’s been electrocuted.
"Ah—!" The sound is sharp, startled out of him. His head falls back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently as he swallows. "Okay. Okay, that’s—God.”
"Do you want to keep going?" you start to ask, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels too loud in the quiet room. "Or should we—"
"Yes."
The answer cuts you off before you can even finish the sentence. It’s immediate, desperate, breathed out on an exhale that sounds like he’s been holding his breath for a lifetime.
"Please," he tacks on, his eyes snapping open to find yours, wide and desperate and completely unguarded. "I need—please."
You smile, soft and reassured, and shift your hips. You line him up, the head of him nudging against your entrance, hot and insistent. The stretch is slow as you lower yourself down, inch by inch, taking your time to adjust to the sheer size of him.
Spencer makes a sound like he’s dying.
It’s a low, broken noise that starts in his chest and rattles its way up his throat, sounding for all the world like a prayer that’s gone horribly wrong. His head drops back against the couch cushions, his eyes squeezing shut so tightly his lashes tremble, his mouth falling open on a silent gasp that looks almost painful.
You go slow, torturously slow, sinking down until your hips meet his. The feeling is overwhelming—a thick, impossible fullness that makes your breath hitch and your thighs tremble. You can feel him everywhere, the heat of him searing you from the inside out, the way his body strains to stay still under yours.
"Oh god," he chokes out, his voice wrecked. His hands find your waist again, but instead of gripping you, they just hold on, his fingers pressing into your skin like he's trying to anchor himself to the earth. "You're... you're tight. I can't—Jesus, you feel like..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He can't seem to find the words in the English language—or any of the other ones he knows—that adequately describe the feeling of being inside you. Instead, he just exhales, a long, shuddering breath that ruffles the hair falling near your face.
His grip on your waist tightens, not to steer you, but just to hold on. His thumbs press into your hip bones, his long fingers spanning nearly the entire width of your torso, and he looks at you like you are the only thing keeping him from floating away.
"You can move," he breathes, the permission falling from his lips like he’s granting you access to a restricted section of the library. "Please, you can move.”
You lift your hips experimentally, dragging yourself up his length before sinking back down, and the friction is enough to make you both gasp. Spencer’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hitching in a rhythm that matches your movements.
And as soon as you start to find a steady pace, his attention snaps right back to where it’s been desperate to go all night.
His hands leave your waist, sliding up your torso with a reverent urgency that makes your skin prickle. He doesn't ask; he just reaches, cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms like he’s checking their density, confirming their reality. He squeezes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a pressure that borders on possessive, his thumbs sweeping over your nipples in time with the roll of your hips.
It’s like he’s trying to physically merge with them. He pushes them together, his palms pressing inward to create a deep, soft valley, and then he’s burying his face in it with a groan that sounds absolutely wrecked.
He breathes you in, his nose brushing against your sternum, his exhale hot and damp against your skin. He turns his head, rubbing his cheek against the curve of your breast like a cat claiming territory, his hair tickling your skin in the sweetest, most maddening way.
"Perfect," he mumbles, the word vibrating directly into your chest. "You're so—God, I can't believe I'm touching you. Who gave me the right?"
"I did," you gasp out, the rhythm of your hips making your voice shaky. You bury a hand in his hair, holding him close to you as you move. "You literally asked permission five minutes ago."
He lets out a huff of breath that might be a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob of relief. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the inner curve of your left breast, right over the hammering of your heart. "Best decision I ever made."
He seems to lose himself in the slide of skin against skin. He’s not just touching you anymore; he’s interacting with you, experimenting with what makes you gasp and what makes your internal muscles clamp down around him. When you grind down particularly hard, he whines low in his throat, his hands spasming against your ribs, and he ducks his head to capture a nipple in his mouth again.
He sucks hard, the sudden pull of his mouth sending a sharp jolt of pleasure that arcs all the way to your toes. It makes your rhythm stutter, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your walls flutter around him.
He groans at the reaction, the vibration humming against your sensitive skin. He’s completely lost to it now, any remaining semblance of his usual control shattered. He lifts his head just enough to switch sides again, but he doesn’t let go with his hands. Instead, he kneads the heavy weight of them, pushing them up and together, burying his face between them with a desperate, breathless sound.
"Spence," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He doesn't pull away; he just leans into the sting, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt-sweat gathering in the valley of your cleavage. "I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna come."
He doesn't stop. If anything, the confession acts like a detonator.
He pulls his face out from the valley of your breasts just enough to look up at you, his eyes dark, blown wide, and utterly frantic. He looks like a man watching a supernova, terrified and awestruck all at once.
“Yes,” he breathes, his voice cracking on a desperate whine. “Please, let me—let me feel it.”
The coil in your belly snaps, heat flooding your veins with a force that makes your vision blur. Your body seizes up, your back arching instinctively, pushing your chest further into his hands as the wave crashes over you.
You cry out his name, your voice breaking, and Spencer takes it like a revelation.
He doesn't stop moving, but he gentles the roll of his hips, guiding you through the aftershocks with a terrifyingly precise intuition. He watches your face with rapt attention, his eyes darting across your features like he’s trying to memorize the exact expression of your pleasure. The feeling of you pulsing around him drags a guttural sound from his throat, raw and unfiltered.
"God," he chokes out, his hands trembling against your ribs. "I can feel you... I can feel everything."
The sensation of you coming around him seems to be the final straw. His control, already hanging by a thread, evaporates. His hips snap up to meet yours, a sharp, involuntary thrust that punches a startled moan out of you, but he’s gone too far to stop it now.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't—" The apology is a fractured chant, breathless and desperate. His head falls forward, burying itself back against the soft sanctuary of your chest as his rhythm breaks apart completely. "You feel too good, I can't hold it—”
"It's okay," you breathe out, the words hitching in your throat as his movements turn sharp and erratic. Your hands find his hair again, tangling in the messy curls to hold him against you, grounding him as he starts to unravel. "Spence, let go. It's okay."
The permission seems to break the last dam.
He lets out a sound that is half-groan, half-sob, muffled completely against your skin. His hips snap up one last time, harder than before, and then he’s freezing, his entire body growing taut.
A moment later, he collapses.
The tension in his frame releases all at once, leaving him heavy and pliant against you. He shudders violently, a full-body reaction that feels like it’s rattling his bones, and you feel the pulse of him deep inside as he falls apart. He’s making low, broken sounds against your chest, frantic little noises of relief that taper off into wet, shaky breaths.
For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged harmony of your breathing. The air feels thick, charged with the static of what just happened, the smell of sex and warmth hanging between you.
Eventually, his breathing slows, the ragged gasps smoothing out into something deep and rhythmic, but he doesn’t move. If anything, he seems to be actively trying to merge his skeleton with yours.
He keeps his face tucked firmly against your chest, his nose pressing into the soft curve of your breast, his hair a wild halo of sweat-damp curls tickling your skin. Every so often, a small, involuntary shudder ripples through him, an aftershock of the intensity, and he tightens his arms around your waist like he’s afraid you might evaporate.
You can feel the frantic thud of his heart where his chest is pressed to yours—fast, too fast, like a bird trapped in a cage.
You run your fingers through his hair, the damp strands clinging to your fingertips, and scratch gently at his scalp. The simple touch seems to soothe him immediately; you feel the tension drain out of his shoulders, his muscles turning liquid against you. He sighs, a long, contented exhale that ruffles the skin over your heart, and presses a kiss there—lazily, without any of the earlier desperation, just a soft, reverent press of his lips.
"Spence?" you murmur, your voice raspy in the quiet.
"Mhm," he hums, the sound vibrating through your chest. He doesn't lift his head. If anything, he tries to burrow deeper, nuzzling into the softness of your breast like he's found the perfect pillow. "Don't talk yet. I'm rebooting."
You smile, your chest rising and falling with a quiet laugh that he feels instantly. You keep stroking his hair, letting your nails graze lightly against his scalp, feeling the way he leans into the touch like a starved plant leaning toward the sun. He feels heavy in your arms, a solid, warm weight that pins you to the couch in the most grounding way possible.
the one where you convince your boyfriend to try that stupid tiktok trend - eating sushi off his bicep - only for the sushi not to be the rawest thing caught on camera that night.
pairing: jungkook x fem!reader
genre: established relationship au, porn with plot, smut, fluff (mdni!)
word count: 8,089
warnings/tags: 18+, explicit smut, unprotected sex, creampie!, multiple orgasms (like... three), dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, recording/filming (the phone is basically a third character), food play (sushi on nipples, sushi on biceps, sushi everywhere), oral sex (f. and m. receiving), breast play (he fucks her tits and it's messy), clit stimulation (so much blowing on it, rubbing, tonguing), fingering, grinding and dry humping, squirting (she literally gushes everywhere), cum play (eating sushi mixed with cum, sucking her own fluids off him), hair pulling/fisting, lip biting, hickies/marking, second person pov, rich miami aesthetic, tiktok trends gone wrong (or right), that lip ring doing damage, "i fucking love you" ending, soft aftercare
a/n: I was in the process of writing chapter 3 for my jungkook series "purple tears I cry," and a certain sushi scene made me think of this that I just had to write a whole separate oneshot smut for it. this is genuinely nasty, please read at your own risk! hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think of it... don't forget to reblog <3
The Miami humidity clings to your skin the moment you step out of the Uber, but the restaurant's AC hits like a wall of relief, crisp and expensive-smelling, all yuzu and polished wood and money. Nobu. Of course he chose Nobu. You catch your reflection in the dark glass doors, your teal dress catching the neon glow from the street, the silk clinging to the curve of your hips in a way that makes Jungkook's hand tighten at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who you belong to tonight.
Your hair is up, mostly, a messy twist that took you forty minutes to make look effortless, two strands curling against your collarbones like they have a mind of their own. Your skin glows, sun-kissed and dewy, and you feel his eyes on you, always on you, as the hostess leads you to the corner booth. You make sure to sway your hips a little more than necessary because you know he's watching, know his gaze is fixed on the way the silk shifts over your ass.
He's wearing a white button-up - one that should look innocent, corporate, boring, except he's left the first five buttons undone, and the fabric gapes open to reveal the hard plane of his chest, the ink that spills over his shoulder and disappears beneath the cotton. His lip ring catches the low light when he smiles at you, silver glinting against his mouth, and something low in your stomach tightens because you know exactly how that metal feels against your throat, your breastbone, the inside of your thigh. You know how it feels when he drags it down your stomach, when he looks up at you with those dark eyes while he tongues you open.
You slide into the booth and immediately pull out your phone, propping it against your water glass, angling it just so. The red recording light blinks to life. Jungkook raises an eyebrow but says nothing, just settles across from you, his knee brushing yours under the table, his foot hooking around your ankle to pull you closer.
"Documenting the experience?" he asks, his voice low, rough, the kind of voice that makes you think of hotel sheets and sweat and the way he sounds when he's inside you.
"Memories," you say, but your eyes drop to his mouth, to the silver ring there, and you know he sees it, knows exactly what you're thinking. You adjust the phone slightly, making sure the frame catches both of you, the candlelight, the way his shirt falls open when he leans back.
The server arrives with menus you don't need because you already know what you want, what you always want here. But Jungkook takes his time, asks questions about the omakase, the wine pairings, his voice smooth and deliberate while his shoe slides up your calf beneath the table, pushing the silk of your dress higher, higher, until it brushes the back of your knee and you have to bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
"Spicy tuna," you manage, your voice breathier than you intended, and Jungkook's eyes darken because he knows, he always knows what he's doing to you.
"Two orders," he says to the server, not looking away from you. "And sake. The good stuff."
The sake arrives in a ceramic flask, and he pours for you, his fingers brushing yours as you take the cup, and you make sure to let your tongue linger on the rim when you drink, watching his jaw tighten, watching his gaze drop to your mouth. You set the cup down and lean forward, the neckline of your dress gaping just enough, and you see his eyes flick down, see his throat work as he swallows.
"You're playing with me," he murmurs, and his shoe presses harder against your leg, insistent.
"Maybe you're playing with me," you counter, and you kick off your heel under the table, let your bare foot find his thigh, slide up, up, until you're pressing against the hard outline of him through his trousers, and he hisses, his hand gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white.
"Careful," he warns, but his hips shift, pressing into your touch, and you smile, sweet and dangerous.
"Or what?"
The spicy tuna arrives like art, ruby-red and glistening, arranged on black slate with edible flowers you won't eat. You take the first piece with your fingers because fuck the chopsticks, and Jungkook's gaze tracks the movement, watches your lips close around the fish, the rice, the wasabi that burns just enough. You moan, deliberately, because you know what it does to him, and his jaw tightens, that muscle jumping beneath the skin, his hand disappearing beneath the table where you know he's adjusting himself.
"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked already, ruined, and you haven't even started.
"So good," you say, and you take another, and another, each time making sure to lick your fingers after, slow, obscene, your eyes locked on his. You can see the flush spreading up his neck, can see the way his chest rises and falls faster than it should, the open shirt showing too much skin, the tattoo peeking out, and you want to trace it with your tongue, want to mess up his hair and ruin his composure right here in this restaurant full of people who think they're being subtle about watching you.
You lean back, your foot still working him beneath the table, and you reach for your phone, checking the angle, making sure it's still recording. You tilt it slightly to catch more of him, the candlelight catching the silver in his lip, the way his eyes look black with want.
"Say hi to the camera," you tease, and he does, his voice rough, his smile sharp and predatory.
"Hi, camera," he says, and then, lower, just for you, "Can't wait to see what you do with this footage later."
You take another piece of tuna and hold it out across the table, an offering, a test. He leans forward, never breaking eye contact, and takes it from your fingers with his teeth, his tongue brushing your fingertips, hot and wet, and you feel it everywhere, feel it between your legs where you're already aching, already soaked through your underwear.
"Jungkook," you breathe, and he catches your wrist, holds it, sucks your fingers into his mouth one by one, cleaning them, his tongue swirling around each digit while the restaurant noise fades to nothing and there's only him, only this, only the wet heat of his mouth and the promise of what comes after.
"You're killing me," he murmurs against your palm, his lips brushing the sensitive skin at your wrist, and you shiver, your foot still pressed against his hard length, feeling him throb even through the fabric.
"Good," you whisper. "Suffer."
You eat slowly, deliberately, drawing out every bite, every sip of sake, every moment of his foot tracing patterns on your calf, his knee pressing between your thighs under the table. You talk about nothing, everything, your voice light while your body screams for him, while you watch the sweat bead at his hairline, watch him shift in his seat, uncomfortable and hard and yours.
By the time you're full, stuffed, the silk of your dress feels tighter across your ribs, and you lean back with a groan, hand on your stomach, your foot finally retreating from his lap. He exhales, shaky, and adjusts himself again, not subtle, not caring who sees, and you love him like this, undone, desperate, ready to drag you out of here and fuck you in the Uber if he has to.
"I can't," you say, patting your stomach. "I'm gonna burst."
Jungkook smirks, that dangerous smirk that means trouble, that means you're in for it the second you get back to the hotel. "Shame. I like watching you eat."
"Pervert."
"Your pervert."
You flag down the server, ask for a takeout box, and Jungkook pays without looking at the check, just slides his card across the table like the amount doesn't matter, because it doesn't, not to him, not to either of you tonight. You pocket your phone, the recording still running, capturing everything, capturing the way he stands and offers you his hand, the way he pulls you against him in the elevator, his mouth at your ear.
"You're going to pay for that," he whispers, and you shiver, feel his hand slide down to grip your ass, squeezing hard.
"Promise?"
The hotel suite is all white and marble and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, dark now, just a black expanse beyond the glass. You kick off your heels, your feet sinking into carpet that probably costs more than your first car, and you collapse onto the sectional, pulling out your phone, scrolling through the footage while he pours himself a drink at the mini bar, his back to you, the white shirt pulling across his shoulders, the tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve.
TikTok. Endless, brainless TikTok to wind down.
A couple on a beach. A dance trend you don't care about. A recipe for something with feta cheese.
Then: a girl, pretty, blonde, sitting cross-legged on a bed in what looks like a generic hotel room. Her boyfriend beside her, shirtless, flexing his bicep. The girl grins at the camera, then at him, and unwraps a sushi roll, places it on the hard curve of his muscle, and leans down to take it with her teeth. The comments are screaming. The views are in the millions.
You stare at the screen.
You stare at the takeout box on the coffee table.
You stare at Jungkook, who's pouring himself a drink, his back to you, the white shirt still open, showing too much skin, the lip ring catching the light when he turns his head.
Enlightenment.
You set your phone down. Stand. Cross the room on bare feet, silent, predatory. He hears you, turns, glass halfway to his lips, and you pluck it from his hand, set it on the marble counter with a clink that sounds like a promise.
"Take your shirt off," you say.
His eyebrow arches, that lip ring catching the light again. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." You reach for the takeout box, open it, the spicy tuna still perfect, still glistening, and you can feel him watching you, confused and curious and already getting hard because he always gets hard when you use that tone, that minx tone, the one that means you're about to ruin him.
He sets the glass down. Undoes the remaining buttons slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours. The shirt falls open, then off, and he's bare in front of you, all golden skin and ink and muscle that makes your mouth water. You step closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, and you press your palm to his chest, right over his heart, feeling it thud against your hand.
You set your phone down on the marble counter, angling it just so, the red recording light blinking like a heartbeat in the dim room. You want this captured, want the lens to swallow every moment of what comes next, want to watch it later and feel the heat crawl up your neck all over again. Jungkook's eyes flick to the device, understanding dawning dark and dangerous in his gaze, and when he looks back at you, something has shifted. The playful tension from the restaurant has evaporated, replaced by something heavier, hungrier, something that makes your breath catch in your throat.
You lean in, your hair falling forward, those two dark strands brushing his shoulder like silk curtains framing the moment. You don't go for the sushi yet. You press your mouth to his throat first, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make him groan deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your lips. His hand comes up to tangle in your updo, disheveling it further, fingers tightening in your hair until your scalp sings with the sting of it. You lick the salt from his skin, taste the cologne at his pulse point, the musk of him underneath, and you feel him shudder beneath your mouth, feel the sushi roll shift against your cheek as he breathes ragged and wrecked.
"You're insane," he murmurs, but his voice is already ruined, gravel and velvet, and you smile against his neck, teeth grazing his tendon, feeling his cock twitch against your hip through his trousers.
"Wait until you see what comes after the appetizer," you whisper, and finally, finally, you turn your head and take the sushi between your teeth, your eyes locked on his, watching him watch you, watching the way your lips close around the rice and fish, the way your throat works as you swallow, and the sound he makes is animal, guttural, something torn from deep in his chest that makes your thighs clench together with nothing but air between them.
He moves before you can even taste the wasabi. His hands find your waist and he's lifting you, setting you down on the cool marble counter like you weigh nothing, like you're something to be arranged, positioned, consumed. The stone bites against your bare thighs where your dress rides up, and you gasp, but the sound is swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours, the metal of his lip ring pressing hard into your flesh, cold and burning all at once. He tastes like sake and want and the promise of destruction, and you open for him, let him take, let him plunder your mouth with a desperation that makes your head spin.
"Look at you," he breathes against your jaw, his teeth dragging down your throat, sharp and claiming. "Look at you, playing with fire, recording this, thinking you're in control."
His hands find the thin straps of your teal dress, silk whispering against your skin like a secret. He doesn't rush. He takes his time, sliding the straps down your shoulders with agonizing slowness, his eyes tracking every inch of exposed flesh, his pupils blown wide and black with desire. The silk catches on your nipples for a heartbeat, clinging, teasing, and then it falls, smooth as water, pooling at your waist, and you're bare for him, your breasts heavy and full, nipples tight and aching in the cool hotel air, no barrier between his gaze and your skin.
He stares. The silence stretches, thick and electric, and you feel beautiful, powerful, laid out like a feast on this marble altar. His throat works, his hand coming up to cup you, weigh you, his thumb dragging across your nipple so slowly you whimper, arching into his touch.
"No bra," he observes, his voice rough, almost reverent. "You were planning this. Walking around that restaurant with nothing under this dress, teasing me, letting me wonder."
"I wanted you to wonder," you admit, your voice breathless, broken. "I wanted you to think about it all night."
"Evil," he murmurs, and then he's bending his head, his mouth closing over your nipple, hot and wet and devastating, and you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, gripping tight as he sucks, as his tongue circles and flicks and drives you mindless. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same worship, the same relentless attention, and you're squirming on the counter, your hips rolling, seeking friction, seeking him.
He pulls back with a wet sound that makes you blush even as you moan for more. His eyes are dark, predatory, the playful boyfriend from the restaurant gone, replaced by something that looks at you like you're prey, like you're his to ruin.
"Bed," he commands, his voice leaving no room for negotiation, no room for anything but obedience. "Now. On your back."
You slide off the counter, your legs shaky, the silk of your dress catching on your hips as you move. You cross to the bed, each step feeling like you're walking through honey, through heat, your body thrumming with anticipation. You climb onto the white sheets, the fabric cool against your heated skin, and you lie back, your breasts falling to the sides, heavy and aching, your hair spilling across the pillows in waves.
He follows you, stalking across the room with a predator's grace, all bare chest and ink and the hard outline of his cock straining against his trousers. He stops at the foot of the bed, his eyes raking over you, devouring you, and then he reaches for your phone still sitting on the counter, brings it with him, sets it on the nightstand angled perfectly to capture everything, the red light blinking like a third heartbeat in the room.
"Keep it recording," he says, not a request but a decree. "I want you to watch this later. I want you to see what you look like when you're being fucked properly."
He undoes his belt with slow, deliberate movements, the leather hissing as he pulls it free, the metal clinking as he drops it to the floor. His trousers follow, and his underwear, and then he's naked, glorious, his cock thick and heavy and curving up toward his stomach, the tip already wet with arousal, the veins along the shaft prominent and pulsing. You can't help but stare, can't help but lick your lips at the sight of him, at the thought of taking him inside you, anywhere, everywhere.
He climbs onto the bed, crawling up your body like a storm rolling in, all dark intent and coiled power. He doesn't touch you where you want him most, not yet. Instead, he straddles your chest, his knees settling on either side of your ribs, his hands bracing on the headboard above you, caging you in, trapping you beneath him. You can smell him, musk and sweat and something uniquely Jungkook, can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the weight of him hovering above you.
"Look at you," he breathes, his hand coming down to grip himself, to stroke once, twice, the sight obscene and mesmerizing. "Look at these perfect tits. Do you know how many times I've thought about this? About fucking them? About painting you with my cum?"
You whimper, arching up, and he takes that as invitation, as permission. He leans forward, guiding himself down, the hot, heavy weight of his cock settling into the valley between your breasts, skin against skin, velvet over steel. He groans, long and low, his head falling back, the column of his throat working as he begins to move.
He starts slow, rocking his hips, sliding himself through your cleavage, the friction making him hiss, making his abs tighten and flex with each thrust. You press your breasts together, creating a tighter channel for him, and he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, his pace quickening, his hips snapping faster, harder. The head of his cock peeks out from between your breasts with each forward thrust, glistening and flushed, and you crane your neck, wanting to taste, wanting to lick the salt from his skin, but he pulls back just enough to deny you, a wicked smile playing at his lips.
"Greedy," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm, his control fraying at the edges. "So fucking greedy for it. You want this? Want me to cum all over you? Mark you?"
"Yes," you gasp, your own arousal spiraling tight and hot between your legs, the sight of him using you, losing himself in your body, driving you wild. "Yes, please, Jungkook, please-"
He breaks. His hips stutter, his hand gripping the headboard so tight his knuckles go white, and he comes with a shout that sounds torn from his soul, thick ropes of cum spilling across your chest, your throat, marking you, claiming you in the most primal way. He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself, his cock twitching against your skin, until he's spent, until he's trembling above you, his chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his inked shoulders.
The silence that follows is broken only by your ragged breathing, by the wet sounds of him still sliding against your cum-slicked skin. He looks down at you, at the mess he's made of you, and his eyes flash with something dark and satisfied, something possessive.
"Beautiful," he whispers, his hand coming down to smear the evidence of his pleasure across your breasts, your nipples, making you glisten with him. "So fucking beautiful."
He reaches over to the takeout box still sitting on the counter, forgotten until now, and retrieves another piece of spicy tuna, the fish still cool, still perfect. He brings it to your chest, and you watch, breathless, as he places it carefully on top of your nipple, the sushi resting there like an offering, like sacrilege.
He bends his head, his eyes locked on yours, and takes the sushi between his teeth, his tongue dragging across your nipple as he does, hot and wet and filthy, sucking the fish and your flesh together, the combination of sensations making you cry out, making your back arch off the bed. He chews slowly, savoring, his hand coming up to palm your other breast, his thumb circling your nipple, spreading his own release across your skin in obscene patterns.
When he swallows, he surges up, his mouth crashing against yours with a ferocity that steals your breath, his tongue thrusting deep, sharing the taste of tuna and salt and him, his teeth catching your lower lip, the metal of his piercing dragging against your sensitive flesh. He kisses you like he's starving, like he wants to consume you whole, like the camera isn't even there, like the world has narrowed down to just this, just you, just the wet heat of his mouth and the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.
"Mine," he growls against your lips, the word vibrating through your chest, through your bones. "Say it."
"Yours," you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging crescents into his inked skin. "I'm yours, Jungkook, I'm-"
He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper, harder, his hand sliding down your body, beneath the silk of your dress still pooled at your waist, finding where you're wet and aching and ready, and you know this is only the beginning, know that the night is long and the camera is still rolling and he's nowhere near finished with you.
He pulls back from the kiss with a wet, filthy sound that echoes in the quiet room, his eyes dark and glittering with intent. His hand is still between your legs, his fingers spreading your wetness in slow, teasing circles, and you arch into his touch, desperate, needy, your hips rolling to chase more friction.
"Give me the phone," he commands, his voice rough as gravel, as velvet, as something dangerous wrapped in silk.
You reach for it with trembling fingers, the device still warm from where it sat recording, and you hand it to him, your breath catching as he takes it, as he adjusts the angle, as he points the lens down at you like he's directing a film where you're the only star.
"Look at you," he murmurs, the camera capturing everything, capturing the flush spreading down your chest, the way your breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath, the sheen of sweat and his release still glistening on your skin. "Look at this fucking body. Do you see what I see? Do you see how perfect you are?"
He shifts back on his knees, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and he hooks his fingers in the silk of your dress still pooled at your waist. He pulls slowly, agonizingly slowly, the fabric sliding down your hips, your thighs, leaving you completely bare, completely exposed to the lens, to his gaze, to the hungry darkness in his eyes.
"Spread your legs," he orders, and you do, your knees falling open, your thighs trembling as the cool hotel air hits your heated core. You feel exposed, vulnerable, the camera recording every inch of you, the way your pussy glistens with arousal, swollen and pink and aching for him. He zooms in, the lens close enough to capture the details, the way you pulse with need, the way your thighs are already shaking with anticipation.
"Beautiful," he breathes, the word almost reverent, almost profane. "Look at this pretty pussy. So wet for me. So fucking ready."
He sets the phone down on the mattress, angled up at you both, the red light blinking steady and watchful. But then he's reaching for your hand, pulling you up, placing the device in your trembling grip.
"Hold it," he instructs, his voice dropping lower, filthier, his eyes locked on yours with a command that brooks no argument. "Record me. Don't you dare stop filming, understand? I want you to capture every second of this. I want you to watch later and see exactly what you do to me."
You nod, your throat too tight to speak, and you angle the camera down, your fingers shaking as you focus the lens on him, on where he's settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like he's coming home.
He looks up at you through his lashes, that silver lip ring catching the light, and he knows, he always knows what that piece of metal does to you. He runs his tongue over it slowly, deliberately, letting you watch the way it moves, the way it glints, and your breath hitches because you can feel it already, can imagine the cool metal against your overheated flesh.
"You like this?" he asks, his voice a purr, a promise, a threat. "You like watching me? Like knowing I'm about to wreck you with this mouth?"
"Yes," you whimper, the camera trembling in your grip as you hold it steady, as you capture every moment.
He starts at your knee, his mouth hovering, his breath hot against your skin. He blows, a gentle stream of air that makes you gasp, makes your leg jerk in his grip. He holds you steady, his fingers digging into your thigh, and he drags his lips up, up, not touching, just breathing, just letting you feel the ghost of him, the promise of him.
He reaches the crease where your thigh meets your hip and he pauses, his eyes flicking up to the camera, to you, holding your gaze as he blows again, right there, right where you're throbbing, where you're aching, where you're dripping for him.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking, the camera shaking in your hand. "Please, Jungkook, please touch me-"
"Shh," he soothes, his breath washing over your clit, hot and cool and devastating. "I've got you. Be patient, pretty girl. Be good."
He blows again, directly on your clit this time, the sensation shocking, electric, making you cry out, your hips bucking off the mattress. He holds you down with one hand on your stomach, pinning you, controlling you, and he leans closer, closer, until you can feel his breath fluttering against your most sensitive flesh, until you're trembling, until you're sobbing with need.
"Look at the camera," he commands, his voice vibrating against your thigh. "Don't look at me. Look at the lens. Show them how pretty you are when you're desperate."
You force your eyes up, staring into the small black circle of the phone's camera, your vision blurred with tears, your mouth open, your chest heaving. You look wrecked, you know you do, you can see your reflection in the dark screen, can see the way your hair is tangled and wild, the way your lips are swollen and red, the way your body is flushed pink with arousal.
"Good girl," he praises, and then he finally, finally, touches you.
His tongue drags through your folds in one long, slow stroke, hot and wet and perfect, and you scream, the sound tearing from your throat, your hips bucking against his mouth. He groans against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and he does it again, and again, lapping at you like he's starving, like he wants to taste every drop of your arousal, like he could spend hours here, drowning in you.
He focuses on your clit, circling it with the flat of his tongue, then the tip, then flicking it, relentless, merciless, driving you higher and higher until you're panting, until you're chanting his name like a prayer, like a curse, until your thighs are trembling on either side of his head.
"So fucking loud," he murmurs against you, the words muffled, filthy. "Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking hotel hear what I'm doing to you."
He pulls back just enough to speak, his chin glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark and wild. "Keep recording. Don't you dare stop."
You nod frantically, your hand cramping around the phone, but you hold it steady, you keep the lens focused on him, on where he's watching you with predatory intensity.
He slides one finger inside you, slow and deliberate, curling it to find that spot that makes your vision white out, and you moan, long and loud, unable to help yourself. He adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, and he starts to pump them in and out, his wrist twisting, his knuckles dragging against your walls in a way that makes you see stars.
"More," you gasp, your head falling back, but he clicks his tongue, sharp and reprimanding.
"Eyes on the camera," he reminds you, his voice stern, commanding. "Look at me through the lens. Show me that pretty face."
You force your head up, your neck trembling with the effort, and you stare into the camera, your eyes wide and glassy, your mouth open as you pant. He adds a third finger, the stretch burning so perfectly you sob, your hips rolling to meet his thrusts, and he starts rubbing your clit with his other hand, circling it in tight, relentless patterns while his fingers work inside you, while he crooks them to hit that spot, that perfect spot, over and over and over.
"You're taking three fingers so well," he praises, his voice dripping with filth, with pride. "Look at you, stuffed full, dripping down my hand. You love this, don't you? Love being watched, love being used, love being my little porn star."
"Yes," you cry out, the camera shaking as your orgasm builds, coiling tight and hot in your belly. "Yes, yes, Jungkook, please, I'm gonna-"
"Not yet," he cuts you off, his fingers stilling, his hand pulling away from your clit, leaving you hovering on the edge, desperate and whining. "Not until I say. Keep holding that camera. Keep recording. I want to see your face when you cum all over my tongue."
He dives back in, his mouth replacing his fingers, his tongue thrusting inside you, fucking you with wet heat while his thumb presses hard against your clit, rubbing in furious circles. The dual sensation is too much, overwhelming, devastating, and you're screaming now, loud and unrestrained, your voice raw as you chant his name, as you beg, as you plead for release.
"Jungkook, please, please, I can't, I need to-"
"Cum," he commands, the word vibrating against your core. "Cum for me now. Let me taste it. Let me drink you down."
He sucks your clit into his mouth, the metal of his lip ring pressing hard against the sensitive bud, and you break. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, like a storm, like something violent and beautiful and earth-shattering. Your back arches off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head, your hand spasming around the phone as you cry out, loud and broken and his, completely his.
He doesn't stop. He keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, until you're sobbing, until you're pushing at his shoulders because it's too much, too sensitive, too everything.
He finally pulls back with a wet, obscene sound, his chin dripping with your release, his eyes dark and satisfied and wild. He looks at the camera, looks directly into the lens where you're still recording, still capturing every filthy moment, and he licks his lips, slow and deliberate, savoring your taste.
"Delicious," he murmurs, the word dripping with innuendo, with promise. "My favorite meal."
He crawls up your body, his skin hot against yours, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that tastes like you, like him, like everything dirty and perfect and yours. The camera is still recording, still capturing, still blinking its red light in the dark room, and you know, you know this is a night you'll be watching back for years, a night that will never stop making you blush, making you ache, making you want.
"Good girl," he whispers against your lips, his hand tangling in your hair, his body heavy and warm above you. "You did so well. You held it the whole time."
He takes the phone from your trembling grip, checks the recording, a smug, satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Perfect angle. Look at you, pretty thing. Look how beautiful you are when you cum."
He shows you the screen, and you watch yourself, watch your face contort with pleasure, watch your body arch and shake, and you feel the heat crawl up your neck even as you feel yourself getting wet again, already wanting more, already wanting everything he has to give.
He pulls you up, his hands rough at your waist, flipping you until you're straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands braced on his inked chest. The sweat-slick slide of your skin against his is electric, devastating, and you can feel him hard and thick beneath you, pressing against your thigh, leaving wet trails of pre-cum against your skin.
"Come here," he growls, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling you down until your mouths crash together, teeth clicking, tongues tangling in a messy, desperate dance. He tastes like you, like sake, like the lingering spice of tuna and salt and sex, and you moan into his mouth, your hips rolling instinctively, grinding your soaked core against his rigid length.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, his hips bucking up to meet you, the friction making you both gasp. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good."
You reach for the takeout box still within arm's reach, your fingers trembling as you unwrap another piece of spicy tuna, the fish cool and glistening in the dim light. You break the kiss, sitting back on your heels, and his eyes track your movements, dark and questioning, until you lean forward and place the sushi directly on his nipple, the pink flesh peeking through the dark ink of his chest tattoo.
"Christ," he hisses, his head falling back against the pillows, his throat working as you bend down, your hair creating a curtain around you both.
You take the sushi between your teeth first, biting down, the flavor bursting across your tongue, but then you keep going, your mouth closing over his nipple, sucking hard, laving it with your tongue, the combination of cool fish and hot skin making him arch off the bed, his hand flying to your head, gripping tight.
"Oh fuck," he groans, long and low, the sound vibrating through his chest into your mouth. "Oh fuck, baby, fuck-"
You suck harder, your teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, and he cries out, his hips jerking up, his cock sliding through your folds, bumping against your clit with each thrust of his hips. You release his nipple with a wet pop, looking up at him through your lashes, your lips swollen and glistening.
"You like that?" you purr, your voice dripping with filth, with power. "Like me eating off you? Like being my plate, my meal?"
"Yes," he pants, his eyes blown wide, his chest heaving. "Fuck yes, anything, everything-"
You start grinding in earnest, rolling your hips, sliding your soaked pussy along the length of his cock without letting him inside, teasing, torturing, your clit dragging against his rigid shaft with every movement. The friction is delicious, maddening, and you're both moaning, the sounds filling the room, raw and unfiltered.
"Oh fuck, baby," he chants, his hands gripping your waist, your hips, guiding your movements, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Oh fuck, just like that, just like that-"
You lean down, your breasts pressing against his chest, your mouth at his ear. "Feel how wet I am?" you whisper, your voice a dirty secret. "Feel how much I need you? I've been dripping for you all night, Jungkook. All fucking night."
"Shit," he groans, his hips stuttering, losing their rhythm. "Shit, you're gonna make me cum like this, make me-"
He reaches for the phone, his hand trembling as he angles it up at you, capturing the way you move above him, the way your body undulates like a wave, like something primal and ancient and devastatingly beautiful.
"Look at this," he murmurs, his voice wrecked, his eyes flicking between the screen and your face. "Look at you, grinding on me like a little slut, so desperate for it. You want this cock, baby? Want me to fill you up?"
"Yes," you whine, your movements becoming erratic, desperate. "Please, please, I need it, need you inside-"
He drops the phone to the mattress, the camera still recording, still capturing everything, and he grips your hips hard, lifting you, positioning you above him. You reach between your bodies, your hand wrapping around his thick length, guiding him to your entrance, and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, your head falling back, your mouth open in a silent scream as he stretches you, fills you, completes you.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hands braced on his chest, your nails digging crescents into his skin. "Oh fuck, Jungkook, you're so big, so-"
"Move," he commands, his voice guttural, his hands guiding your hips. "Ride me, baby. Show me how good you are."
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, feeling every inch of him drag against your walls, hitting places that make your vision blur. He keeps one hand on your hip, guiding you, controlling the pace, while the other reaches for your breast, palming the heavy weight, his thumb dragging across your nipple.
"The sushi wasn't the rawest thing tonight," he breathes, his eyes locked on yours, dark and possessive. "This is. You and me, like this, nothing between us. Just raw, filthy fucking."
You moan, your movements speeding up, your hips snapping down harder, taking him deeper, until he's hitting your cervix with each thrust, the stretch bordering on pain but feeling so perfect you can't stop. He grabs the phone again, angling it up at you, capturing your face contorted with pleasure, your breasts bouncing with each movement, the place where your bodies join, wet and obscene.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, his voice reverent and filthy all at once. "Look at you, taking me so well. My perfect girl."
He flips you suddenly, his strength shocking, his movements fluid and predatory. You're on your back before you can process the shift, him settling between your thighs, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands bracing on either side of your head.
"Recording," he commands, pressing the phone into your trembling hand. "Don't stop. I want you to see this. Want you to watch later and see exactly how I fuck you."
You hold it up, the lens focused on where your bodies meet, and he pulls out slowly, agonizingly slowly, until just the tip remains inside you, glistening with your combined arousal. He hovers there, teasing, and you whimper, your hips bucking up, seeking more.
"Quiet," he orders, his voice sharp. "Be quiet and listen. Listen to how wet you are for me."
He thrusts back in, hard and deep, and the sound is obscene, wet and filthy, your arousal squelching around him, the slap of skin against skin filling the room. You bite your lip to keep from screaming, your hand shaking as you hold the camera steady, capturing the way he pulls out and thrusts back in, over and over, the rhythm building, the sounds growing louder, wetter, more desperate.
He pulls out completely, his cock slapping against your stomach, wet and heavy, and he drags the head through your folds, bumping against your clit, circling it, teasing it with short, sharp jabs that make you cry out despite your best efforts to stay quiet.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, please fuck me, please-"
He lines himself up and thrusts back in, but this time he doesn't stop, doesn't slow, doesn't tease. He starts pounding into you, hard and fast and merciless, his hips snapping forward with a force that moves you up the bed, your head hitting the headboard with each thrust. He's fucking you like he hates you, like he loves you, like he wants to crawl inside your skin and never leave.
"Scream," he commands, his voice ragged, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, just reminding you who you belong to. "Let me hear you. Let the fucking city hear what I'm doing to you."
You scream. You can't help it, the pleasure is too intense, too overwhelming, building and coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm approaching like a freight train. He's recording your face, the camera capturing your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes rolled back, tears streaming down your temples into your hair.
"That's it," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. "That's it, baby, cum for me, cum on my cock, let me feel you-"
You break. Your orgasm crashes through you, violent and beautiful, your pussy clamping down on him, milking him, and he groans, long and loud, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and thick and endless. But as you come, as your body convulses around him, something else happens, something wet and shocking, and you're squirting, actually squirting, your release gushing out around his cock, mixing with his cum, creating a mess of fluids that soaks the sheets, his thighs, drips down your ass.
"Holy shit," he breathes, his eyes wide and wild, the camera still recording, capturing the obscene flood of liquid, the way it glistens on his skin, the way your body continues to shake and convulse. "Holy fucking shit, baby, look at you, look at this-"
He pulls out slowly, his cock still half-hard, dripping with your combined release, and he holds it up, angling the camera to capture the mess, the way his cum mixed with your arousal drips from his shaft, thick and white and obscene.
"Suck it," he commands, his voice rough, his hand tangling in your hair. "Suck your cum off my cock. Clean me up, kitten."
You scramble down, your body still trembling from aftershocks, and you take him into your mouth, tasting yourself, tasting him, the mixture salty and musky and filthy. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard, your tongue swirling around his sensitive head, and he groans, his hand tightening in your hair.
"Fuck, yes," he pants. "My balls, kitten, suck my balls."
You pull back, your hand wrapping around his shaft, and you duck down, taking one testicle into your mouth, then the other, rolling them on your tongue, sucking gently while your hand works his length. He pulls your hair, guiding you, his hips bucking slightly, and then you pull back, kitten licking him, small, teasing laps at the head of his cock, your eyes looking up at him through your lashes, innocent and filthy all at once.
"Perfect kitten," he breathes, his voice wrecked, his eyes dark with renewed desire. "My perfect little kitten. Look at you, so eager, so good for me."
He starts fucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head, his hips snapping forward, pushing his cock deep into your throat, and you relax, let him use you, let him take what he needs. He's relentless, his stamina shocking, and you can feel him swelling, feel him getting close again.
"I'm gonna cum," he warns, his voice strained. "Gonna cum again, baby, gonna-"
He thrusts deep and holds there, his cock pulsing, and he spills down your throat, hot and thick, more than you thought possible, more than should be human. You swallow, your throat working, your eyes watering, and when he finally pulls out, spent and trembling, you collapse back onto the pillows, laughing, the sound breathless and beautiful and disbelieving.
"I can't believe you had all that cum inside you," you marvel, your voice hoarse, your lips swollen and glistening. "That was... that was the third time?"
He collapses beside you, his chest heaving, his skin flushed and sweaty and marked by your nails, your teeth, your possession. He pulls you into his arms, his hand cradling your head against his chest, and you can hear his heart hammering, feel the rumble of his laughter.
"For you," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your hair. "Only for you, pretty girl. You drain me completely. You ruin me."
The phone is still recording somewhere on the bed, still capturing the aftermath, the sweat-slick mess of your bodies, the way you curl into each other like survivors of some beautiful storm. But for now, you just breathe, just exist in this moment of shattered, perfect aftermath, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest, his hand stroking lazy circles on your back.
He doesn't ask. He just moves, shifting off the bed with a grace that seems impossible for someone who just spent himself three times over. You hear water running in the bathroom, the sound of a cloth being wrung out, and then he's back, kneeling between your thighs with a warm, wet towel in his hand.
He cleans you slowly, carefully, his touch reverent where it had been ruthless before. He wipes away the mess of your combined release, the sweat, the evidence of everything you did together, and his eyes follow the path of the cloth with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He presses kisses to your inner thigh, your hip, your stomach, each one soft and lingering, worshipping you in a different language than the one he used when he was inside you.
When he's finished, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls up your body, his weight settling over you again, but different now, protective, cocooning. He finds your mouth, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that tastes like salt and love and exhaustion. He bites your bottom lip, catching it between his teeth, pulling slightly until you whimper, and then he releases you with a laugh, low and warm and vibrating against your skin.
"Beautiful," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw like he's memorizing you, like he's trying to commit every inch to memory. "You're so fucking beautiful. Do you know that? Do you know what you do to me?"
You smile, your hand coming up to tangle in his hair, still damp with sweat. "Show me," you whisper back.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you, his eyes dark and endless and full of something that makes your breath catch. He cups your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing over your swollen lips, and when he speaks, his voice is rough, stripped bare, nothing but truth.
"I fucking love you," he says. "I love you so much it scares me."
The words hang in the air between you, heavy and real and perfect, and you pull him down, kiss him deep and slow, pouring everything you can't say into the movement of your lips against his.
The camera is still recording somewhere, still blinking its red light in the dark, but neither of you reach for it. Some moments are just for you. Just for this. Just for the two of you, tangled in white sheets in a Miami hotel room, sweating and spent and in love, the rawest thing either of you have ever known.
Summary: based on this request! Michael suddenly finds himself completely captivated by your body, and most of all, by your small beautiful breasts. Since then, his gaze has invariably lingered on you, while his fantasies continue to torture his youthful body.
Content/Warnings: 18+ themes (MDNI!), sexual fantasies, artistic description of petting, teasing and being caught (if you squint).
W/c: 1,1k+
“Michael!”
A low whisper from beside him, accompanied by a subtle nudge to his side, pulled Michael from his thoughts, forcing him to shift his gaze toward Jermaine. His brother knowingly raised an eyebrow.
“You're staring. It's incredibly obvious.”
A whisper right in his ear, and Michael shifts his gaze to his hands, which are nervously fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.
He knows. He knows all too well that he shouldn't be lingering his gaze on you for so long. But he simply can't help himself when someone so deeply desired and so utterly unattainable is sitting just an arm's length away.
And it wouldn’t even be so bad if the sunlight didn’t caress your skin so perfectly, if your eyes didn’t gleam so happily when you smiled, and… if you hadn’t worn that damn semi-transparent white tank top.
Michael let out a ragged breath, closing his eyes just to keep from looking in that direction again. But his imagination, as if out of spite, kept flashing the exact same images.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration, trying to look in the opposite direction. For a few minutes, Michael managed to distract himself, the view of the calm sea scattered his obsessive thoughts and the urge to look back.
But why on earth didn't you wear a bra?
Michael wanted to groan the moment that thought popped into his head. Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes immediately catching your silhouette.
You stretched out contentedly on the sun lounger, arching your back in a gesture that felt like pure torment for Michael. Your tank top was slightly damp from contact with your wet, post-swim body, making everything even more obvious. Your small, flawlessly perky breasts were sharply defined beneath the clinging cloth. The semi-transparent material did absolutely nothing to hide the small areolas of your nipples, which practically magnetically drew Michael's gaze. A gentle sea breeze stroked your skin, leaving your nipples erect against the cool air.
Michael's mouth was watering so intensely that if he dared to open it, saliva would run down his chin.
His fantasy had no intention of sparing the poor boy. He imagined running his fingers over your breasts, knowing they would fit flawlessly into his palms. He would cup and squeeze them softly, forcing you to arch your back in pure satisfaction. He would tease your nipples with his tongue through the damp shirt, torturing you until you let out whimpering moans.
Then he would pull up your top and drag his tongue over your belly in a slow, long-awaited stroke. Your skin was unspeakably sweet in his imagination, with a subtle tang of ocean salt. It would absolutely utterly ruin him.
He’d cradle one breast in his hand, kneading it softly as his mouth claimed the other. Lapping and sucking, he would lightly scrape your nipple with his teeth, drinking in your helpless whimpers. Positioned between your thighs, he’d let you fist his hair, gripping tight whenever the sensation overwhelmed you. Yet Michael wouldn't relent, hiding his face against your soft chest.
He would pull away from your peak with an audible pop, pausing only to leave a tender kiss on the reddened skin before giving his attention to the other one. Mouth capturing the nipple that was begging for touch, he would slip his hand between your thighs, finding you already soaking wet. Feeling your radiant heat against his own stomach, Michael would slide your underwear out of the way. He would tease your clit, losing himself in the breathless moans and cries spilling from your lips.
Michael would slide two fingers deep inside your pussy, making you curve upward against him. But still, he would hold you pinned to the chaise lounge, treating your boobs as lollipops, giving them short kitten licks and...
“Mikeyyy!”
Michael blinked rapidly, snapping back to reality as his eyes found yours. Crimson flooded his cheeks at the sudden realization of everything he had just been fantasizing about. You beamed at him, utterly oblivious to the throbbing ache in his shorts as he desperately tried to maintain eye contact without letting his shame show.
“Looks like Michael has a touch of sunstroke.”
A chuckle from Randy brought a sheepish smile to Michael’s lips. He placed a hand over his sweaty forehead, but he alone knew that the sun wasn’t the reason he was burning up. You watched him with a hint of concern, handing Michael a glass of water.
“Are you okay?”
Michael nodded repeatedly, taking a grateful gulp of water. A tender smile touched your lips as you suddenly reached out to embrace him, pulling his face flush against your chest.
His heart seemed to miss a beat.
Shit.
His shaking hands found their way around your waist as his lips made a stealthy, subtle contact with your nipple through the cloth. No one would notice; his face was simply buried there. At least, that was the lie Michael fed himself, even as his cock throbbed in his shorts, practically weeping for release.
Michael prayed to God that he wouldn't come right then and there in front of everyone, straight into his shorts—purely from your embrace. He quietly thanked you, gently pushing your body away.
A few minutes later, he’d be standing under the shower, jerking off with ragged movements, fueled by the sole thought of how his lips burned from the memory of touching your breasts.
Michael would never dare tell you about his desires, repeatedly coming into his hand every time you decided a bra was optional. He slides down the cold wall in exhaustion, the water pouring over his flushed skin as his muscles slowly relax after the orgasm.
That made it five times in the last two days, all for the exact same reason. His outward shyness clashed with the natural urges of a young guy who was simply obsessed with your delicate breasts. He sighs wearily, promising himself once again to do-something-about-this.
And you just sat there on your sun lounger, watching Michael walk away and disappear into the villa. You turn your head, exchanging sly glances with Marlon.
“I told you, he’ll be drooling over you like a hungry dog veeery soon.”
You smile at his words, glancing toward the house once again. Taking the glass of water Michael left unfinished, you deliberately pour it over your chest where the fabric had managed to dry.
“Is it clearly visible like this? What d'you think?”
You tug at the wet material, forcing it to cling obediently to your rounded breasts, putting the beads of your nipples on full display. Marlon tilts his head to the side, evaluating your “masterpiece.” His smile widens as he nods and holds up a hand for a high-five, amused by how effortlessly and accurately you manipulate his little brother.
Summary: you and Michael had been friends for as long as you could remember. Best friends. Wasn’t that what best friends did – help each other soothe the hunger and desire? You couldn’t be sure, but you and Michael simply couldn't stop coming to each other's rescue.
Content/Warnings: childhood best friends, practically porn w no plot, 18+ themes (MDNI!), smut, kisses, public oral sex (f!receiving), mentions of cheating, getting caught.
W/c: 1,9k+
Rome, 1977
“Mike, someone will see us...!”
You tried to brush his hands away from the hem of your short linen skirt, which lifted playfully with every gust of wind, exposing patches of your caramel skin. Michael smiled softly, that signature shy grin of his, sliding his hands right back onto your thighs.
“Nobody will see us, we'll be back soon.”
He whispers soothingly, pressing your back against the ruins of an ancient temple dedicated to some Olympian god. The sun-warmed stone heats your spine, which, combined with Michael’s hot breath on your neck, makes you utterly melt in his arms. The nervousness of your absence soon being noticed sends jolts through your body, covering your skin in goosebumps.
“I'm sure Marlon will notice right away… imagine the looks he’ll give us,” you whisper over Michael’s quiet giggling. He just shakes his head as his hands slide up under your blouse. Pleased by the absence of a bra against your chest, he gently rubs your nipples, making you throw your head back in pleasure. Michael takes advantage of this, burying his lips into the crook of your neck.
“Oh God, Mike…” you groan softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. Something hard presses firmly into your thigh, and you unconsciously rub against his cock. He lets out a low whimper, licking up your sweat-dampened neck in a broad, sweeping motion. The salty taste on his tongue drives him crazy, making him shudder and press his groin hard against your hip.
Getting ready for this excursion this morning, you had obvious doubts that even a single outing with your family and the Jacksons would pass without… this. Michael had been overtly hungry these past few days, and you were stepping closer and closer to getting caught red-handed.
Being so close to the Jackson family, you and Michael had been inseparable since childhood – movie nights, sneaking out of the house to wander the city after dark, gossiping about the boys you used to like, and deep, whispered conversations after your very first taste of alcohol. Together, of course.
The older you grew, the more thrilling it became to discover each other from a whole new perspective. The level of comfort between you had always been boundless, allowing you to explore each other's bodies with pure curiosity. Your very first kiss was shared between the two of you, a shy, tentative brushing of lips. But..
“Mike, don’t use your tongue, it’s gross!”
“That’s how adults do it! Come on, you try using your tongue.”
“Ew, no way!”
Such attempts often ended in a pillow fight, which – naturally, you always lost.
Over time, hands began to accompany the kisses, wandering across each other’s bodies and forcing you to shift uncomfortably on the bed from a strange, hot ache between your legs. You watched Michael’s heavy breathing and knew he was feeling the exact same thing.
Once, at one moment you found the boldness to cup his length through his pajama pants. Michael's response was unexpected. He jolted with a sharp cry, and you felt a sudden, warm, sticky moisture spread right beneath your fingertips.
“Mike?.. What’s happening?..”
“I don’t know, but it feels so good..”
When his body finally stopped trembling under your watchful gaze, Michael looked up at you shyly, awkwardly offering a suggestion.
“Do you want me… to help you out… down there?”
He glanced down suggestively as your cheeks burned crimson with embarrassment.
Of course he helped. And it wouldn't be the last time you helped each other out. When Michael went on tour with his brothers, he would call you late at night once everyone else had fallen asleep. You would talk for hours until he started whining about how desperately he missed you. Michael would beg you to tell him exactly how you touched yourself while thinking of him, asking if it made you feel good. Of course, you could never truly please yourself the way he could.
From that moment on, every single family vacation culminated in long, drawn-out kisses in your villa bedroom, before using your hands to bring each other to the edge, both stifling groans to avoid getting caught. It became a routine, entirely normal to you. After all, didn't all friends help each other out like this? He would stick to your side during every walk, the two of you always drifting away from the group, giggling quietly together. Losing sight of you became second nature to both the Jacksons and your parents.
Eventually, this worked perfectly to your advantage.
Inside a museum? You’d wander into a quiet empty hall to steal a few quick kisses from each other’s lips. During a family dinner? You’d sit right next to each other, Michael’s hand softly caressing your thighs, his fingers creeping dangerously high towards your wet panties. It became familiar and expected, almost a routine that passed without any surprises.
And then, out of nowhere, something strange happened. Michael got a girlfriend. You watched his happy face with a sense of confusion as he raved about how wonderful she was. But all your worries vanished away the moment his fingers were inside you right after his story. You had never crossed the line past heavy petting, because Michael didn't intend to “cheat.” And this was just for fun, right? You were just playing around and gaining experience. Nothing more. It was completely normal – you were practically family, and he didn't see you as a “girl” at all.
Yet here Michael is again, sinking to his knees in front of you, bunching up your skirt as you nervously scan the surroundings. Caressing your legs, he nuzzles his cheek against your knees, as if a jealous cat marking his territory with his scent. He lifts up his large, innocent brown eyes, catching your gaze. With a wicked smile, he ducks beneath the light fabric, washing over your damp panties with his hot breath. Resting your spine against the warm stone, you let your eyes shut. A helpless smile blooms on your lips. You absolutely adore this bastard.
Michael presses his lips to the bud of your clit through the sheer fabric of your panties, forcing a sweet arch into your spine. Letting out a low hum, his long fingers firmly cup your buttocks. His tongue glides between your folds, tasting the moisture brought on by the bare thought of having him down there between your legs once again.
Gripping the hem of your skirt in tight fists, you let out a ragged breath. You feel Michael’s cautious touch as he slides the fabric of your panties to the side, breathing in your body's musky fragrance with sheer delight. He uses a finger to spread your thick slick across your pussy and clit, leaving your whole body shivering with heavy anticipation.
“Mike, baby…”
“Mhm?”
You barely hear his quiet question, but you know exactly what he wants to hear. You swallow hard, bracing your hands against the wall behind you.
“Touch me, please, stop… teasing,” you breathe out, unconsciously moving your hips. Accidentally, you brush your clit against Michael’s nose, shuddering from the sudden rush of sensation. He smiles to himself, intentionally nuzzling his nose against your wet cunt, drawing aching moans from you.
“Mike!”
You whimper, biting your lips from the sheer impatience and hot desire pooling between your legs, already on the verge of dripping down your inner thigh. Michael presses his lips to the bead of your clit, sucking gently as your satisfied moans fill the air. He strokes your sweat-dampened legs, adding a faint, tingling touch to the overwhelming sensations. Over the past year, he has memorized exactly how you like it, paying special attention to tender kisses on your most sensitive spots and teasing bites along your thighs.
“Oh, yes… right there… please…”
You twist in his hands, driving your hips against his tongue while stifling your low moans into a tight fist. Suddenly, Michael pushes two fingers into your warmth, eliciting a sharp cry that you immediately choke back with your palm. You glance around in panic, but the waves of pleasure rushing from below completely override your fear.
Michael skillfully moves his fingers within you, stimulating your clit from inside your soft walls. Under the influence of adrenaline and the scorching heat, you know your body won't hold out much longer in this sweet torture. Michael deliberately rubs his nose against your clit, knowing how much you love to ride it. The only thing that makes him love this part of his face.
“God… it feels so incredible… oh, I think I'm gonna…”
You thrust your hips in rhythm as Michael works you over with his tongue and fingers. You can practically feel his grin the moment your walls start throbbing around his fingers. His free hand digs into your thigh with bruising force, eating you out with utter fervor and devotion. Michael's knees are already raw and flushed against the sharp surface of ground with stones, even through his lightweight summer pants, yet he pays it no mind, completely locked onto your pleasure.
His own cock aches with desire, rubbing uncomfortably against the fabric of his boxers and begging for attention, drawing a desperate whine from Michael. Yet he maintains his patient focus on leading you to orgasm, well aware that his reward awaits. Sobbing out praises and pleads, your words dissolve into one continuous prayer dedicated to his tongue and to God, making you feel as if you are hovering at the gates of heaven. Sensing the knot coil deep in your lower belly, you whine helplessly, riding the rhythm of his tongue with slight, helpless hitches.
Hearing your moans, Michael hums in approval, sucking your clit until the very last second, right up until you clamp his head between your thighs, coming violently over his fingers. For a split second, he regrets that he can't see your beautiful face, but the feeling vanishes as he watches, completely mesmerized, as you pulse tightly around his fingers. Your whole body shivers as you grasp blindly for an anchor, desperate to keep your footing on weak, trembling legs. The faint, final moans escape your slick, swollen lips the moment Michael slides his fingers out of your warmth.
Looking down, you watch a drop of translucent, thick moisture trace a path down his hand. Michael deliberately sticks out his tongue to lick the slick from his fingers before sliding both into his mouth with relish, savoring them completely clean. The mere sight causes your thighs to press together once more, fighting back a new wave of arousal.
Rising from his knees, Michael claims your lips without warning, sharing what has quickly become his favorite taste. A moan escapes into the kiss, yet Michael literally swallows the sound down, at that same moment impatiently dry humping your bare hip.
Chuckling against his lips, you give him a gentle push. Glancing around, your eyes meet Marlon’s, who is watching you with a knowing smile. Crimson floods your cheeks, but you place a finger over your lips in a quiet “shh,” pleading with the older Jackson for silence. He flashes a wicked grin, gives a quick wink, and deliberately turns around, steering Jermaine away. A breathless sigh of relief escapes your lips when you turn your attention back to Michael.
“Come on then, hero,” you say, looking at the poor guy, who practically has a silent plea scrolling across his forehead to do something about his arousal before he completely explodes. You giggle, nodding at Michael’s obvious bulge as you pull the bandana off your head to protect your knees. “Pants off. We’ve got a few minutes, honey.”
Here you will find the byproducts of my sleepless nights and wild imaginations.
Most of my stories are for mature audience. Hence, if you are a minor, you need to stay away from my blog. Some stories may have triggering concepts, please proceed upon reading the warnings carefully.
Hope you have a good reading. 💕
Themes:
Angst - 💔, Fluff - 💖, Smut - 💋
KNJ
Series/Drabble-series/Twoshots
None yet.
Oneshots
Next level, space level 💋💔
Summary: How can Namjoon deny you when you are ready to give yourself to him?
2. Forbidden 💋
Summary: You know it's forbidden but you don't care, not when your professor is more than ready to ruin you.
3. Bus Ride 💋💖
Summary: Namjoon has a massive crush on his coworker and it takes all his self control to survive a bus-ride with her.
4. Seven Minutes 💔
Summary: Namjoon goes around the world in a day in just seven minutes.
Drabbles
Idol!Namjoon X Author!Reader (Meet cute)
Lover - (Fluff)
Enchanted - (Angst with happy ending)
✨Patreon Exclusive (Paid Stories)✨
Third Time is a Charm [Part of Bangtan Chaebol Series]
Summary: You met Namjoon thrice in your life. For the first encounter, you were his rival. During the second one, he broke your heart. As for the third time, you let him walk in again even when he brings no promise of healing what he broke.
But they say, third time is a charm. Will that stay true in your case too?
KSJ
Series/Drabble-series/Twoshots
Taste of a Poison [Twoshot] 💔💋
Summary: Relationship with Seokjin is as toxic as it is addictive.
Part 1 , Part 2 [Discontinued]
Oneshots
Wanna be yours 💖💋
Summary: A peaceful, dreamless sleep is all you wanted after a long and boring office party but life has different plans and that plan includes the CEO of your company.
2. 20 Years Late 💔💖
Summary: Seokjin could count on his fingers the things that haven't changed within these 20 years of his life, and one of those is you..
Drabbles
By the Sea - (fluff)
You Belong with Me - (Fluff)
Broken Heart Over Whiskey Glass - (Angst)
Meanie - (Smut)
Don't Say You Love Me - (Angst)
✨Patreon Exclusive (Paid Stories)✨
Anonymous (Completed)
Summary: Driven by a heartbreak and a series of unpleasant events, you start finding your solace in a stranger. You both sit on a wooden bench by Han river, under a broken light post and share your miseries without giving away too much personal details - not even your names.
But what you don't know is that the said stranger is A-List Actor Kim Seokjin and he has started developing feelings for you (just like you did for him). So, when one day you disappear and don't come back to your shared spot - he vows to tear the sky apart to find you. Not knowing any single thing about you won't stand in his way of finding the woman he slowly fell for.
2. Heart On The Window [Part of Bangtan Chaebol Series] (Completed)
Summary: What do you get by loving Seokjin? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
MYG
Series/Drabble-series/Twoshots
1. Slide 💔💋 [Drabble series] (Completed)
Summary:
"I can see the pain in your eyes
I don't wanna say that I'm God, but
I'll take you to heaven if you die"
Alternatively,
You would go back in time and fall in love with Yoongi over and over and over again even after knowing that he would never once be yours in any of the timeline.
Oneshots
Call Me Oppa 💋💖
Summary: Yoongi has a weird kink... Maybe you'll find it out soon enough.
2. Haegeum 💋
Summary: Banning Yoongi from your bar has its own consequences.
3. Spotlight 💔💖
Summary: No matter how much you run away from Yoongi, Yoongi always comes right back to you.
4. Give Me A Taste 💋
Summary: Yoongi is down bad for you, he has been missing your taste crazily. Thanks to unexpected turns of events and a cancelled show, he can finally satiate his hunger for you.
5. One of the Girls 💋
Summary: Min Yoongi has been threatening your father. But that's not the problem. The problem is that you wanna get fucked by him.
Drabbles
Best friend!Yoongi X Fem!Reader (Angst)
Delicate - (Implied SMUT, Fluff)
Great War - (Angst)
Girl Crush - (Angst)
✨Patreon Exclusive (Paid Stories)✨
1. Words That Are Unsaid
Summary: In public eyes, Min Yoongi aka Augst D is a member of an award-winning Rap Trio, a notorious casanova who is embroiled in, at least, 4 dating scandals a year, and a rude jerk. But to you, Min Yoongi is that pale skinny trainee, who looked out for you, the rookie you befriended beyond business hours, the handsome twenty-something you fell in love with, and now your ex, who you still head over heels for. Breaking news is that he despises you, or at least that's what you think.
2. Six Degrees of Separation
Summary: Break up hurts but what hurts more is being rejected by the man you have loved for five solid years and losing him and his friendship in one damn night - only for him to show up a year later holding your cousin's hand all ready to tie the knot.
Break up hurts but going through all six degrees of separation from the Man who was never yours - hurts a lot more.
3. Clandestine (Completed)
Summary: Crown Prince Min Yoongi has a secret - He doesn't want to be the king. Neither does he want to be engaged and eventually married to the business tycoon's daughter that has been chosen for him. He is already throat deep in dilemma when you enter in his life to increase every issue by ten fold because now soon-to-be king Min Yoongi is in love with you and falling for a royal employee and pining after her is nothing short of a Clandestine affair.
4. Controversial Hidden Mini Series
JHS
Series/Drabble-series/Twoshots
I Fell First but He Fell Harder [Series](Completed) 💔💖💋
Summary: You have been with Him since the beginning. To you he was the only person that existed in the world, in your world. But to him, you are another pair of hands that clapped after each of his performance. Will it change when you secure a job in his dancing academy?
2. Broken Glock [Series] (Completed) 💔💖💋
Summary: Hoseok is cold hearted, that's what everyone says. He is made of stone, no emotion runs through his veins, everyone believes it. Everyone but you. Because you have seen concern in his eyes and felt warmth in his touches. You have seen the real him, someone he doesn't acknowledge to be. And that's what has made you fall for him even though you believe you are nothing but a paid employee to him. But the reality is different. You're the only one that makes Hoseok a sane human being, he loves you with all of his heart, so much so that now he has started pushing you away from him to keep you protected from any harm. But will you two survive without each other? What if you can't? And what if you won't?
3. Dear Darling [Mini Series] 💔💋[Discontinued]
Summary: After his bride flees from his clutches and reaches the realm of mortals to reunite with her lover - Hoseok has no choice but to chase her. Upon his arrival to the land of obnoxious humans, he crosses paths with you. You are a small, driven mortal who walks with a load of despair on her back. You are nothing but a delicious meal to him and he wants nothing more than to suck your life out of you, find his runaway wife and return to his kingdom. But much to his dismay, you ruin his plans, make him do what he never imagined doing in 600 years of his life - like making him fall in love and keeping him bound to you.
Oneshots
1. Attention 💋
Summary: A very jealous Hoseok fucks you into oblivion.
2. Fleeting [Birthday special] 💔💋
Summary: It's his birthday and you got a surprise for him but maybe not of the good kind.
3. Let's get engaged [Enlistment Special] 💖
Summary: Hoseok is enlisting but he has some pending works to complete beforehand.
4. Not Jealous 💋
Summary: You know Hoseok is sulking and you know how to cheer him up.
5. Cold war 💔💋
Summary: In which Hoseok fucks you for all the time he has lost due to his own mistakes.
6. Soju Bomb 💋
Summary: Hoseok doesn't like soju usually, but he discovers he likes the taste when the drink is spilled on your body.
7. Fool's Gold 💔
Summary: Falling for Jung Hoseok is... Fool's Gold.
8. Not a Dream 💔💖 (Please don't read it. It's my very first fic and it's very cringe! I, myself, don't like it.)
Summary: She thinks she is not good enough for him. She thinks she has nothing to offer. But she doesn't know she is all he wants. But why?
9. Your Lips, My Lips - Apocalypse 💔💋
Summary: You are lonelier than anyone he has ever witnessed. Your loneliness comes with an intensity that matches his, maybe that’s why he is so attracted to you? Maybe that’s why he wants to give you his final moments of existence?
10. Heeled Boots 💋
Summary: A little something about Hoseok's heeled boots from MAMA 2022.
11. Closure [Discharge special]💔💖
Summary: If the highest degree of love had a name - it would be termed as Jung Hoseok in your story.
12. Icon 💋
Summary: In which Hoseok fucks you in your hotel room right after the LV show.
13. Sweet Dreams 💋💖
Summary: Hoseok is going to take you home and let you know how much he actually likes you.
1. Trust Fund Baby [Part of Bangtan Chaebol Series]
Summary: If falling for Jung Hoseok is synonymous to Fool's Gold then you choose to be a fool. But when his company chases you around to sign a deal with you - your ill-fated love threatens to turn in something promising, something real - something that doesn't abide by the rules of class difference when it comes to love.
So, even though you fell first, in the end, he falls harder.
PJM
Series/Drabble-series/Twoshots
Lightning [Mini-Series] 💋💖
Summary: You don't understand why you find Park Jimin everywhere you go. Also, why his eyes stay only on you.
1.1 Like Crazy - A lightning sequel 💋💖
Summary: Jimin wants to make you his and he will get in done tonight.
2. Oh So Reluctant [Twoshot] 💔💋💖
Summary: For the past eleven months that you have been married to Park Jimin, he has not looked at you the way he has been doing today. And there is sinister in his eyes.
Part 1, Part 2
Oneshots
1. 25 and Virgin 💋
Summary: You are 25 and virgin but maybe your crush slash senior Park Jimin can change that tonight.
Drabbles
Wildest Dreams - (Angst)
Cruel Summer - (Fluff)
✨Patreon Exclusive (Paid Stories)✨
1. Everything's Fair [Part of Bangtan Chaebol Series]
Summary: Jimin has dated a shit ton of people. He has slept with even more of them, but never once he managed to fall in love. That was until you came into his life and managed to make him head over heels with just one glance. Umm.. so what if you are his fuck-buddy's new roommate? Everything is fair in love and war. And Jimin only knows how to win.
KTH
Series/Drabble-series/Twoshots
None Yet
Oneshots
Baggage 💔
Summary: After six months of parting your ways from each other, Taehyung receives your handwritten letter. An unexpected one.
2. Like a Brother 💋
Summary: Taehyung has always been someone out of your league. Honestly, he isn't even your type. But that doesn't mean you haven't felt weak at times.
Drabbles
Rainy Day [A Baggage Drabble] 💔
Snow on the Beach - (Fluff)
✨Patreon Exclusive (Paid Stories)✨
1. Deal? Deal. [Part of Bangtan Chaebol Series]
Summary: When it comes to Kim Taehyung, you have two identities. One - you are his personal assistant. Two - you are his friends with benefits. But a third identity threatens to make its way in your life when his father forces him to get married and he proposes you with a deal - stay married for two years, get divorced with a huge chunk of alimony money and live a comfortable life.
Nice deal, right? Sure. But not when you start falling for him along the way.
JJK
Series/Drabble-series/Twoshots
Trouble [Twoshot] 💋
Summary: It's not that you don't like your hot rommmate, you just choose to stay away.
1.1. Trouble 2 💋
Summary: It's not that you don't like your hot rommmate, you just choose to stay away.
2. Novice 💋💖
Summary: The need of some extra money lands on you a weird job. But you are not complaining, not when you get to fuck Jeon Jungkook.
2.1. We Need Practice 💋💖
Summary: Jungkook wants you to ride him and you are too bad at that.
3. To Be Popular 💋💖
You love everything about social media - apart from the ever-growing number of social media influencers. You don't understand how these people gain followers and admirers just by installing a camera and doing very basic things in front of it. And you despise how some of them can do anything to gain fame, to be popular - even if it includes uploading their bedroom scene in pornsites aka people like Jeon Jungkook. But when your company launches a new product and your department head tasks you with signing Jeon Jungkook up as an endorsement partner - you have no choice but to chase him like the corporate slave that you are. However, things turn worse when you embroil in a dating rumor with him and have to keep the game going for the sake of everything. is it really for the worse or things will turn in a way you never expected it to?
3. Slippin' Under 💔
Summary: "You're toxic, I'm slippin' under"
Oneshots
1. Desire 💋
Summary: Jungkook hates you, you hate Jungkook but sometimes desire is more important than hatred.
2. Monitoring Duty 💖
Summary: You are tasked with monitoring Jungkook's weverse live tonight, which starts with you trying to shove ramyeon down your throat and ends with Jungkook confessing that he likes you too.
3. Seven Days a Week 💋
Summary: Jungkook promised himself that he will be fucking you right seven days a week.
4. Bad Idea 💋
Summary: Accepting Jungkook's invitation to watch him train topless was such a bad idea.
5. In Motion 💋
Summary: You are finally letting Jungkook set everything in motion. And he is more than happy to show you what he has to offer.
6. Standing Next to You 💋💔💖
Summary: Your and Jungkook's relationship is all about dark rooms, shadows, rendezvous and secrecy. It pains you to even think that you can't claim him as yours in front of the world. But Jungkook is always there to set your fears free because he loves you even more than you love him.
7. Closer To You 💔💋
Summary: You know that you and Jeongguk are completely different individuals from every possible aspect, and there is no future of this relationship but you can’t push him away, not when he only wants to come closer to you.
8. Darling, can I be your favorite? 💋
Summary: Your close friend bagged a hot boyfriend. And that said boyfriend is more interested in you than her.
9. Gin and Tonic (ft. Kim Mingyu) 💋
Summary: If Jungkook is pungent as Gin then you need Mingyu as Tonic water to soothe your throat.
10. Poison 💋💔
Summary: In this world where being loved by the person you love is rare - being touched by them is a luxury. You will allow yourself this luxury tonight.
Drabbles
Idol!Jungkook X Reader (Establish relationship, fluff)
The Way I Loved You - (Angst with happy ending)
Gorgeous - (SMUT)
Tolerate it - (Angst)
Return the Favor - (SMUT)
Fortnight - (Fluff)
✨Patreon Exclusive (Paid Stories)✨
1. From Within [Part of Bangtan Chaebol Series]
Summary: When you fell in love with Jungkook, you wished for your life to turn out as one of those clichéd fairytales, where two best friends fall for each other and live happily ever after. But were you lucky enough? Probably not because you had to watch the man taking vows, kissing the love of his life and promising forever right before your eyes. Unfortunately enough, now you are having to witness him breaking down bit by bit standing at his wife's funeral.
OT7/Multiple Members
Series/Drabble-series/Twoshots
Where Do Broken Hearts Go? - ft. JJK & JHS 💔💋💖 [Series] (completed)
Summary: Jungkook stripped your emotions naked, left you bare in the chilly wind of despair and self-doubt with an unending heartache. You tried your hardest to move on from him, to live for yourself but failed miserably. Each night you had to come back to your empty home where memories and broken dreams were scattered all around the floor, until one day a little angel and her unbelievably beautiful father came into your life. Finally, when you find yourself healing, maybe falling too, Jungkook had to show up! Again!
2. Hard Luck - ft. JJK & KTH 💖💋 [Series] [Discontinued]
Summary: You have a good face, a nice body, a fat amount saved in your secondary bank account, a stable job that you love, loving friends and family, you are good in bed. You have almost everything other than a good luck in love. Sleeping around with random dudes don’t feel enough when your friends are getting married and having kids. If you are being honest, you have started getting bored of this prolonged singlehood already.
Your last light of hope fades away when your work crush, aka the hot guy from the legal department, Kim Taehyung (with whom you might or might not have slept once, okay! twice!), asks you to set him up with your work best friend (who, apparently, is the most asked out woman of the company). But what you don’t know is that the CEO of the company has taken a liking to you and has set out on a mission of winning your heart.
But wait… Taehyung might have started developing feelings for you in the process of receiving your help!!!
3. One Last Contract - ft. MYG, JHS, KNJ💔🌑💋[Series] [Completed]
Summary: As a professional wife, you have no choice but to say yes to marry Min Yoongi - a mysterious yet intriguing man. But as you start living with him you discover things that meant be secrets, and it may end up being your ruin. Will your keeper aka bodyguard Namjoon and your ex-fiancé Hoseok, who abandoned you without any explanation, be able to pull you out of grasp of the man who you are falling for?
Oneshots
1. Best Fucking Friends - JHS & PJM 💋
Summary: Guess, your dumbass ex-boyfriend did the right thing for once by dumping you. Your best friends are more than happy to fuck you into oblivion.
2. The More, The Merrier- KTH & JJK 💋
Summary: Taehyung should definitely feel angry or at least disappointed seeing you already trying to sleep with someone else, that too, his best friend. However, what he feels is insanely turned on.
Drabbles
Happily Ever After - KNJ & JHS (Angst)
*Disclaimer: All the pictures are taken from internet and pinterest (ktvjeon). I don't own the edits.
BTS Reactions/Scenarios
1. Watching Rain With You (OT7) [Fluff]
2. Seeing Them Out With Someone Else (Hyung line) [Angst]
BTS Member X Member [AO3]
1. Falling (Min Yoongi X Kim Seokjin) [Fluff, love confessions]
2. Let's Pretend Tonight (Min Yoongi X Kim Seokjin) [Angst, cheating au, open ending]
New Masterlist
P.S: I have quit my job, finally! And now I'm doing patreon fulltime. So, if you are joining my patreon and supporting me, just know that it means the entire world to me. Every single support is a pillar that strengthen my financial abilities. So thanks. Thanks a ton for supporting me.
could you write one about Michael and reader being long time friends and having feelings for each other but never pursuing because “right person, wrong time” and reader ends up in a relationship and eventually engaged and on her wedding day Michael shows up begging her not to go through with it because he’s in love with her and always has been and he KNOWS she doesn’t love her fiancé but felt pressured to say yes to him and she’s in love with Michael and says yes to leaving with him 😫🥹
𝐈𝐟 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲,𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫| 𝐌.𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧
Sitting in front of the vanity mirror as your mother adjusted your veil you listened to all the chaos going on around you. The loud conversations, last minute adjustments being put in place and the loud atmosphere around you.
“Baby what’s wrong?” Your mother staring at you through the mirror
The one person you couldn’t lie to ever, she could see through you like a clear body of water
“Nothing ma, I’m just nervous”
“That doesn’t look like a I’m just nervous look”
As she placed her hand on her hip for rest you quickly looked down at your engagement ring on your finger, hands shaking as you began to move it back and forth—biting your lip for comfort
“Yeah I’m just nervous, that’s it”
The door gently opened and all of a sudden all the chaos in the room seemed to cease to exist, gasps could be heard from your sisters as they paid attention to the unintended guest
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything” a soft and meek voice finally spoke
Immediately your head rose as you stared at the man in the doorway, as soon as your eyes met his you immediately dropped your gaze and went back to picking at your ring. Your mother noticed the exchange between the two of you and called for everyone to step out, watching all the bridesmaids clear out as she was the last
Hearing the door shut your stomach dropped, that was the confirmation that the two of you were finally alone. Slowly you turned around and stood to your feet—neck and neck
His eyes seemed heavy and told a story you’ve never seen on him before. But he still managed to smile at you and find a positive in this situation
“You look ….beautiful”
He’s said this a million times but today it sounded different, even the way he looked at you was different than what he’s done in the past
Unable to hold your composure in you immediately pulled Michael into a hug, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him as tightly as you possibly could. He immediately wrapped his arms around you and rested them on your exposed skin , softly rubbing his hands back and forth hearing you let out tears of frustration
The way the two of you hugged each other was even different, which concerned Michael because this wasn’t a “I missed you” hug this was a “I’m scared and I need you” type of hug
“I didn’t know if you’d show up”
“It wasn’t easy, definitely took me some time to figure it out. But look at you—you’re absolutely gorgeous” he complimented
The two of you broke apart, still holding hands as his thumb brushed over your knuckles
“Thank you” you blushed “you look handsome as always. Cream is definitely one of your colors”
Michael stepped in closer and pulled out his handkerchief to pat away your tears “I know the timing isn’t perfect but I didn’t come here to talk about anything besides what I’m about to say”
Your stomach dropped, feeling like you were on the verge of throwing up “And what is that?”
You could feel Michael’s hands trembling against yours, brushing his thumbs over your knuckles “I practiced my words over and over again, stuttering over myself trying to get my thoughts together but it was impossible, I almost drove myself crazy thinking about it”
“Michael….”
“I’ve been in love with you since we both were eleven and twelve years old. I was a fool for letting you letting you get away from me the first time and I refuse to let it happen again, I’ll admit showing up here today wasn’t in support of your wedding at all—I came here today because I can’t let you marry this man Bunny”
Bunny…a nickname you hadn’t heard in ages
Hearing the end of Michael’s speech you broke your hands from his and scoffed walking towards the vanity “Michael are you fucking serious?! You showed up on my wedding day for this!?”
“Bunny you have to believe me—I know it’s selfish but you and I both know you don’t wanna marry him”
“Michael how dare you”
“See! That right there” he laughed stepping closer to you “You’re not even denying it because you know it’s true, you’re only getting mad at me because you know I’m right”
“That’s not true”
“It is my love, I’ve been crazy about you since I was a little boy and I know you well enough to know that you’re making a mistake”
“Yeah and it took you to wait five seconds before I walk down the aisle to confess your feelings for me?”
“No I just—“
“Just what!?”
“I was scared!” Raising his voice “I was afraid of losing you and not having you in my life anymore okay? I’d rather have you in my life than not have you at all. You’re one of the only people I have left in this world”
Your face softened
“And you know what, I’m not the only person here with some secrets”
“What’s that supposed to mean??”
So—you’re really going to act like nothing ever happened between us? Like Milan never happened? Because I remember that night clearly. We made love to one another for the very first time and not once did you tell me to stop because we shared something special that night. Neither one of us pulled away. You told me you loved me and I believed every second of it”
Memories of that night came rushing back—the gentle way Michael held you, the tenderness in his touch, and the way he always seemed to know exactly how to make you feel safe in his arms. It wasn’t just the intimacy that lingered in your mind, but the emotional connection you shared
Every moment between you had filled a part of your heart you hadn’t realized was empty, and deep down, it was everything you’d been longing for.
“I did mean it..I still mean it”
Your eyes filled with tears and you stared at the rugged carpet and the sides of your heels, anything to avoid his eye contact
“Bunny look at me” raising your head with his fingers “Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me the way that I love you, I swear I’ll leave you alone for good—I’ll walk out that door and you’ll never see me again. As much as it would kill me inside to be without you, I’ll do it if that’s what you want”
“I can’t” your tears streamed down your face and you slightly hyperventilated “I love you more now than I did back then…and since I’m being honest I’ve never stopped loving you”
A smile broke out on Michael’s face, contagious as it spread to you as well—pressing his forehead into yours as a tear ran down his cheek “You don’t know how devastated I was gonna be without you”
“You don’t know how devastated I would’ve been if you didn’t show up today, I only said yes because I thought it was over”
Grabbing you by your face and gently pressed his lips into yours, allowing you to melt into his embrace. That same electrifying feeling the both of you felt the first time you kissed had returned “I missed you so much Michael”
“Then come with me—please” kissing your knuckles “Let’s do this the right way. I knew from the minute I walked in here that this wasn’t your dream wedding. I know your every detail you would’ve wanted down to how your bouquet should’ve looked. I could’ve planned your dream wedding with my eyes closed, he’s never paid attention to you like I have. Give me the opportunity to prove it to you please Bunny”
You grabbed Michael’s hands and squeezed them tightly “What am I gonna tell my family?” barely audible
“The truth, it’s all you have”
After sharing one last lingering kiss, the two of you slipped out through the back entrance, escaping the chaos together. Hand in hand, you ran alongside Michael, laughing breathlessly as if the years between you had never existed. It felt just like it had when you were kids two best friends racing through the world with nowhere to be but by each other’s side. Meanwhile your mother stood on the other side of the door with a small smile on her face, she was proud of you for finally choosing yourself and picking the right man
description: michael’s been trying to win you over for longer than you care to admit. keeping your distance has always been easy—until it isn’t. sometimes, all it takes is one conversation.
content: 18+, SMUT, switch!reader, switch!michael, phone sex, overstimulation, squirting, GUYS THIS ONE IS REALLY NASTY
a/n: ummm… it’s 6k words… i got carried away yall. smut with a hint of plot, i’m willing to write a pt. 2 🙂↕️ (this is a long smut read!) not proofread i’m too damn sleepy!
꒰ྀི১ ໒꒱ིྀ
𐙚🧸ྀི the jackson estate has always felt like a second home to you.
being latoya’s best friend means you know hayven hurst better than most people. you know which rooms stay quiet during the afternoon, which windows are always open when music is playing, and which corners of the property you can escape to when the world starts feeling too loud.
being a few years older never mattered between you and latoya. she had always been mature for her age, and you had always admired how easily she could make anyone feel welcome.
your father owns a successful company, so you’re not unfamiliar with attention or expectations, but you’ve never been someone who chases after it. you prefer keeping things simple. private. predictable.
you were old enough to know exactly who you were, and old enough to know that attention wasn’t the same thing as affection.
you had your own routines, your own goals, and a life outside of the jackson name. you didn’t need to be introduced as anyone’s daughter, anyone’s friend, or anyone’s love interest.
which is probably why michael jackson is such a problem; because michael is everything you usually avoid.
he’s warm when you’re distant. he’s patient when you’re stubborn. and no matter how many times you brush him off, he always finds a way to make you smile.
it’s not that you don’t like him. that’s just the part you refuse to admit.
you like the way he remembers small things about you. you like the way he laughs when you make sarcastic comments. you like how, despite being one of the most recognizable people in the world, he somehow makes conversations with him feel normal.
but you know what comes with him. you know what it means to be close to michael jackson. the attention. the rumors. the constant eyes watching every move, and the idea of having your life connected to someone the entire world feels entitled to.
so you keep your distance. you become the one person who doesn’t immediately fall for his charm, and michael notices.
“you know, i’m starting to think you enjoy turning me down,” he jokes one afternoon, leaning against the doorway while you and latoya sit outside.
you glance over at him, a small smirk forming. ““you’re charming, michael. i’ll give you that. but charm doesn’t make things simple.”
he laughs softly, shaking his head. “that’s cruel.”
“you’ll survive.” but the truth is, you like watching him try.
there’s something amusing about how someone like michael jackson, someone who can have almost anything he wants, seems determined to earn your attention.
a few nights later, latoya has a sleepover.
the room is filled with laughter, music playing quietly in the background, and empty snack wrappers scattered across the floor. everyone is comfortable, talking about everything and nothing at the same time.
until janet gets the idea. “i dare you to sneak downstairs and get more snacks.”
you immediately look up. “seriously?”
latoya grins. “yes, seriously.” you roll your eyes, pretending you’re annoyed, but you’re already getting up. “fine. but only because i’m hungry.”
the halls of hayven hurst are quiet when you step downstairs. the house feels completely different at night. calmer. almost peaceful.
you walk into the kitchen, opening the cabinet doors carefully as you search for something to bring back upstairs.
then you hear a voice. “you know, most people usually ask before taking food.”
you freeze, a chill shooting down your spine.
slowly turning around, you find michael standing there.
his hair is slightly messy, his expression relaxed, and there’s that familiar little smile on his face. “your food?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
he walks a little closer, amused. “you know what i mean.”
“i thought this was a family kitchen.”
“and i thought you were better than stealing snacks.”
you laugh quietly. “you barely know me.”
“i’m trying to.” the words catch you off guard. normally, you would have a comeback ready. normally, you would tease him and leave before the conversation could become anything more.
but tonight feels different. maybe it’s because it’s late, maybe it’s because there’s no one watching, or maybe it’s because michael isn’t trying to impress you right now.
he’s just standing there, talking to you.
and for once, you let him. you joke back. you laugh at the things he says. you don’t immediately look for a reason to leave.
and when you finally walk back upstairs, you realize something that makes you uncomfortable. which is that you enjoyed it.
days later, while you’re away on a trip, you realize you forgot something at hayven hurst.
it’s a small thing, but it keeps bothering you. you try really hard to ignore it, but eventually you find yourself picking up the phone and dialing their house.
the second someone answers, you almost hang up.
“hello?” you recognize his voice immediately. no one’s voice had ever sounded so soft and relaxing before.
“michael?”
then there was a pause followed by a quiet laugh. “i was wondering when you were going to call me.”
you smile despite yourself. “don’t make it weird. i just forgot something.” you sigh, rolling over in your cozy comforter. your room scented of linen and coconut from a candle that was lit across the room.
“right,” he says, clearly amused. “that’s the only reason?”
it’s almost like you can hear the amused smirk on his face just by his words. you shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “you’re impossible.”
“and yet you’re still on the phone.”
you should have a response…you usually do.
but instead, you just laugh. and somehow, the conversation keeps going.
you talk about random things. he tells you stories. you tease him. he makes you laugh more than you expect.
for once, you aren’t thinking about the cameras or the fame or the world that comes with his name. you’re just talking to michael.
the phone call is supposed to be short.
at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
you’re sitting on your bedroom floor now, your back against the side of your bed, the phone cord wrapped loosely around your fingers as you stare out the window. the house is quiet, the kind of quiet that only happens late at night when everyone else has already gone to sleep.
you’re about to say goodbye when michael speaks again. “so…”
you smile slightly. “so?” and of course, there is another pause. michael frantically thinking of something to say, under the pressure of your presence.
you can almost picture him on the other end, probably sitting in his room trying to figure out what to say. “nothing,” he finally says.
you laugh softly. “you’re terrible at that by the way.” your fingers fiddling with the phone chord.
“at what?” michael questions. “pretending you don’t have something to say.” you respond softly, a small smile meeting your lips.
another quiet laugh comes through the phone. “maybe i just like hearing your voice.”
you freeze for a second. not because it’s some dramatic confession, but because michael says it so simply. like he doesn’t even realize how much it affects you.
“that was smooth,” you tease.
“was it?” he says, a hint of hope in his voice. you could imagine a satisfied grin on his face right then and there.
“no.” you say blankly.
he laughs, and you can hear the embarrassment in his voice. “i was trying.” “you were trying?” you giggle at his efforts. you both stay quiet for a moment, listening to the faint sounds of each other breathing through the phone.
you're sitting quietly on your bed, listening to michael's soft breathing on the other end. the silence between you two isn't awkward—it's comfortable, but something feels different. you break the quiet with a soft murmur. "you know, i never realized you were this funny."
“is that so?" he smirks softly, running his hand through his curls. “maybe i’m just funny when i’m with you." the line goes silent for a moment, filled with just their soft breaths.
you chuckle lowly. “well technically, you aren’t with me. we’re on the phone.” you can’t help but smile to yourself, as you readjust the phone to your ear comfortably.
"right, right, we're not actually together," he laughs softly, but then suddenly he's standing up, moving quietly to his bedroom window. “but your house is right there, though." he pulls back the curtain gently, looking at the dark windows next door.
“are you looking at me?" you ask softly, moving to your own window. you pull back the curtains slowly, peeking out. you live in a quiet neighborhood where everyone knows each other, so you're not surprised when you see him standing there, phone still pressed to his ear, smiling softly.
"i am now." he pulls up a chair, sitting down comfortably, his elbows resting on the windowsill as he looks out at your window. the street lamps cast a soft glow over everything, making the moment feel almost dreamlike. come sit by your window.
you hear him chuckle softly on the other end of the line as you struggle to move your large, plush chair over to the window. the static and thumping sounds coming through the phone make it clear what's happening. "you’re really having to drag that thing over, huh?" he laughs lightly, enjoying the silly moment.
he hears you laugh and then the sudden quiet, followed by a soft thud and your muted "oof." michael notices your chair slipping from your grip once more onto the floor.
seeing you bend over, trying to pick up the chair you dropped, and his eyes immediately travel to the overwhelming sight of your round ass and thick thighs, displayed as your shirt rode up. he swallows hard, nearly choking.
you finally get the chair positioned right by the window, panting slightly from the effort. you settle into the plush seat, smoothing down your oversized sleep shirt that had ridden up when you bent over. you have no idea what michael just witnessed. "finally," you huff out, trying to catch your breath. "that chair is heavier than it looks."
"um— yeah, looks good," he stammers, still distracted, eyes drinking you in through the window. he's struggling to sound casual but keeps replaying that image of you bent over.
"i didn't expect you to be so..." he pauses, searching for the right word, his eyes crinkling slightly as he smiles softly. he’s leaning against his windowsill, one hand gripping the frame, the other resting casually by his side.
"amazing? i know." you joke, tilting your head, noticing how his cheeks are slightly pinked. you have no idea what's coming next. "i didn’t expect you to be so shy." you say softly, pulling your knees up to your chest in the chair, wrapping your arms around them.
"i’m not that shy," he says, his voice steadying as he gains a bit more confidence. he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the windowsill. "there’s a lot of things you wouldn’t expect from me."
you smile softly to yourself, holding the phone up to your ear, as you gaze at him through the windows. “oh yeah? like what?” you challenge.
or maybe you wouldn't expect me to be so... adventurous," he adds, his gaze trailing over your form before quickly flicking back to your face. "i’m a very open-minded person when it comes to... certain activities." he clears his throat, trying to sound casual, but his voice is a bit strained. “just something to think about."
you tilt your head, studying him curiously. a slow, knowing smile spreads across your face as you process his words. your heart drops as you suddenly realize there's a whole side of michael that you've never seen before—one that's confident, flirtatious, and maybe even a bit sexual. “is that so?"
he nods, his smirk growing wider at your response. he pushes off from the windowsill and leans back against his chair, manspreading. his voice dropping even lower. "mmhm. there are things i like... things i want to try." his eyes flick down briefly before meeting yours again intensely.
"and what exactly are these things you want to try?" you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, matching his intensity. the conversation is getting dangerously close to some very interesting territory, but you keep your tone casual, like you're just talking about hobbies. "just curious." your fingers tap against the windowsill, mirroring his earlier movements.
michael swallows hard, his eyes locked with yours as he leans forward, mirroring your position. the air between you feels charged, electric. he pauses for a moment before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. "well... for starters, i’ve always wondered what it would be like if we…”
"if we what, michael?" you prompt, your heart rate slightly elevated. you have a pretty good idea of where this is going, but you want him to say it. your fingers drum more rapidly against the windowsill, betraying your growing anticipation.
"if we you know—kissed...” he finally says, his face flushing slightly but his gaze remaining steady. the admission hangs between you, heavy and charged. his hand moves unconsciously, resting on his thigh, fingertips pressing into the fabric of his pajama pants. he watches your reaction through the windows intently, his own breath hitching slightly. “i mean, we've never actually—"
"it’s not something you just guess at," you say, watching him with a casual smirk. you’re only two years older than him, but you find his shyness almost amusing. your voice drops lower. a real kiss... it's not just putting your lips together, you know." you pause, letting your words hang in the air.
"what’s it like, then?" michael asks quietly through the line, his eyes fixed on yours. he’s genuinely curious, and there's a hint of vulnerability in his voice that makes your heart soften slightly. he’s so innocent compared to you—no real kissing experience under his belt yet.
"the hands roam... they touch faces, they tangle in hair, they pull bodies closer." your voice is thicker now, more commanding. you’re teasing him mercilessly, painting a picture of passion and desire that he can barely comprehend. “and the lips... they part slightly, tongue slipping—“
"i really wanna do that to you," michael interrupts, his voice thick and strained. the words tumble out before he can stop them—honest and desperate. he’s imagining your lips parting, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there's no space left between you. he exhales shakily, his knuckles whitening where they grip the armrest of his chair.
as you continue your sensual teasing, michael’s cheeks flush deeper, his eyes darkening with barely contained desire. you see the effect you're having on him, and it only encourages you to continue. your voice becomes even softer, more inviting. “is that all you wanna do to me, michael?"
"no..." michael whispers, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. he’s definitely getting hard—his pajama pants doing little to hide his growing erection. his voice is shaky, clearly affected by the mental images you're putting in his head. “i’d…i’d want to do other things too."
“mhm," you murmur, your voice low and teasing. you watch him squirm, his hands fidgeting on the chair arms. you need more details—you want to hear the dirty thoughts running through his head. your voice drops even lower. “michael, honey... be specific."
"i... i want to touch you," michael stammers out, his voice breaking. he’s needy now, helplessly falling apart under the weight of his arousal. his hands curl into fists, his nails digging into his palms. “everywhere... i want to touch you everywhere."
“mmm” you hum out in satisfaction at his desirable truth. you quickly trap the phone in between your jaw and shoulder, allowing your free hands to teasingly slide up your body—gently pulling the fabric of your night shirt. now you were softly cupping and caressing your tits. “you mean right here baby? this where you wanna touch me?” you whisper.
"yes... right there," michael hisses, his eyes stuck to your hands as they cup your breasts teasingly. he’s completely hard now, his pajama pants tenting prominently. the fact that you're in separate houses only adds to the taboo nature of the conversation, making it even more exciting. “is that all?” you questioned.
"no-no... not just there," michael sputters, his eyes glued to the way you're gently playing with your hard nipple. he’s practically panting now, his needy gaze bouncing between your hands and your face. he licks his dry lips, struggling to form coherent thoughts. i…i want to touch you everywhere."
you softly reply in a confused manner. “hmm, everywhere… where could that be? over here?” you say as your hands move down to your inner thighs while slowly spreading your legs. your core aching to be touched.
michael breath catches in his throat as you spread your legs slightly, his mind immediately jumping to dirty places. he can almost feel his heart pounding out of his chest, his voice desperate and shaky. y-yes... there... right there." he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“tell me how you wanna touch me michael.” your voice travels through the phone line. making michael shudder. you were now fed up with this night shirt, bringing your legs up to your chest, using the shirt to cover up your aching heat teasingly.
"i want to..." michael’s voice cracks, his knuckles white against the chair arms. he’s practically spilling out of his pajama pants now, unable to hide how turned on he is. his eyes are locked on yours through the window, the distance between your bedrooms feeling agonizingly vast. "i want to slide my hands up your thighs... cup you through your panties..."
"and then... then i’d want to pull your panties aside and feel you up directly," michael admits, his face flushed red with embarrassment and lust. he’s never been so dirty with anyone before, let alone over a phone call while looking at each other through windows.
hearing michael’s velvety—yet needy voice through the line drove you insane. “like this?” you question, a small smirk creeping onto your face as your manicured hand stooped inside your lace panties gently.
michael’s eyes widen as he watches your hand disappear under your panties, his breath hitching loudly. he can't believe what he's seeing, his own hand instinctively reaching down to grip himself through his pants. "y-yes... just like that," he pants, "let me see..."
you throw your head back in sheer pleasure, losing your mind and self respect. now you were on full display, propped up for michael to see and hear.
michael’s eyes are riveted to the sight of you pushing your legs up and spreading yourself open for him. he can see your fingers sliding in and out of you through the thin fabric of your panties, the wetness seeping through and glistening in the moonlight streaming through your window.
“is that all you want, michael?” you moan as you start to slowly circle your clit with your fingers, moaning softly as the sensation shoots through your body. your legs are pushed up high, giving michael a perfect view of your wet panties stretched tight over your pussy. you arch your back, pressing your hips forward, inviting him to watch. your soft moans echoing through the telephone line. “i see how hard you are.
"n-no fair," michael stammers out, his face flushing an even deeper red as you point out his obvious hard-on. he’s squirming in his seat, his hand still gripping himself through his pants. "i... i wanna do more than touch you," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "i wanna..."
"i know what you wanna do, baby." you tease him gently, not taking your hand out of your panties. you can see how desperately he wants to touch himself properly. “you wanna jerk off while watching me, don't you?"
"damn..." michael groans, his hand moving faster, rubbing himself through the fabric of his pajama pants. he can see your fingers moving on your clit, the wetness glistening between your legs. he’s practically falling apart, his cock straining painfully against his waistband. “you’re so... why are you doing that? just to make me..."
“you love seeing me touch myself like this, don’t you michael?” you question. sliding two fingers inside yourself, moaning louder this time. your legs are shaking slightly as you finger yourself right in front of him. he can see every detail—the way your panties stretch around your fingers,the wet sounds, and how red and swollen you're getting.
"pull your panties aside," michael pleads, his voice trembling with need. he’s completely unhinged now, his hand moving frantically inside his pants as he watches you touch yourself through your soaked underwear. the moonlight illuminating your spread legs is driving him absolutely wild “i need to see..."
you slowly hook your fingers into the side of your panties, pulling the fabric aside to reveal your slick, swollen pussy to michael’s desperate gaze. your fingers immediately return to their previous position, sliding easily in and out of your entrance as you finger yourself slowly. "like this?" you tease, your voice breathy with pleasure.
michael lets out an actual whimper at the sight of your bare pussy being fingered right there in front of him. his pajama pants are completely tented now, his boxers soaked through with pre-cum as he furiously jacking himself off through them. "spread yourself wider.”
you use your free hand to spread your pussy lips open, giving michael an unobstructed view of your fingers pumping in and out of your hole. the wet sounds of your self-fucking fill the air, along with Michael's frantic pants and muffled grunts as he jerks himself off furiously through his pants.
"you know, michael," you moan softly, watching your fingers disappear inside yourself repeatedly, "you look so good jerking off like that." your voice drips with encouragement, watching his desperate hand move faster and faster inside his pajama pants. the sight of his hard cock straining against the fabric makes you curl your fingers inside yourself. “such a good boy... fucking yourself while watching me..."
"fuck, fuck, fuck..." michael chants under his breath, his hand moving so fast it's a blur inside his pants. your dirty words are pushing him to the edge of insanity. "you like seeing me jerk off? you like knowing i’m getting off on watching you finger yourself?"
"i’ve never seen anyone jerk off while watching me before," you admit breathlessly, your fingers picking up speed as you fuck yourself slowly but deeply. michael’s eyes are locked on your hand buried in your pussy, his own movements becoming more frantic and sloppy inside his pants.
suddenly, at your words, confidence overcame michael. "i wanna pull my cock out and jerk off right in front of you," michael confesses, his voice breaking with desperation, “i wanna come all over your pussy while you finger yourself. i wanna push your legs back and fuck you so hard..."
"i wanna spread your legs wide open and eat your pussy while you touch yourself," he continues, his hand moving even faster inside his pants. "i wanna suck on your fingers that are inside you right now. i wanna fucking taste you..."
"holy shit," you whisper, your fingers freezing inside your pussy as michael’s dirty confessions keep spilling out. you’ve never heard him like this before—so utterly unhinged and specific in his dirty talk. it turns you on so much that you actually praise him for it.
"you like that i’m getting specific, huh?" michael pants, his face contorting with lust as he realizes you're enjoying his dirty talk. he decides to keep pushing your buttons, getting even more explicit. "you wanna know what else i wanna do to you? really specific stuff?"
"tell me..." you bite your lip, your fingers starting to move again slowly inside yourself as you encourage michael to keep talking "tell me all the really specific things you wanna do to me right now." your voice is soft but demanding, wanting him to lose even more control.
"i wanna lick your clit in slow circles," michael begins, his voice dripping with saliva at the thought. "i wanna suck it into my mouth and flick it rapidly with my tongue. i wanna push two fingers inside you while eating you out - curling them upwards to hit that special spot inside."
"holy fuck..." you gasp, your fingers curling inside yourself as michael describes eating you out in such a detailed and skilled manner. you’re shocked that he knows so much about pleasuring a woman, but at the same time, you're getting incredibly close to coming just from listening to him.
"i wanna add a third finger and scissor them inside you," michael continues, his hand a blur inside his pants as he describes fingering you expertly. i wanna push my tongue deep inside your pussy and lick upwards, hitting your g-spot over and over again. and when you're right on the edge, i wanna..."
"...i wanna suck your clit hard until you scream and come all over my face," michael gets out his words, his voice ragged and desperate. your body trembles at his dirty knowledge, your walls clenching around your fingers at his explicit descriptions. you’re getting so close, your orgasm hovering just out of reach as he continues to talk dirty through your window. and when you come..."
"you know what?" you interrupt michael, trying to regain some control over the situation despite being so turned on. your fingers continue moving inside yourself, but your tone becomes more commanding. "you talk a big game for someone who's just jerking off through his pants."
"i’ve done my research," michael pants, not slowing down his frantic hand movements for a second. "i’ve watched videos, read stories, practiced on myself... i know exactly how to make a girl squirt, how to make her see stars." he’s being so unapologetically lewd and knowledgeable that it's clear he's thought about this extensively.
"i know where to put my fingers, how deep to go," michael continues, his voice low and confident. "i know how to eat pussy until a girl's legs shake. i know all the spots—the clit, the g-spot, even that little spot inside that makes girls scream."
"you sound like an expert, michael," you tease, a slow smirk forming on your lips despite the heat building in your body. “but you're all talk right now. still jerking off through your pants like a desperate virgin." you watch him carefully, trying to hide the way your own walls are clenching at his lewd confidence.
"all those videos, those stories, that research... i did it all because of you," michael voice breaks with vulnerability, his earlier confidence completely shattered. “i watched them imagining it was you moaning. i practiced techniques on my own body, thinking about how good it would feel to make YOU feel good." he looks completely broken open now, emotionally naked.
your breath catches in your throat, your fingers stuttering inside you at his confession. your walls clench hard around your digits as his words hit you - he's been fantasizing about your pussy, your moans, and you squirting. the tension builds dangerously low in your belly, your clit throbbing hard as he keeps talking. “every technique, every spot..."
every fucking thing i know is for YOU." just as he finishes his confession, your body finally gives in. you moan "michael!" loudly as you climax, your fingers buried deep inside you. the phone slips from your shaking hand, clattering to the chair as muffled moans escape your lips.
"oh my god, are you... are you coming?" michael’s voice is shocked and amazed as he hears your muffled moans and the sound of the phone dropping. his own hand starts moving faster inside his pants at the realization that his dirty talk just made you cum. “fuck, wait..."
as he stands up, his pants drop to the floor, revealing his large, hard cock standing at attention. it’s big—long and thick, pre-cum glistening at the tip as he starts to stroke himself rapidly. "k-keep going, i need you to cum with me."
despite having just reached orgasm, your body trembles violently. your hand unconsciously moves back to your clit, your fingers working through the aftershocks as you try to stay composed. but you're too deep in sensation. your face is flushed, your lips parted as you try to swallow your moans. "f-fuck, michael..." your lips form the word silently.
"you don't stop, do you?" michael groans, stroking his thick cock faster as he watches you through the window with hungry eyes. "look at you, touching yourself right after coming... good girl." his voice drops low, commanding. “don’t you dare stop—keep fingering yourself while stroke myself, mama.”
“it feels too damn good baby.” you moan out, facial expression displaying ecstasy as your head was thrown back against the chair. “since you know it all… tell me how to squirt.” you demanded, biting your lip at the intense pleasure coursing through your body.
"first, you gotta relax," michael explains, his cock twitching at the anticipation. "stop fighting it. let yourself feel everything." his voice grows deeper, more authoritative. "second, you need to put your fingers inside yourself... and not just the first few—get deeper." his hand starts moving again. “you feel that spot on your front wall?"
you nod your head at his words, doing exactly what he says. "yeah, the one that makes you feel like you gotta pee—don't worry, that's your g-spot." michael’s breathing grows heavier as he imagines your fingers pressing against that sensitive spot. “now, curl your fingers like you're making a 'come here' motion."
you follow his instructions, your fingers sliding deep inside yourself. you curl them up, pressing against that spot that makes your eyes roll back slightly. a soft moan escapes your lips as you start to move them in and out slowly. “m-michael... it feels weird..." you whisper into the phone.
"perfect, keep doing that," michael praises, his own hand flying over his length as he watches your silhouette through the window. “now, add some pressure with your palm against your clit. rub it in circles while you finger your g-spot." his voice is strained with desire.
as you add pressure to your clit, a jolt of pleasure shoots through your body. your legs start to shake slightly as you continue to finger yourself deeply. "oh my god... michael, something's happening..." you whimper into the phone, your breaths growing quicker.
"you’re doing so good... keep going... your fingers are hitting that spot perfectly..." michael’s voice is a mix of instructions and his own moans. he’s close, his hand moving faster as he watches you. "spread your legs wider... yeah like that... now fuck yourself deeper on those fingers."
"ahh... it feels like... like i might... wet myself..." your face contorts with effort and intense pleasure as you follow his instructions perfectly. "m-michael... what's happening?" your body tenses, the sensation building rapidly toward a peak unlike anything you've felt before.
"feel that building pressure? like your bladder's about to burst?" michael whimpers, his cock throbbing hard as he watches your legs spread wider. "don’t fight it—that's the squirt building. keep rubbing your clit... faster... harder... and curl those fingers harder on that spot." he moans loudly, his hips jerking forward.
"i’m... i’m almost there, michael—" your moans get louder, needier, your body shaking violently as you curl your fingers against that spongy spot while your palm grinds your clit. "it’s building so much... i can't... i can't hold it back..." your walls clench around your fingers, your thighs pressing together with desperate tension.
"you’re gonna squirt, baby... just keep doing what you're doing." michael’s voice is hoarse with lust as he watches your body tense up. his own body is shaking with the need to cum as he jerks himself off faster. "put more pressure on your clit..."
"fuck!" you whimper as your body suddenly gives in, hot liquid gushing out of you as you squirt hard, soaking your hand and the chair. at the exact same moment, michael groans loudly, his cock exploding as he cums hard, cum splattering everywhere. the synchronization is perfect—your climax and his orgasm hitting at the same time. “shit!"
"no no no, keep going! don’t stop!" michael nearly demands through the phone, his hand still moving furiously over his cum-covered cock as he watches your body convulse with pleasure. “keep squirting, mama! keep those fingers inside you and keep that beautiful wetness flowing!”
"you got more in you, i know you do—i can see you still twitching, still squirting a little bit..." michael whines, stroking himself through the cum, his voice desperate. "don’t stop now, you just got started—keep rubbing that clit, keep curling those fingers. let it all out, mama, every fucking drop."
another powerful orgasm hits her, this one even more intense than the first. she covers her mouth to stifle the scream, her body arching back as she squirts again, the liquid soaking into her clothes and running down her legs. tears stream down her face from the overwhelming pleasure.
"shh, shh, easy now... you did so good..." michaels voice softens as he watches you break down in intense pleasure, his own hand slowing to gentle strokes as he catches his breath. "just breathe through it, mama... let the aftershocks run their course."
michael watches through the window as your body shudders uncontrollably, your fingers still moving in slow circles on your sensitive clit. your whole body trembles with aftershocks, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks as soft whimpers escape your lips. "that’s it, keep rubbing gently... don't stop now, you're still twitching so pretty for me..."
michael hand moves in slow, deliberate strokes as he watches you fall apart beautifully. his voice is a soothing murmur. "look at you, shaking like that... you took it so well, mama. just keep those fingers moving nice and slow now. feel every little bit, baby.
"m-michael... it's so... so sensitive..." your voice is shaky as you speak through your tears, your fingers slowing to gentle brushes against your clit. “i can still feel it pulsing... oh god, it's like it's never gonna stop..."
"you asked for it, mama... you wanted me to make you squirt like this... and fuck, look at you—you're doing it again." michael’s voice drops lower as he watches another small squirting orgasm hit you unexpectedly. "keep talking, keep rubbing..."
"just let go, baby... feel it all over your sensitive little pussy... and then squeeze those fingers together and squirt all over your chair for me... while i fucking cum all over myself just watching you." michael’s voice is thick with desire as he watches you squirm and whimper.
your body arches sharply as another powerful squirt hits you, liquid gushing out and soaking your chair once more. at the exact same moment, michael’s legs go weak, falling back in his seat, arching his back, a loud groan escaping him as he cums again, thick ropes of cum shooting out onto his stomach.
"...you... fuck..." michael breathes heavily into the phone, his chest heaving as he tries to recover from the intense orgasm. he can hear your heavy breathing on the other end, knowing you're equally exhausted and sensitive. "...did i break you, mama?"
"mm... i think you did..." your voice is weak and breathless, your fingers finally still but still resting against your dripping, sensitive pussy. your whole body feels like jelly, every nerve ending singing with aftershocks. "michael... i.. i just... squirted so much...i’m completely soaked..." you whimper softly.
"yeah... me too... i’m a fucking mess right now..." michael’s voice is hoarse, trying to regain some semblance of normal conversation. "we’re both covered... i’m covered in... well... you know." he pauses, struggling to find words. “may—maybe we should both go get cleaned up."
you chuckle softly, your voice tired but playful. “goodnight, michael... i think i’ll be sleeping very peacefully tonight... thanks for... helping me out with that." you pause, then add with a small smile, “yeah... maybe i’ll call you by accident more often."
michael smiles to himself, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the filthy things that just happened. "yeah... maybe you will." he pauses, his voice softening. “sweet dreams, mama. sleep well... you earned it tonight." your voice is barely a whisper. "goodnight, michael." you hear him exhale before the line goes dead.
synopsis: You finally get to go to the movies with your boyfriend Michael. Too bad you don't remember anything; you were too busy doing him instead.
warnings: sub!michael jackson, sub!reader, fluff, they're both so shy, crack/comedy, SMUT, porn with minimal plot I think, he calls you mama, not proofread bc im at work!
a/n: aaaaannddd here she is!! isn't she pretty. yeah so we'll make do with her until i get started on the other fics i'm cooking.
“Okay, I’ll be here in twenty. Will you open the door for me?”
On the other side of the line, you struggle with keeping the phone against your ear and shoulder while applying the last touches of your makeup.
“Yes! My dad’s not here, so I’ll come down. Twenty you said? Can you make it thirty?"
Michael’s muffled giggle makes you smile, and you hear him sigh a bit before answering.
“Yeah, I can make it thirty. And that’s a good thing, that your dad’s not here I mean. Not that I don't like him, but it would've been awkward, you know?”
“I know, don’t worry. Picking up your producer’s daughter is never easy, yes?”
“Not that I would know of.”
You laugh a bit and almost mess up your lip liner, and so you excuse yourself before cutting the line.
Approximately thirty-two minutes later, and after you’ve picked at invisible threads on your outfit and reapplied your perfume three times, your doorbell rings loudly amidst the carefully curated ambiance that your favorite jazz album brought. You look in the mirror once last time, verifying your lipstick’s not smudged before tumbling down the stairs and to the door.
The first thing you see is not Michael, but a bouquet of pink, white, and red florals. Your breath catches in your throat, and absolute delight fills your voice when you speak.
“Michael!”
He peeks around the imposing bouquet, a shy yet proud smile plastered on his face.
“Surprise surprise?”
You feel your cheeks heat as you take the bouquet from his hands and examine it. Your favorites.
Michael clears his throat a bit, and when you look up at him his gaze is fixated on the ground, where you find his foot mindlessly kicking tiny rocks.
“I hope you like thriller movies.”
You wince a bit at that, but compose your face in a fraction of a second. You can’t ruin this night with your scaredy cat tendencies.
“As long as they’re not too scary.”
Michael takes your hand with a tiny scoff, and you have no time to worry about your probably clammy hands as he guides you to his red Chevrolet convertible.
In about half an hour –the time spent sharing fun facts about your favorite movies– you arrive at the drive-in theater.
As Michael parks, you start feeling the thrill of the situation you’re in. Alone (well mostly) with your boyfriend of three months now. Being the daughter of Quincy Jones, you and Michael didn’t often have one on one time ever since your dad found out about your relationship.
You spent time at the studio, at your house when his siblings were around, at his when your dad worked from home. But today was different. Today was important, at least you hoped it would be, or the two hours you spent in the shower getting ready would’ve meant nothing.
“So…what’s the name of that thriller, Michael?”
“Hum, I believe it’s–”
His words were cut by the shattering sound of lightning, and the enormous white screen in front of the car line up lit up. A shudder ran through your spine at the sight of a cat crawling in the woods, the moonlight reflecting on its weirdly luminescent fur. Michael looked your way with a playful smile and put his arm behind your armrest.
“Something about Werecats” he murmured, then added “don’t worry, I’m not one of them.”
You smiled back at him and cozied against his side, the warmth of his jacket calming the chills on your arms. The movie went on too slow for your liking, or maybe it was because you weren’t particularly interested. No, your interest lied on something different. On the way Michael stopped breathing for a split second every time a jumpscare happened, for example. Or the way his long fingers scraped against the leather of the seats behind your head, and how he unconsciously leaned his head against your own.
His minty breath fawned over your cheek, and you smiled at the thought of him popping a mint or two before picking you up just in case. You should reward him for that, no?
“Michael” Your voice was barely above a whisper, and your eyes settled on the side of his face.
“Mhmm?” He turned his head your way, his eyes taking a second before settling on you. Your noses brushed against each other, and you felt your heart beat faster at the sight of the light blush adorning his face.
Your lips landed on his without a second thought, and his eyes widened in surprise. Before he could react, you retracted entirely, your own face burning up. You toyed with the coils of your hair as you peeked out your window. Why was the car next to you all fogged up and bouncing so much?
“Baby…?”
You hummed his way, not turning your head towards him. Embarrassment consumed you whole, maybe I read the situation wrong, maybe he didn’t plan on doing anything tonight, you thought. After all, he hadn’t kissed you back.
“Mama, please, look at me.” His hand came up to your chin, slowly guiding your head towards him. Before your eyes met his, his lips molded against your own again, delicate as ever. Sliding and gliding, he ached to taste you on his tongue, and so he probed his tongue against your bottom lip, pleading for entrance. When you did open your lips, he slid in timidly and carefully, one of his hands gripping the nape of your hair and the other caging your shoulders to bring you closer.
You melted into his kiss, previous protests being swept under his tongue, the movie long forgotten. Michael's hand around your shoulder was slightly trembling, giving away his nervousness. But you weren’t any better, your own hands slotted awkwardly against his torso, scared of breaking the precious bubble the two of you were cocooned in.
But Michael’s sweet caresses couldn't hide his desire, and his hand involuntarily tugged at your hair when he heard you whimper. His eyes opened at that, wide and apologetic, and he made for space between you.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to–”
“It’s fine!” you blabbered back at him, your hands waving into the air and his cheeks stained so red it matched your faded lipstick.
Silence fell upon you two for a second, Michael’s head tipped down while you stared at the ceiling like it was art, the both of you lost in thought.
“I didn’t mean to…tug. M’sorry.” he peeked at you through his lashes, doe eyes full of regret for something you didn’t mind that much.
Your timid gaze landed on him again, on his slouched shoulders and trembling hands, and you realized that if you didn’t act now, the important part of the night wouldn’t happen tonight. And you didn’t know when else it would happen, and if you were patient enough to wait for a new opportunity to reveal itself.
With a newfound confidence, you switched around in your seat, the space wide enough for movement, and your hands found leverage on his shoulders to prop you onto his thighs.
Michael’s breath stopped for a second too long, the warmth of your body against him reigniting the dormant flame of desire he nursed inside of him for you and you only.
“Do you want to Mikey?” you asked in a whisper, your eyes glued to Michael’s soft features.
He snapped out of his bubble, question and poorly concealed lust rising in his irises.
“Want to…?”
You huffed out a breath, a shy smile tugging at your lips “Y’know…do it.”
Flames burst below Michael’s skin, radiating off of him in waves as his cheeks tinted red. His hips involuntarily bucked up into you in an attempt to readjust himself, and the motion prompted you to bite the corner of your lip, eyes glassed over.
“I-I mean if you want to? Yes, well yes. Are you sure?”
“It’s not the first time angel face.”
“But it sure is the first time in a while” his usual teasing smirk returned, although bashful “It has been what? A month or two?”
“Five weeks” you playfully swatted at his shoulder. “How could you not take care of your lady for so long?”
A bubbly laugh erupted from deep within, his amused eyes trained on your full lips as his hands (not so shy anymore) came to circle your waist.
“M’sorry mi lady” a chaste kiss landed quickly on your lips “will you forgive me?”
“I’ll see” another kiss, your own now, placed carefully on his cheek.
He smiled again, feeling his body being transported in a dream-like state, the tight space of the car forgotten just like the movie playing on the big screen.
“Yeah? What if I do…this?” his hands slowly slid down to grab ever so softly at your ass, kneading the tissue-clad skin.
Your laugh was muffled by his jacket as you instinctively arched against him, your front pressed to his.
“Are you doing this for my forgiveness or your pleasure?”
He chuckled, his face burrowing against your neck “Both” he sighed, relaxing the tiniest bit more. “Okay okay, what if I do this instead?”
His right hand moved lower this time, his long and slender fingers brushing against your clothed heat in a motion so soft you felt like you had imagined it. But the shudder that ran up your spine was proof enough of how real it was.
You paused a bit before answering “...I like that.”
He smiled against your neck, laying a sweet kiss there. “Yeah?”
The same finger, now growing bolder, slid against your cunt more assertively, and you feared he might just feel your wetness through your panties and skirt.
A soft moan escaped your lips as you whispered “Yes” again, your head falling backward.
At the sound, Michael stopped his ministrations on your neck to look at you. His fingers were now lightly massaging your heat with a dexterity that left you craving for more, your body growing hotter and hotter.
Michael’s gaze was glued to your face, his lips slightly parted and his eyes glassed over and almost crossed with how focused he was on you, his muse, his baby.
“Am I making you feel good mama?” he swiftly pushed your panties to the side, his fingers now rubbing against your wetness agonizingly slow.
“Y-yeah…” you hiccuped, your hips moving against your will, wishing he would do more.
“...But?” he felt the way your sentence trailed off, his big eyes fixated on the plane of your neck.
“Wan’ more” you whined, and he smiled shyly, his own dick twitching inside his briefs.
He went along with your command, sliding one finger inside your weeping cunt and he almost moaned at how hot and wet you were. He started pumping his finger inside you, smiling when he felt you writhing on top of him, wanting more again, always more.
“I hope I’m doing a good job” he murmured.
“W-What’s that?”
“You’re this wet for me? All for me?” when you didn’t answer, too busy rocking your hips against his hand, his brows furrowed, a needy look etching itself onto his features. “Look at me…”
And you did, with difficulty. The sight before you made you gush, and you whined again, wishing you had him inside you. Not just his finger, all of him. In fact, you wished he could live inside your skin.
Without much thought, you lunged forward and captured his lips into a messy kiss, too much tongue and teeth, yet he moaned against you, pumping his finger harder inside you.
Your hands started fumbling with his belt, and your walls squeezed when you heard Michael whimper when you lost the cadence of the kiss.
“Want you inside me, now.”
He nodded, frantic. “Yes, yes wanna be inside you” his finger slid out of you as you freed his cock from its confines, his shadowed tip leaky with precum.
He shuddered when you aligned him with your entrance, his hips bucking up again, letting the tip in before you were ready.
“Sorry! Sorry, oh my God I’m sorry” he went on rambling, yet his hips bucked up again at your half-pain half-pleasure wince.
You finally began sinking into him, taking on the slight pain as you couldn’t bear to be slow anymore. Once fully seated, all your strength dissolved and you dragged out a long moan, your form slumping against him.
You almost started rocking your hips against his own, but was cut short in your motion as a strident scream ripped through the air. You yelped, jumping just the slightest bit, and Michael’s laugh was muffled by the moan that followed.
Michael looked crazed, electric with arousal. Seeing you nuzzle your nose against his sweaty neck, all his resolve to go at your pace disappeared, his hips starting to buck against your own, setting a quick and occasionally deep pace he knew you enjoyed as much as him.
“Oh–Mikey, mikey, please…” you kept mumbling against his skin, your eyes sliding over the fogged up windows.
Michael was lost in the beauty of it all: your lewd pleas, the musky air, the car’s movements, the movie’s muffled soundtrack. Whimpers escaped him before he could think about it, his hips rolling against your own, his pubic bone grazing and grinding against your swollen clit.
You were close, your cunt squeezing him in spasms you couldn’t control, his name rolling off your tongue like a chant you had spent years learning. You felt his hands everywhere at once; squeezing your hip, caressing your back. And his lips, sucking on your ear, murmuring sweet nothings, easing you into bliss.
When the knot in your stomach finally snapped, you feared the whole parking lot heard you. Michael definitely did, his own moan following suit as he thrust up in you with more force than he had before, so deep you swore you could feel him in your belly.
Flashing thunder blurred his vision as he shot his hot, creamy release into your overworked pussy. His hands trailed up and down your body, trying to ground himself into reality.
This is real, she’s with me, she’s mine.
I’m hers.
“Are you okay baby?” he finally asked, his voice as soft as a feather and as sweet as honey.
You hummed, too shy to look him in the eyes. When he lightly pinched your hip, clearly seeking a vocal answer, you squeaked out a yes! he found particularly endearing.
“The movie wasn’t so scary after all,” you giggled, your finger tracing a tiny heart against his chest, “I didn’t even notice the monsters”.
Michael sighed, a shy yet smug smirk decorating his features. He placed a loving kiss on your forehead, and mumbled with his lips against your hair “That’s because I’m more thrilling than they are.”
