ashore | jjk (m)
Summary: An empty clearing. Quiet, tiny waves. A broken heart, a seething chest, love unbridled. And lurking in the water, him and you.
➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: siren au; strangers/friends to lovers kinda; angst, smidge of fluff, smuuuuuut; oneshot ➵ warnings: heartache, unrequited love (but not really); flashbacks, coping, lake talk, yearning, impossible love, arranged marriage (oc is married off and can't be with jk), oc is also quite cold, manipulation, siren powers, well...death implied but nothing too hardcore (siren au yk 🤷♀️ ), drowning, panic, angstttt, SMUUUUUT, cheating but not on each other, they're both naked basically the entire time; explicit sexual content: oral (f. rec.), teasing, cockwarming, spanking, licking, biting, lowkey aggressive touches from both sides, kissing, sex by the lake, harddd sex, dom!jk, big dick!jk obv, manhandling, jk fcks his frustration into her, multiple positions; spot the siren hints hehe; andddd yes the ending… if there's more, i will add them later - or just lmk. ➵ word count: 13.9k ➵ a/n: jinshi jk. kinda. had a dream of him a while ago and decided to write it down, all stephenie meyer style <3 it's been a while, but i hope you guys enjoy and in case my writing deteriorated in those last months... shhhhh 🤫 other than that, happy festa y'all!!
TAGLIST | MASTERLIST
At a place as deserted as this, the quietest of sounds may disrupt one’s peace of mind.
The breeze is almost silent. It doesn’t move the trees; the leaves don’t rustle.
But Jungkook feels its touch along his neck and the emerging goosebumps with it. As the sun descends and the chill returns into the late evening air, the water stops feeling warm, too.
Today’s summer noon and afternoon were perfectly seething, much to the forest’s standard. Jungkook has only ever known mild to humid temperatures. Subzero is a phenomenon he’s ever heard, dreamed of. Ironic for him to be born and remain at a spot that never scratched the itch for him.
But this is the best he can do for himself. He might not be too fond of the heat, but he likes the water. That’s why he hand-built his cottage at the shore of this lake; added a porch and a wooden fence, overlooking the clearing, just far enough to see the other side.
It’s peculiar, the shape of the lake.
Long, but not quite too wide. Too large and deep for a pond, but almost too small to really be a lake. Whenever Jungkook leans on his fence, he can spot deers sometimes, peeking through the forest but never daring to walk out to the water. They seem to fear it, and he understands.
The clearing is foggy, empty; just what Jungkook desires but what everyone and everything remains wary of. But he thinks it’s pretty. And just now, the quietude is all he needs.
He’s stopped dreaming of winters and the snow. He’s gotten used to the waves around him. Because there’s a big enough storm in his mind, too cold and uncomfortable to wish for a white wonderland.
Jungkook sighs. His body has started feeling weird; the summer tinted his skin a darker golden and his shoulders are already a slight, burnt red. The heat spread throughout the past hours, warmed up the nerves in his body.
Despite the tremble, however, that the barely-there wind causes, he refuses to leave the lake just yet. His eyes remain closed for a bit longer, and he leans back, his long, black hair and ears soon submerged.
The world is even quieter down here. The twitter of the birds ceases, their song already faded; the dull, light waves overtake. Such a peaceful sound, yet not tranquil enough to calm the tension in his muscles and his heart. The riot consistently persists.
Did he expect it not to? Truth be told, yes, in fact, he did. Because only a couple moons ago, harmony was a constant. The water would wash away his troubles; as his limbs floated, he’d feel that this was the closest he’d ever come to weightlessness.
But back then, he had you.
Perhaps this is deliberate torture. A search for reprieve and satisfaction in something he should’ve known would only drag his heart further into the pit of his stomach. He should’ve known that there’s no true cure. Your absence will do nothing but pull him farther from redemption.
It’s not just the pain itself slicing up pieces of himself. But the existence of such slices at all; once his organ is left in the fragments he’s counting on remaining, he fears he might lose his way back to himself, too.
But somewhere inside, he reckons he’s doing this on full purpose.
Remembering you, basking in what was. When you’d meet him at the house on the other side of the shore, secluded from the rest of the villages and the town you resided in. Right what he’ll never step foot into again; where your high class family never found him in the past.
The shabby boy who, alone most of his life, assumed he’d done well for himself after all; perhaps not a villa in town, but a cottage at a lake. Must be a good enough life, he thought. Much until he realised he wasn’t nearly as good as he thought he was. Or, at least, as much as he needed to be for the one it mattered to.
Of course he wasn’t. In hindsight…
When he first met you at a farm near the forest, you were still just nineteen, and he was already twenty-two, slaving away, far from the only extended family he could ever call his. He remembers you wandering the hills and fields with friends of yours.
How the two of you noticed each other at that very farm, and would do more often from then on. You would, as you’d disclose one day, flee the small town life to find him there; and when he quit the work, he’d take you to other hidden places.
In that lonely and fleeting reality of his that he’d call life, seeing you standing among smileless faces was a remedy. You had something mystical, something otherworldly about you. Something he couldn’t force himself away from.
Maybe he should’ve told you earlier. Word for word, just that, when he met you in parks far from your home or when you snuck to his cottage quite a walk into the woods. He should’ve told you how quickly he was handing himself to you.
It was a dangerous game; getting to know you came with a loss of his sanity. And the more time passed, the more you consumed him. Bit by bit, gnawing away at his soul.
An amusing picture, you eating away at him, more so each time you’d tell him how unique, beautiful, everglowing you considered this very soul of his. The most gorgeous you’d ever seen.
Told him how anybody with “such a piece veiled in their body should consider themselves lucky.”
Your eyes were gentle, sparkly when you warned him of the darkness in the world, how he’d have to shield himself to protect the heart sent from Heaven, beating in his chest.
People like to tear it out, you said.
Amusing. Quiet foreshadowing, perhaps. With what he knows now, your words feel like mock to him.
He should’ve asked you more questions on what you had on your mind back then. Told you that he’d give you his soul if you just asked, and that he trusted you to not rip it out just like that.
But you were too enchanting to even commit his thoughts to. He wanted you with every piece of his being, but he was scared of losing you, too.
For the longest time, he couldn’t glance into the fortress your mind was. If he’d peered past your ever-so-impenetrable, obscure eyes and seen the colours you later promised he spread through you, he would’ve wrapped himself around you. Hidden you away.
Whenever you decided to walk into the cottage in the mornings, breathing through noon, sometimes failing to remember the time and returning home by sundown – he should’ve kissed you all these moments he bid you goodbye.
And as years passed and your laughs echoed across the lake, or you stirred the pot in the kitchen, singing a gentle, enchanting tune as he chopped the vegetables. When you’d watch him watch you, talking about your days and nights, the moon and the stars.
Staring out at the lake for minutes and hours until you broke the comforting silence with, "I will never unlove this lake of yours. And this cottage. Like a pretty wreck at a shore. Sailor Kook."
He'd chuckle.
But he’d never touch you. Never push his too-transparent emotions onto you.
That is, until you began revealing your parents’ thoughts to him, growing by the day. Barely a year ago – when you were just twenty-four years old, like a tender bird, but already past the age of marriage. It was a desperate attempt to make him understand, as he knows now.
When you’d admit that they were bringing the feared talk to the table, and when his heart sunk to the ground of the lake that his cottage stood above – that’s when he knew he couldn’t veil what was truer than anything he’d ever known.
“They are determined,” you said most of the time, smiling, supposedly joyful. Your gaze drifted down to fix your dress as you basked in the previous summer, facing the sun. “To find me a proper man. One who’ll give me more than I could ever want.”
It was ridiculous to hear, since Jungkook, in his lovesick mind, had long convinced himself, more often than he cared to admit, that he could promise the same.
Sometimes he thought that you had, too. Because your voice quietened, though he couldn’t at all tell what you were thinking. Most of the time you were carefree, confident, almost whimsical. Almost because you concealed your thoughts. Almost because there was a mystery to you, always.
And you were kind. Kind, but so sly, too.
Focused on yourself more than anyone. Eloquent and so, so unbothered – more than he enjoyed, but something that drew him in either way. He saw you with your eyebrows all relaxed, and you, in turn, never saw the absolute terror spreading across Jungkook’s face.
The things you said cut him.
Deep enough for his heart to split open, releasing what he was always, consistently longing to say. The yearning in his voice was so pure and unfiltered that he knew you understood when he blurted—
“I’m in love with you.”
You looked up. “Jungkook.”
“I’m in love with you,” he hastily repeated. “You can’t let this happen.”
Jungkook knew he had to. You weren’t going to marry him — your parents would drag you away, make his life hell. He knew. He knew so well, but he had to try.
You tilted your head; your hair fell to the side, onto your legs as you looked up at him with hooded, hazy eyes. What were you thinking? What did this mean? Did you care at all?
He attempted again, “Do you want that to happen?”
You looked for a little longer. Then uprighted your body, hands in your lap, gaze straightforward to observe the blue, light waves. Then, you said, “No. But that’s how it is.”
“What do you want?”
“You know me too well. You should know this, too.”
The impatience grew. His hands twitched; he was urging to reach out for you, but he kept his hands to himself, getting a grip; but still, a quiet shaky voice pleaded, “But I need you to say it.”
He watched as you licked your lips, the tongue running along the seam. When your eyes met his, he swore he could hear the crack beneath his ribcage. He could already guess what you’d say before you did.
“I’ve always wanted you.” There was no reason to hurt. He should’ve cheered. But the context in which you spoke your confession was jarring; and your gaze told him what he needed to know. “But I can’t fight it. What do you want me to do?”
You wouldn’t allow yourself to break the way he did. He knew your upbringing wasn’t easy, that you had an incredibly hardened shell, and that you had learned to develop your power over others, so your attachment to them wouldn’t overpower you.
But as love goes, he thought he was special. He always had. So he asked, “Does it not bother you at all?”
“If I…” you started, a hand sliding over to his fingers. You intertwined them with yours. “...Let it bother me, I will never grow out of how it feels.”
Jungkook’s chest tightened. He put a hand to his clavicle, rubbing, fingers slowly drifting to his heart to press against the white fabric. The thumps wouldn’t relax immediately, and he thought he needed much more than a moment to find the steady rhythm from before.
Then again, the consistent pendulum he was used to hearing during lonely nights unexceptionally escalated to much crazier chaos when you were around. So there was no helping him anyway.
But right now… he felt an uncomfortable flood of guilt.
Not because he was trying to drag you out of something you couldn’t escape. But because, in some way, he didn’t want you to grow out of how you felt for him.
He swore that your joy was what kept the time moving, and what, occasionally, froze it, too. But right now, as you sat next to him, pulling your legs to your body, he waited for you to catch the same lovesickness he had been suffering for so long.
Your poker face didn’t do. He needed you to break with him. To stay within this isolated room that inhabited nothing but the two of you, filled with the scent of longing and sorrow.
It was a thoroughly selfish thought; that you weren’t supposed to be happy if that contentment didn’t include him.
So he insisted, “You’ll have to try. To get out of this.” He turned properly to look at you, freeing his fingers from your grip to catch your wrist instead. You breathed in sharply, eyes flashing down to his knuckles. They remained as if locked as he whispered, “I don’t know how to possibly lose you.”
Whatever he was expecting from you, you weren’t going to budge. Not in your decision, at least — he knew that, no matter your feelings for him, you wouldn’t risk any additional drama for him. You weren’t going to fight.
“We’d have to live with it,” you said.
The grip tightened.
“And become all weak without the love we really want,” he argued, “no… love is stronger than grief. I’d rather fight than see you in everything for the rest of my life.”
Love is stronger than grief…
There was no possible description for the way your expression changed, but Jungkook was so convinced, so sure that he saw your eyes widen for the briefest bit. A flash of a flicker, he thought he saw; an epiphany that lasted a heartbeat. It was gone the second he blinked again.
You had to have understood. You played the biggest role in this game; he needed you on his side. If you were going to stick with him, he needed you to understand the depths of his feelings. And he needed that epiphany, so you could help him make this damn love prevail.
“I love you,” he then added, the words barely more than a gentle whisper. You gulped. “If you don’t, then you can do as you please. But if any part of you knows otherwise, then…”
He would’ve surely missed your sigh if the lake and the wind hadn’t been so still, as if holding their breath in his stead. Because his heart beat like an arhythmic drum, its pounding led and manipulated by your pondering eyes and your barely moving chest.
But the quiet release of the quick breath, and the transparency in your gaze when you eventually decided to meet his hankering orbs, were an answer clear enough to him. You could play your part well, veil the hunger in a way he never could; but even you weren’t made of steel.
You were bound to crack one day.
And when you did, a burst of something unnamable, so distinctive, brought Jungkook to his feet. His body jumped up of its own accord, hands moving by a stranger force, though entirely and perfectly synched with his soul nevertheless.
Nothing had ever felt this right.
The doubts dwindled. Even if just for the moments that his lips met yours, he was certain that your movements against his mouth and your fingers gently grazing his waist would suffice.
Out there, he thought, the world was transforming into a better one, a different reality; one where the lake still stood, the house resting atop of it, but the hurdles nonexistent. In this alternative to whatever he might face later, you were to stay.
Of course he hoped. You were kissing him back with unspoken confessions. You let him throw you onto the unmade bed. Let him peck your neck; like soft butterfly wings caressing your skin. Down your clavicles, pausing at your cleavage.
Determined fingers pulled down your sleeves, his tongue lapping and licking and tasting. His fingertips wandered between your legs, testing the waters, meeting a waterfall; his body sought your touch as it moved to the top, floating over yours.
Jungkook remembers the impatience best. Whenever the memories of you flood back, this is one of the statements of love he recalls easiest. The urgency. The flaming heart. How he rocked against you, all dressed still, trying to find relief just like that as his fingers drew out every whine with the fabric never gone.
And he didn’t stop until you mewled into his mouth.
Your heavy breathing prevented the words you attempted to form, but when he started plucking at the hem of your panties to remove them once and for all, your senses came back to life. Your hands rushed to his wrist, holding him back.
He still knows how you looked at him, knitted eyebrows, mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as you delivered a simple headshake and crushed him inside out. “This shouldn’t be,” you said, “if I end up with a child, it’ll ruin both of us. They’ll kill you.”
Jungkook didn’t care. And now, he wished they would. But he listened.
If he’d continued, he’d have ruined his worth entirely. There was no deserving you if he didn’t allow you the freedom. He tried to convince you otherwise.
He tried for so long. For a year, he waited for the drama to blow over. For him and you to ultimately realise that anything else would not make sense, and for you to admit just that.
But you didn’t. All you did was succumb to his kisses again. The fingers stayed diligent, the touches didn’t cease. He’d seek your skin, pull you in. Replaced what you longed for with his mouth instead.
Between laughter and passion, the sun rose and set, and Jungkook was content for now. The jokes you returned to and how you tilted your head when you looked at him; how you warned him of nightly strolls to find you in town or to find relief in the lake under the moonlight.
“There are creatures in the woods and in the water, I’ve heard,” you’d regularly repeat, joking, “If I can’t have you, they shouldn’t either.” He’d laugh.
Nothing you ever said brought him off his path to you. Perhaps, Jungkook reckons, it didn’t help with the amount of hope he harboured that you never much spoke of your parents at all after that one conversation a year before.
And he kept praying. Begging. That, along with you, they’d, too, recognise that their daughter already knew what true love meant. That it overshadowed success and reputation.
But.
Then you distanced yourself. Visited him more sporadically. When he was alone, he’d pace the rooms, fingers in the nape of his neck, eyes wandering out the window and along the shore. And when you did visit, you wouldn’t let him touch you again. Your lips were a line too thin for him to not worry.
“Hi—” he tried, but you only sighed.
You had to have arrived while he was gone in the forest. He hadn’t met you on the way; he was uncertain how he’d missed you, considering that sounds travel far when one’s mostly alone out there. But he couldn’t bother to think about it for too long.
Because as you leaned against the wall of his bedroom, looking up when he walked in, you declared the truth without sugarcoating it. Not even for his sake.
“I’m going to stop meeting you.”
Jungkook blinked; his heart dropped to his stomach. Arms suddenly limp and legs weak, he tried his best to speak, but the thick knot in his throat was a hurdle to the word trying to fall out.
He tried a sound; then a syllable. Eventually, a question, “What?”
You were as placid as he certainly wasn’t, answering, “I’ll be marrying Son Hayoon.”
Jungkook knew this guy, he thought, from his few strolls in town. His name wasn’t unknown — but Jungkook couldn’t quite conjure up a face at the moment. Like a stranger; that’s how it felt to him. What he did know was that the man was nowhere near anybody who could make you happy.
Not your type. Not your age. Not your satisfaction.
You were permitting your family to drown you.
Disbelief spread across his countenance; and your expression was impossible to crack.
He asked again, “What are you saying?”
You pushed yourself off the wall, a hand coming out of your crossed arms to rub your forehead. Then, you shrugged a shoulder, no filter, no comforting, “Jungkook… did you really — I don’t know, did you think we were going to talk each other into existence just by loving each other?”
“I thought we co–could fight—”
“Jungkook,” you reiterated, “this is beyond our control.”
“No.”
No stopping it — this time, he spoke before he could think. You sighed, averting his gaze when he crossed the room in two strides.
He reached for your hand resting on your chin, but you were reluctant. Licking his lips, he inched closer, telling you, “No. We can leave, just go somewhere else. We don’t need them, and you know you never have. We just need—”
You pulled your hand away. Small movement… but effective. Catastrophic, rather.
For another second, he only stared; and then, he tried again—
“Please.”
Your eyes flickered; but they weren’t as uncertain as his. In some sense, the sentiment behind them even looked like… pity. Jungkook hated it. Needed this to be over.
Was there any attempt left? He had to try.
He stepped closer, desperate enough to ignore the warning in your posture. His hand found your cheek, thumb trembling against your skin. Just once, terrified of an actual answer, he said, “Just tell me you don’t love me anymore.”
But the silence stretched — and that made matters worse. It held on for too long, enough for hope to surge through him. So he leaned in.
Maybe, he thought, if he kissed you, you’d remember. Maybe a touch would help you realise that there was no truly comforting future outside these walls.
He closed the distance, eyes falling shut; his lips barely brushed yours. And when you turned your head, he thought you were ready for him — but your intentions didn’t lie in reciprocation.
The movement wasn’t harsh or angry or too sudden. Almost gentle, even. Which somehow worsened the pain.
The kiss landed at the corner of your mouth and died there. Jungkook was frozen, something in him cracking badly — not yet all at once, not like a glass falling to smithereens. But rather quietly, patiently, like a slow death.
“Don’t do this,” he voiced. What else could he do now? Nothing was left.
But… but you had already done it, right? Because you stepped back. Once, twice, further away. When you neared the door, Jungkook didn't think there had ever been such a space between the two of you.
Yet it kept growing. And for the first time since Jungkook had known you, he realised that love wasn’t always a definite, final emotion human beings could grasp. For him, it was something present yet still lost.
You stopped at the door, a hand on the frame. You restated, like a cruel reminder, “It is just. Beyond our control.”
No. It isn’t.
He remembers wanting to say it; remembers this clawing at his throat.
Nothing had ever been out of his or your control ever before — not any storm. Not the winters cooling the lake. Not the endless expectations of a village too small to dream in.
But you were still surrendering so quickly.
Nothing was ever out of his control but you. You slipped through his fingers, moving off the ground and out of the forest without certain and clear heartbreak in your eyes. You didn’t look as torn apart as he felt… but rather, resigned.
You had already chosen your future, and you’d only come to inform him.
He remembers staring at the empty doorway long after you’d left. Waiting for you to come back, to realise your mistake… but you didn’t.
You didn’t.
The house and the doorway dissolve. A sound cuts through the memory of the past.
The soft sloshing and gurgling sound of the water stirs his chest. It’s not the usual lapping of the waves as they hit the near shore, but an intentional ripple, caused by a close existence rather than the breeze or nature.
It’s sudden. This is Jungkook’s quiet and unmoving oasis. The fish can’t be heard, and even the birds save from some hooting owls deep in the nights are silent. But the moon hasn’t yet fully emerged. And remaining animals do not often end their days here except for thirsty ravens, perhaps.
So when he snaps his head around to the point of near-whiplash, he isn’t hunting for a danger in the wild, but for an intruder. But, as his eyes soon detect, the only other presence lingering turns out to be both.
A breath falls out of Jungkook’s gaping mouth, almost akin to a surprised, accidental sound as he detects a face with the backdrop of nothing but the dark green forest. Your name follows as a whisper.
Your countenance emerges where emptiness greeted him before; he doesn’t understand where the line blurs – where his dreams end and reality begins. Because your features are one with the air around you, blurred by the thin fog.
You appear like a memory to him, a fairy tale nymph silently waiting to be found.
And for a moment, he’s sure he’s just seeing things. You aren’t here, not the way you used to be, the way he wants you to be. You never will be again because you swatted away the chances life threw at you so quickly, so lightly.
Jungkook might never truly learn which part of your cryptic, impenetrable heart he ever inhabited, but the ease with which your eyes and sounds vanished from this very place, and with that from his surroundings, has haunted him ever since.
Not the words you uttered and the steadiness, the certainty in your movements, in your articulations. But how effortless the separation seemed to you.
So of course, there is no way to fathom this very sight.
Your parted, tinted lips. The already soaked hair, brushed back, floating in the water. Your shoulders are bare, much like his, and you’re still, as if standing on an invisible pedestal in the clearly deep water.
The picture is odd, somewhat eerie. You’re not closing in; not swimming off and away either. You are half turned to him, looking at him, and he does not know why.
For a second, he doesn’t utter a word. His body moves of its own accord, small strokes to reach you, hesitant. But when your body breaks the waves his swimming sends towards you, his doubts evaporate, and for now, he trusts his sanity.
Another exhale of your name topples out of him, and finally, you sigh. He can’t see your chest or generally most of your evidently naked body, but you inhale the evening through your nose, eyebrows twitching an inch.
That sigh of yours is ominous, too magnificent to not scare him. Something’s severely unnatural about you. Or about the situation.
He backs away just a little, as if your touch could burn his nervous system and turn his heart into a piece of coal. It’s already damaged goods, barely keeping itself pumping.
Jungkook is about to repeat your name as if to ensure that you’re not a hallucination as feared, but you speak first. Unsure, reluctant for the merest heartbeat, you blink, gaze wandering to the forest and then back to him.
You say, “I was going to leave.”
Jungkook blinks like a lost puppy.
“…What?”
“I was going to leave before you saw me,” you repeat, like a matter of fact; like a continuation of a past conversation, “I forgot how quiet it gets here.”
Jungkook furrows his eyebrows. His body is ridden with goosebumps, only partly due to the chilly brisk now. It’s still too warm for him to be freezing like this. You are emanating something you shouldn’t—
“What are you doing here?” is the first thing he acquires. Croaks. He hasn’t used his voice in so long.
He wants to ask whether you are really here. But he knows, too. Knows that he couldn’t fabricate such perfection, even though he remembers most of your body. Inches of your skin. You are you in all your glory, only when you are truly here.
No way to make all this up; his mind doesn’t have the capacity anymore to function that way.
You smile. You’re nearing him now, fully turned towards him. As always, he can’t quite detect true pain behind your gape, not the kind he’s become used to feeling. The one he’s sure his treacherous, dark eyes are so obviously revealing right now.
The minute insecurity you moved with just a while earlier, facing away from him, is gone now. You might not have noticed him detecting that minor change, but he knows something isn’t right. Whatever reason almost urged you to silently depart again must have been weak, too easy to diminish.
Odd, to go through such efforts to disregard your clothing and to jump into these cold waters, just to want to back away again. Just to come back now. You seem sure about your approach as the distance closes, and the way you look at him – that barely open mouth of yours – clouds his mind.
“Jungkook,” is all you whisper as the gap disappears.
You’re daring in a nearly callous way, a hand coming up and out of the water slowly; like a haunted ship’s mast slowly materialising above the surface, the sinking sun darkening the sky.
Your fingers move as smoothly as the waves, dancing up to his sun-burnt shoulder. But you don’t touch him with the force he’s wanted you for years. A hint of a space still remains between his skin and yours; he doesn’t dare look down.
Your body doesn’t meet his. Still, the wet, soft tips of your digits drift down his shoulder and to his bicep, and as you lure dangerously close to his hand, his limbs still moving to keep him from drowning, he pulls away again.
His legs push the water off, feet between him and you again, and he inquires, “What do you want?”
His voice is supposed to be stronger now, to let the hurt and fury seep through, but instead, it’s meek. He tries again, “What do you want from me? You can’t leave and return… and leave and return. You’re…”
Saying that he’s never thought about you coming back would be a colossal lie. There were a dozen scenarios he drew and built in his brain, and the vexation mixed with the everlasting ache would always yield these results.
He’d ask what you were doing here. Reprimand you for turning him into your toy. And he’d… he’d stutter less, but he’d remind you just as much as himself—
“You’re married.”
He pushes out an exhale when you try to reach out again but halt mid-attempt. His chest hurts under the water, his neck hot. He can’t help the growing panic, because whichever intention you came to him with, he knows you’ll leave again – the place empty and him in shambles.
“You are married,” he repeats.
Perhaps because he’s hoping for you to deny it. To correct him about the status he saw you accept from afar with his own dim eyes. Maybe you didn’t go through with it after all; maybe you rejected the stranger once he locked the doors of your chambers.
But it’s been long enough, and the ceremony lasted from beginning to end. The marches on the streets were grand and the bond you never wanted was certainly established. The rituals commenced. You left. It looked real.
So of course he should’ve anticipated the sting when you say, “I know… I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
You have made up your mind. Thought it through. Maybe not cleverly, but you have. Your answer is immediate, “I needed to see you. Be with you just once.”
You must be joking. Must have stolen your lines from a book you read. There is no reality in which you yearn enough to fight for him. Even if just for a moment with him.
Beyond our control.
“Be with me just once?” Jungkook shakes his head, feet moving to swim off eventually. His body is going numb; he can’t hold himself afloat anymore. And your eyes are fogging his thoughts. “I asked you to be with me forever,” he says, turning, “If you think you can reject me and come back whenever it suits you…”
“I do not.”
“I’m just a person, too.”
A hand grazes his shoulder from behind; he’s able to pick up on enough pace to dodge it. But… there’s a spark to your touch. However fleeting, the sharp prick feels as though you’re reaching out with claws.
“Jungkook,” you call out once more, your voice deeper, more impatient; he’s never heard you speak like this before. “Jungkook, listen to me at least.”
He doesn’t.
There’s a gravitational pull, your voice leading him to you, but with all it takes, he fights your appeal until he reaches the shore. Up until now, you were trying to catch up, but when his made up mind expands the distance and his wobbly legs carry him to land, you come to a pause.
His body almost gives in. He readies himself for the fall, affected by not only the duration he spent in the water, but by your mere presence watching him strut away. His hands are ready to catch him, but he regains balance just as the water falls out of reach and the balls of his feet dig into the small patch of sand that the clearing offers as a rarity.
Jungkook’s clothes are draped over a low branch of a thick tree, right where the sand ends and sparse grass begins; every piece of it.
In this tumult, he didn’t think of the intimate sight he’s unintentionally offering to you: exposed skin from head to toe. Such an outcome was rooted in other intentions before. Deliberate.
Only hurts more to think about now.
But he doesn’t care. No, he cannot care. And he genuinely wouldn’t if you weren’t in the exact same state.
His eyes stay glued to the tree trunk, never panning to you. His body, no longer buoyed by the water, suddenly feels unbearably heavy; and by the time his clothes are close enough to grasp, he’s already fallen to his knees. He turns, his back meeting the rough tree.
He’s not concerned with what crawls up his skin or about the splinters the wood might punish him with. He needs to breathe.
The towel underneath offers at least some comfort, and he remembers to drag his shirt over the parts that aren’t yours to look at anymore.
There’s no time or mind for anything else. Your existence at this very clearing makes him want to throw up. He needs to focus on heaving his chest. On pulling in the crisp oxygen that the forest so generously provides.
But you don’t disappear. The illusion stays, still surrounded by a fairy tale mist that dips you in something utterly surreal.
Your form surfaces the way he did, as naked as he is. You’re a blurry figure; his vision quivers like his limbs. The elegance and beauty with which you walk aren't new to him, but they are taunting him in a manner he has never perceived before.
And once you tower above him, looking down soon enough and your chest as calm as his isn’t, he knows he’s doomed.
There’s only so long that he can keep denying you.
You kneel. Pulling your legs in, you wrap your arms around them tightly; concealing the parts of you he always craved. Even now, a carnal desire grows within, but it is so promptly and swiftly overshadowed by the pain you cause him.
The lack of readiness to stay. The urge to bid him goodbye one more time. The entirely missing fabric covering your skin, adding to your mock.
He sees your willingness to love him one last time and cut him into pieces so clearly. You do not understand what you do to him, how this final meeting severs his heart.
Or maybe you do but cannot find it in you to care.
Everything you’re doing might mean something. All of this exists to scramble his mind and hurt him further.
Your intentions have never been simple to decode, so he asks, “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
You’re right. Doing what, anyway? Why is he so dizzy, so… so out of it? And why does the world, turning too fast up until now, suddenly stop spinning when you put a hand to his chin, lifting his head to… to do what?
It’s like you’re examining him.
Then, you whisper, “I… can’t stand him.”
Is that why you’re here? Because he could’ve figured this out himself, effortlessly too. Your face is too close now, nipples barely a hand-width from his chest when he breathes, “I… I know. I always knew.”
“I hate him,” you emphasise, “I hate how he talks to me. How he looks at me. And…” Your eyes wander down, along Jungkook’s body, pupils moving over the shirt and then back to your hand on his chin, “And I despise how he touches me. How he claims me.”
Jungkook will throw up. His chest is on fire.
He can feel the agony growing with every second and every syllable. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it either. But hearing you say it, confirm it, shatters him.
How he claims me.
“What is he…” Jungkook starts but then stops again. Even if there was something happening behind closed doors that he’d like to resolve, you won’t let him.
That’s always been the entire point. You do not want to fight for this.
“Nothing forceful. But also nothing I didn’t expect,” you say, “I hate how he reminds me what I had.”
Jungkook shakes his head and your finger off in the process. You curl it in, your hand a fist now. He says, “I told you so many times. It’s too late.”
“It’s… it’s not.”
You always say whatever you want so blatantly. No regard for this human heart of his. What are you made of?
Jungkook’s limbs resemble the liquid water when you’re near; he can’t move or avert his gaze, can’t send you off with actual, true conviction in his words. It’s always been like this: him melting into the ground or the sheets or the fabric of his bed; and you stand tall, a brightly lit candle incinerating him.
Yet, he can’t help but let the fury spread in his chest. It’s scorching hot, and your weak, tentative smile fuels it further. Your words and your expressions — none of it help him calm the riot. Instead, his nostrils flare. A scream climbs up his throat.
But he doesn’t yell at you. Not even when you add a whispered, “I’m sorry. But it’s not. I just…”
You don’t finish your sentence and he doesn’t urge you to. No matter what you say, there’ll be nothing but torment ahead. Your Sorries are a habit, but only half-sincere, and after stomping on a fragile heart, you do not get to apologise anymore.
Jungkook shakes his head again, finally able to look away as if your eyes had his gape trapped before. A tongue darts out to lick his lower lip wet, and you, observing his every subtle touch, place a gentle thumb to the corner of his mouth, ghosting over the plushness before he dodges.
You push yourself up a little, some dirt on your legs. The lower parts that your pulled-in limbs hid so far are on full display again, and Jungkook tries, really, truly tries not to stare. But you’re not having any of it.
You’re not standing to leave. You’re still half-crouching, and soon, too sudden, dragging your left leg over to his right hip, straddling him with nothing between him and you but the thin piece of pathetic clothing.
The gasp he breathes is immediate and unintentional. Even if he tried to push you away now, you’d look through him instantly. His mind wants to fight you, but his body can’t. There are multiple ways he’s always belonged to you, and his entire being always revealed as much.
And still…
That smile. The pleading eyes. Your damn touch on his neck.
He gulps hard, hands rushing up to your waist. Softly, he tries to shove you off of him, but not really. It’s too much of an easy play for you, having him like this. And when you grip his face, it costs him an amount of energy that he certainly does not possess. Not anymore.
The escape out of your grip is tough, and the word he utters is feeble, “Don’t.”
But you insist. “Just this once.” Nothing but whispers, even at such an empty place where nobody listens but the water, the birds and the moon. “I need you just once. Properly.”
He’s lightheaded. Again. His words are mumbled; he thinks that if he was you, he wouldn’t quite believe himself either, “I’m not a puppet. I have… I’ve got real feelings. Unlike you.”
A smidge of pride blooms in him. He didn’t think he’d pull off such a confession, but you seem visibly startled. Somewhat irritated. He could never guess as much if he focused on your eyes only, but the slightly clenched jaw is… telling. New.
“You really think that?” you ask, still patient but… something still off. He doesn’t understand the approaching temper in your voice. You left him. “That I have no real feelings? That’s what you think?”
“I tried to love you,” Jungkook attempts, repeatedly swallowing the dry lump. “To help you see how I loved you and how you loved me. What we could’ve been if you’d let us.”
“Back then… Love wasn’t enough, Jungkook.”
Jungkook smirks. A hollow, sarcastic smirk.
His body feels drugged, but he keeps himself upright. Perhaps his emotions have reached a point that exhausts him inside out, and he’s lost the capability to face you by now.
White flag, must be.
He repeats, one eyebrow cocked, “Love wasn’t enough?”
“Mh-mh,” you voice, a slight shake of your head. “I disagree, you know. Love might make people stronger than grief can, but it isn’t truly stronger itself. And love and grief fulfill different purposes.” He looks up at you; your head is tilted, your lips a gorgeous curve. Prettier when you speak. “When we break, we love harder. We can use that love.”
Use that love…
So you had to grieve to understand that you wanted him. Grow weak to want to return to strength.
But he presented the idea of loving enough to fight through obstacles over and over again; it’s too late now.
He clicks his tongue and wonders, “You want to use it now that… that we’ve become impossible? What about him?”
“I will find a way.”
“Empty promises.”
“No,” you vow, harsher this time. “Never empty.”
Your grip on his jaw is strong; he’s not used to you grabbing him like this. Your face draws in, and as your upper body leans forward, your lower half moves, too. Grinds on him. Or at least, touches along just the length that he tried to hide under the shirt.
His fingers dig deeper into your waist. You sigh, and he knows exactly what this means. He can distinguish your breaths, can interpret your sounds. You’re not frustrated anymore, not tired like he is. You are pleased.
Because he’s growing; fuller and harder by the second.
“No,” he tries, “this might end horribly. If you end up… with…” His hands grip your shoulders, but he isn’t really pushing. Not lifting you off of him. “They will kill you and me both.”
Your smile widens, as if you’ve thought it all out; as if you’ve come here with a plan that presumably profits nobody but you. And Jungkook already knows he doesn’t want, doesn’t need to hear it before you say it, “They can’t. Even if… they’ll just think it’s his.”
No. No, no, no.
Have you hiked up all the way to this place to use him as a rebound? All the promises you’re forming right now, are they in vain, to offer some fleeting relief?
I will find a way.
You won’t.
“That’s not enough for me,” Jungkook mouths, his words stuck at the back of his tongue, hushed, “it means… you’re not truly trying to call him off. You’ll go back and find an excuse. Not to leave him, but me.”
“I only gave an answer to your statement, Jungkook,” you defend, coating your words in honey, “truth is: I’m ready to die for this one moment alone. Aren’t you?”
“No… no—”
“Please. Even if you don’t have it in you to fight anymore…” You lean in further, your nipples touching his chest. You keep grinding. “Just this once. Give me one, just one more night.”
His shirt slides off his lap just a little but not enough; not in the way Jungkook inwardly hopes, just so he can blame the lust multiplying on anything but himself. Despite everything — the anger, the disappointment, the approaching, everlasting pain — he wishes he could feel you better.
Just like you are perceiving the constant twitches below. No hiding it.
And then, you take it a step further, sending a shiver down his spine, cold under his burning skin, “You can do whatever you want with me.”
His chest and stomach stir. His body feels heavy, your touch razorsharp. “What?”
“Whatever you want,” you reiterate, “I want you to. I need you to.”
Your breath shakes as you shift back again, all along the line of his stiffening cock, the shirt moving off more. You can already see the V-line when you glance down, and if you weren’t sitting on your throne the way you are, his entire shaft would jump out beneath the clothing.
It doesn’t. Instead, it stays trapped under you, blue and aching and never reversed to its previous state; even less when you repeat yet again—
“Anything… anything you want.”
The control diminishes; and despite all his attempts, Jungkook snaps.
His hisses echo, curses fall. He closes his eyes, his nails bruising your skin; he gives you one last chance to retreat, though he knows he’s long lost.
“Stop it,” he nearly growls through gritted teeth. His chest constricts, not enough air provided in this world, as if the lake water is bending on its own will and filling his lungs. He’s already drowning. “Stop it.”
You evaluate the tone, quietly bearing the sting emerging in your sides where his nails scrape your skin. Jungkook knows you’re waiting for him to change his stance and crawl back to you; head in your neck, lips parted, you’re anticipating him to crumble in your grip.
He’d know even if he wasn’t keeping his focus so intently fixed on your every movement.
You are personified torture, a murder weapon when you verify, “Are you sure?”
If he had an ounce of strength left, he’d attempt a lie. You’d look through it anyway; Jungkook is as transparent as glass. Predictable. So he whispers, “No. But stop.”
And this time, you do. With ease, too.
You do not hesitate on his lap, do not tempt him further. He knows why. He knows that you know, too. Because the moment you upright yourself, muttering an, “Alright,” your voice betrays you — you’re cunning.
And you understand that you have him wrapped around your fingers.
Before he’s capable of reacting to your tactics and retrieving his armour, he’s long succumbed to his own wants. Acting before thinking. You have never allowed anything other than this order.
The mutter dies under his breath, soon a whisper compared to his groan and with a single, quick tug, he’s pulled you back to where you were. The grip around your arm is minimally less harsh than around your waist, but jarring nevertheless.
But you don’t seem to mind a bit. You don’t yell out in pain; but you gasp in surprise. The sight is one to behold, even for Jungkook. The moment plays out in slow motion, split into nanoseconds.
The way your body twists and starts falling onto his; his immediate intuition bringing his hand to the shirt covering him and removing it before you’re settled back into his lap; and your chest crashing against his when he lets you go, fingers hovering up to your neck to meet your lips.
You let out a tiny mewl; he breathes into your mouth. The effect from the blasphemous skin-to-skin contact unfolds instantly. You’re already gliding along his cock; and he is already at nearly full growth underneath.
Just like before, the jerks of his sensitive muscle are constant; he wonders whether he might burst before he’s felt you all the way through. Stuffed every free inch of yours. The aggression your lips meet him with are certainly relentless, no help in softening the situation in any way.
Because your body stays in motion, a back and forth of your hips numbing his limbs, and you try to grab a piece of him – his long hair, his arms, his back – to hold onto. He has you pressed against him; you won’t escape either way. But you move as if you fear you might.
Your tongue is hot, diligent, skilled as it mingles with his. Jungkook knows these very touches, but his mind is playing tricks on him. Have they changed, even if just a little? Did you have time to aim for higher satisfaction, to find a pace to make him remember your taste better?
The thought squeezes his heart like a heavy hand, but he wipes it off his mind, focusing on what he might only be able to linger in for a couple more moments. Who knows? Who knows when the mist might return…
The passion needs to remain. How you open your mouth and whimper into his. Tongue playing around, pulling at his lips. He backs away, his head sinking to your jaw, then to your hot neck for only a second.
You moan so lasciviously that he nearly skips the stage of teases and games, jumping straight to lifting you off his lap and then slamming you back onto it and his raging, towering cock.
But instead he listens. Hears you whisper his name in fragments.
“Ju—koo–” and “Ngh–kook—”
He runs the wet tip along a vein before his head turns to the other side and kisses you again. A hand slides south to your ass, at first merely a featherlight touch, but soon landing on the flash with a force; and he won’t let your mouth go. You’re fighting for breath, panting, squeaking into the kiss.
Jungkook has woken up from these images. Fairy tales and nightmares. He doesn’t know what this is either; the start of something gorgeous, sinful; the end of something that once was.
He doesn’t know. And this very level of uncertainty makes him want to devour you. To remember this. To move his fingertips with intent.
When your lungs constrict and Jungkook’s face heats up, you back off, your lips and your chin wet. He must be drooling, too, he thinks; a sight like his, you here as the goddess — the beautiful monster — you’ve always been, is bedazzling.
You glide back a couple inches until you can see the length standing against his belly. You grimace, your mouth moving, cheeks hollow until he realises what you’re doing: A blob of spit falls onto his dick, and you reach out quickly to spread it over the head.
Your thumb runs over the slit, collecting the precum, and then you move your fist down the shaft, up again. You’re basking in this, he’s sure; in the way he throws his head against the trunk, eyes closing, a low timbre vibrating in his throat.
The call of your name is so feeble, so enticing that your hand twists more, a little faster, your pinky delivering the lightest touch to his balls.
“Mmmh—god—” Jungkook proclaims, shoving your hand off of him, “I will… lose it before I can even–even start.”
He thinks you’re about to argue with him, but he pushes your body back gently, forcing your palms behind you to press against his shins and keep yourself from falling back.
For a moment, he only takes your beauty in. You straddling him, your legs spread, your pussy lips apart. Wet, so close to the head of his cock — he could just… just glide into you like nothing—
No.
Instead, he brings a hand to your stomach, caressing his way down until the pad of his forefinger carefully dips between your folds and runs along the slit. His breath hitches at the drenched sensation; he can’t help but laugh.
“Yes?” you only whimper.
“Not a single dry spot,” Jungkook lets you know, demonstrating it by pushing in the middle finger as if you didn’t know, “see? So easy.”
You whine, moaning out. Your voice is higher, more desperate when he pumps the digit into you, moving it, curling it, massaging a rough spot until your hips wind atop of him. And then another finger joins in, though he doesn’t think you need the help at all.
But god… fuck, those expressions of yours. The knitted eyebrows, the shivering lower lip, the hands holding onto his legs for dear life.
Fuck.
Jungkook gulps. Admits, “I’ve been dreaming of this.”
Your eyelids flutter open; you shake your head. “You… never needed to.”
“I did. I absolutely did.” He places a hand under your ear, too gentle for his mad endeavours, pulling you once again flush against him, though the fingers still inside. “Come here.”
The reminder to keep you in his grip tonight only resurfaces when you try to move away, attempting to slither down his body until you reach his chest, and he puts you back in place, face to face. The touch on your cheek suddenly shifts to your neck, your eyes a fraction wider.
He doesn’t push or press, but his pupils darken, telling enough as he matches the shade with his words, “I thought I was doing whatever I wanted to tonight?”
You swallow hard, nodding. But you’re not nervous or taken aback; in fact, you flash a satisfied smile, prepared for what he’s willing to provide. Your eyes roll down, attempting to catch a glance of where you see him waiting under you and you ask, “May I?”
You let go of his legs, urging your way through the tight space between your bodies to skim the skin above the V-line and draw lines on his stomach. He understands that you’re not yet again trying to dive down again — frankly, he’s too impatient for it, no matter how welcoming the thought of your luscious lips around his cock.
And he can’t finish the night already; and the sight of you eating him up would certainly lead to just that.
But no — you’re hinting at something else. You’ve had enough of sitting on a bulge, too. You’re craving nothing different than him. And while his feral desires grow, pictures of you pinned under him flashing and re-flashing, he permits you to handle this once.
He removes his fingers from you, wiping the juices along your thigh.
Then, he says, “Do it.”
His voice is rough, worn out. Aside from the conversation, if he could ever call it that, he’s so far had with you, he probably hasn’t spoken a word in days. Combining the silence with the hot feeling of your skin under his fingers, the strain in his words only grows.
Jungkook waits and watches, further leaning back against the fissured tree. His back will be thoroughly scratched and scarred, but the adrenaline won’t allow him to care just yet.
Heart racing a hundred miles a minute, he lifts his chest, keeping it in place for a second when you align his leaking tip with your pussy. You rub it between your folds, and he can clearly feel your readiness; there really is no need for further preparation. You’re teasing him.
A jerk of his hip signals you to hurry, and you throw a quick glance, a familiar smirk rendering him useless for the merest moments before he starts, “Enou—”
But you’re already a step ahead. With a deep breath in, you sink until more and more of him disappears, and soon, it’s all gone. Your pelvis hits his, your mouth open, jaw sharp as you clench it, much like him.
And then… then you stop moving.
“What?” Jungkook wonders, hands already on your waist to move you up himself.
But you catch his wrist in time, somewhat unstable as you sway, yet tell him, “Wait. Just for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Just to… to really feel each other,” you argue, licking your lips.
As your hazy eyes stare up to find his wanting glance, he swears your pupils emit a very brief and very sudden burst of light. Green. Soon gone. Made up, possibly.
“Why rush?” you wonder, another dangerous tilt of your head. “Just because I surrendered like that,” a sharp fingernail scratches across his sculpted chest, “it doesn’t mean we should just forget to truly take it all in.”
Jungkook draws in some air, urging for more but helpless in the wake of your touches. This isn’t what he intended. You told him to demolish you; yet, he can’t seem to move.
But you do. Even if just a little.
A tiny inch forward, slipping out minimally, and then back where you were; with him deep inside, his balls to your ass, your hands on his cheeks now.
“How do you feel?” you query. The amusement in your voice is unmistakable.
It’s the first thing in a while that has truly felt good, Jungkook thinks. The pain starts with you and it ends with you. You know that as much as him. And your question isn’t just this; you’re not solely interested in how he perceives your body and the sins committed with it.
You’re talking about your presence. About you eliminating a thought after another. The audacity is unmatched; you’re not really here to heal him at all.
“You don’t get to ask me,” Jungkook mutters quietly, his words one with the breeze, “you don’t fucking get to ask me after doing this to me.”
“Doing this to you…”
“Don’t play stupid. Really.”
You quiet down for a moment, tugging at the hair behind his ear. You follow a strand of it down to where it ends at his shoulder. You draw circles there then, so close that he could capture your lips with ease. But he needs you to talk sense into this situation, even if it might go over his head with you wrapped around him like this.
You speak as gently as him when you answer, “It wasn’t my intention. I just knew fighting would do… nothing.”
Jungkook hisses and grunts when you roll your hips. A voice pleads for him to lift you and slam you back onto him, to jackhammer into you until you slur your words. But somehow, he’s still trapped.
He’s your slave entirely.
“Really?” he asks between gritted teeth. “Because you’re here now.”
“Because… I dream of you, too.”
“Did you not before?” The tone starts to slip into fragments of frustration, much to Jungkook’s misery, but he can’t help himself a bit. Instead, he gives into the emotion bubbling in his stomach, a large hand landing on the flesh of your ass again as he urges, “Tell me.”
You mewl at the sharpness, your skin burning. The slap forces your body into motion and Jungkook, using the moment, delivers one reckless thrust up. You whine.
“Tell me,” he forces again, his body coming back to life, “it was hard to care, wasn’t it?”
He holds your ass and you in place as he fucks into you once more. Harder this time, staying fully emerged a little longer and then backing out almost entirely again. Covered in a sheen, his cock remains like this for a moment, and when nothing but panting bursts out of you, he pushes back in, no mercy.
This time, he keeps a pace. Enough of your nonsense.
“I— I did,” you tell him, grabbing his face to seek his lips. You find his tongue soon after, but do not, cannot kiss him properly; nothing but licking and playing, a whisper against his mouth, “You know how I felt for you.”
You plant your feet in the grass as he impels you from below, your watery eyes closing when you moan and whimper against his face. His cheek, his jaw, his temple. Jungkook is out of breath, but not ready to give this discussion up yet.
Anger up there, revenge below.
He says, “I didn’t. I don’t.”
The pace slows. Pressure builds in his balls and cock; Jungkook cannot end it yet.
Slow down… slow down.
You let out huffs as if to thank him and complain at once. This was just what you wanted; and he so readily, so easily gave in. Not that he didn’t crave each part of you, not that it didn’t almost kill him to not touch you.
But… but what will this result in? Are you allowing just a touch, a taste? Or handing out your heart, too?
You hug him close, arms wrapping around him, your chest moving against his. You play with the mane at the back of his neck; when you speak, goosebumps appear on his skin again, “You do, Kook. If you think about it carefully… you’ll know.”
He shakes his head. He has thought about every word a million times. No conclusion. None that didn’t hurt.
“In my eyes,” he explains, an arm slinging around you, “you played with me. You came and left and— and gave me hope, and then you stopped fighting. And…” His mouth sinks to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin, digging in just lightly. “Now you… you’re back because it suits you. No?”
You lean back. Look at him. Intently, carefully — as if to confirm his theory. But then you move your head to a certain No. Assure that, “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”
Your hands reach behind you, lower and lower until the tips of your digits brush his balls. A sound falls out of his chest. You upright yourself, shoving your chest in his face, nipples an inch from his mouth.
“I want you,” you repeat.
And though Jungkook understands the meaning behind your statement, he can’t fight but reciprocate your wants. He’s trying his best, but he’s not immune.
So it’s no wonder that the same thought repeats in his mind, blurted as he shifts on the spot, “I want you so bad. So fucking bad—”
The kiss is aggressive when he drives his hand into your hair, keeping your head in place. He lets your up-and-down-movements drive him crazy. For a minute, he lets you do, but soon, this level of control doesn’t suffice anymore.
Holding onto your ass, he leans in to kiss the flesh of your mounds, a light bite to your nipple; he prepares for a change in position, just when you admit, “I want to do this for you. Keep being here for you.”
“You need to,” Jungkook growls, “you owe me that.”
“Sure… sure, right—”
Jungkook doesn’t care how he sounds. What his words might convey. He just needs to—
You keen and shriek when he suddenly throws the two of you to your sides, his arm wrapping around your chest to pull you flush against him. His tongue explores your neck, licking up to your earlobe, a strong hand throwing your right leg back over his.
You’re open and bare for him, but he doesn’t shove himself back into you again just yet. Instead, he pushes two fingers into your mouth; you react right away. Hollowing your cheeks, you lick and suck, and his cock twitches between your ass.
Pulling out the fingers with a plop, he finds the desperate bundle of nerves just over your stretched pussy hole, circling the nub softly at first.
Your mouth falls agape before a sound can escape at all; the pleasure is stuck in your throat, but your body, the restless limbs, held by him over his hip, are revealing enough.
But then you let out sudden bursts of exhales, your hand flashing down to his, not forcing it off but rather moving with it. He kisses and bites your earlobe, and when he speaks again, his breath burns on your skin, spreading across your chest.
“Say something,” he orders, holding you tighter when your body winds and half twists, “anything I can remember later.”
Your eyebrows kiss, your arms, legs and voice restrained. You’re in a human cage made by him. Turning your head, you seek his lips, but he backs away, shakes his head, repeats, “Anything.”
“Nngh, you— won’t have to remember—”
“Wrong. I will. So give me something, too.”
You laugh under moans, rather at the pained certainty than out of amusement. And then, you say, “Just take it.”
And he obliges. The hand disappears to reach between your legs, but not to fumble further with what pleads for more of him — instead, Jungkook grants you just that wish.
He pumps his veiny cock, moving the skin up and down to provide you with all he has. You feel the tip against your thigh, but it soon leaves your seething skin to push back into your pussy. He doesn’t let go of the shaft until it’s as buried into you as the position allows.
And then, he raises your leg higher, spreading you wider; and once you’re entirely open to him, sideways on the grass and defenseless, he pushes in deeper, rougher.
If he could reach your guts, he would. He wants more than this; he’s pushing you and, frankly, himself to the limit, but the absolute proximity does not seem to suffice. And with each of your whimpers resonating in his chest, echoing in his ears, he finds he won’t be able to let go at all.
“I just…” he starts, fingers pinching your nipples. He speaks close to the burning shell of your ear, your body a mess of sweat and exhilaration and beauty. “I needed you… to say this— so long ago.”
As he rams into you all the way, your body threatens to fall forwards, but you press a flat hand to the ground and he holds you to him; he freezes his hips, circling a little. Stays in place to give you a moment to feel the throb of his cock, and to feel the clenching of your walls himself.
His smile is instant, genuine. Do you feel like this… with that guy of yours? Does he ever make your insides expand and contract like this? Do you ever breathe his name, call for more, beg for eternity and salvation at once?
No. No, he’s certain you don’t.
Be it the ecstasy flooding his veins or the illusion he’s painted for himself — right now, different from mere minutes ago, he cannot be told otherwise: You are here, and no matter who you return to, you will never be theirs.
Lips pressed to your neck, he listens to your nonsensical words, his chest aching, his stomach tickling, his legs tired but his mind wide awake. All past trauma aside, he thinks he’d follow you to the end of the world.
He felt similar before you exited his life; the memory is nostalgic, yet a reminder for what came after.
But right now… he cannot bother to think about it. Cannot shatter just yet.
For now, his eyes and thoughts only fixate on the way your tits overflow between his fingers. The unheld side bounces each time he drives himself back into you, nearly breaking his stamina. So he shifts his focus, finding your clit again, repeating the soft oval shape from before.
You turn to look at him as much as you can, and your open mouth closes only once, for a second, when you trap your lower lip with your teeth and let go again. Plush, sweet, pillowy.
“So pretty,” he mutters. And, “Mine.”
You seem to indulge in this. Because a second later, something happens again.
Your expression changes for the tiniest moments, another such short hint that he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him again. It throws him off guard enough for him to forget his name, to forget the world around him.
His movements slow down, though not without results. Your hips move against him, your ass grinding against his pelvis, and you’re fucked out, moving your hand down to guide his, playing around the nub until you have ridden the waves of your high and calmed down.
Jungkook lets you. You still emanate an unbelievable glow; it makes him dizzy and warps reality somehow. Not a sentiment he’s able to explain; but nothing so out of the ordinary that he might deem it surreal.
He doesn’t know what it is. But he’s insane beyond measure.
Holding you almost leveraged before, you slip in his grip, his arm more loose around you now. And you use the moment to get yourself out of the much wished-for cage, distancing yourself from him.
He props himself up with an arm on the grass, watching you, his cock soaked and glinting, still a pillar.
But he’s not as manic as before. Only sees you crawl away; sees you drop on your bottom, your body slowly moving backwards on the grass and towards the shore.
But you aren’t done. At all, it seems.
Because, with unadulterated mischief in your voice, you urge him closer, “No need to stop.”
“I…” he only manages for a bit, swallowing, and when you raise an eyebrow in question, almost as if to allow him to speak, he says, “I didn’t intend to stop.”
“But you still did. Come here.”
“Why… don’t you come to me?”
“You want something, don’t you?” you push, chin higher as you start to turn around, almost as if your legs have given out. Creeping towards the water on all fours. “If you want to, you need to get it… Kook.”
And the encouragement seems to work.
Because he soon follows. At the same pace, with a similar hunger in his countenance as in yours. His brain is foggy, as if drunk from an irresponsible, passed night. The surface of the water appears twice.
But it doesn’t matter. His body is lingering for you. He’s not done with you.
And he proves the aggressive craving, the way he’s starving, when he suddenly pulls at your leg just inches from the water.
You shriek, your upper body gently falling, though the sound of surprise is instantly replaced by a satisfied moan when Jungkook holds you by your waist and leans down to attach his mouth to your pussy.
It’s a breathtaking, bewildering taste. Overflowing, your high still pools out of you, multiplying when he collects spit on his tongue and pushes it to your hole. Capturing your arms, he holds your wrists in one hand, pinned at the small of your back.
Ass up, upper body down, cheek against the sand; and his lips all diligent, tongue lapping you up.
It’s all he’s ever wanted. All he could live on.
As he French kisses you, you only repeat, “Yes… please— exactly what I— I meant.”
But he doesn’t continue for long. It’s difficult to when you’re already dripping like this, his cock dying for more.
And when he finally gets on his knees properly again, straightening his back, you find a moment to laugh.
You tease, “Just minutes ago you refused to want me the way you used to—” He straightens your legs until you’re flat on your stomach; straddles you. “And now… Sailor Jungkook...” Resolute fingers push your ass apart; more spit lands on your pussy. “Now you’re following me— like a pupp—”
The taunt is forgotten when he pushes all of himself into you in one fell swoop, leaving not a single inch untouched and pumps into you with persistence.
“Shut up,” he commands, coaxing another throaty laugh out of you. This is exactly what you want. What you have wanted from him. Never more, never less.
He leans into you, kissing your cheek for a second, but when the position proves too hard, he decides to bring you up to him instead. Palming your chin and jaw, he lifts your upper body off the ground, teeth nibbling at your shoulder.
You yell into the clearing, his name somewhere in the mix of jumbled words, and he pushes a finger into your mouth first. Then two. Then covers your lips with a hand, muffling your sounds.
Not long anymore. Almost done.
It’s clear to the both of you in the way he begins to slow down, his hips unsteady, air leaving his lungs. He’s harder inside you now, about to burst, just a second before—
He pulls out entirely, just to turn you on the spot again. This is ideal for you. Jungkook is a sucker for this — as shy as he used to be, he never feared your eyes. With the cold nonchalance you displayed sometimes, you understand why he didn’t.
He always tried to find an emotion he craved in those gazes of yours.
But…
Well.
It takes less than a minute from him flipping you around to holding your face between his fingers, wrapping your legs around his waist and kissing you like a madman — and to him coming undone.
He prays, “Don’t let this end.”
He promises, “I love you.”
He whispers, “I need to stay with you.”
No more begging for you to stay. Jungkook has switched to voicing his own wishes, no matter how fuzzy-brained, in hopes you might do it for him. But have you ever? Would you ever?
You’re the most important person to him, but you might be the most important person to you, too.
As he trembles and his legs quiver, water flows to the shore where you lay. It wets your hair anew, an art piece in his eyes. He keeps thrusting for a bit, spilling until empty — and not once in this time does his vision clear.
You’re grotesquely gorgeous. Mysterious, surrounded by a glow but also a… a darkness. A combination that does not exist in true reality. You are unreal.
And he doesn’t care about his failing brain. The moment you are gone, the images in front of him will clear. He will properly feel the moment, the regret, the wounds and bruises on his arm, the same blood on his skin as under your nails.
A burning sensation already spreads through him as he finishes, but he doesn’t know if it’s, in truth, the entirety of his skin or the roughness you held onto him with. He doesn’t know.
All he knows is that bit by bit, without him intending or wanting to, you will tumble out of reach. The adrenaline still courses his body as he calms down on top of you and then rolls off, head cooling from the ever-approaching water.
Fingertips still skim your sides, but he knows you’ll get up very soon and disappear. By then, the rush will be over and the lust will subside. You will leave nothing in your wake but wistful yearning.
The lake is quiet now.
Nothing but breathing, nothing but the light wind.
For a while, neither of you speak. The water keeps lapping softly against the shore, washing over your hair before retreating again. If this was any other day or any other reality, Jungkook would sit up, close his eyes, be content listening to the slow rhythm of the waves with you.
But that’s not what it is.
“I can’t part from this,” he mumbles in the silence.
He doesn’t hear you for a second. His eyes drag open; he looks over. You’re still here — his fingers aren’t grasping a ghost. And you’re staring at him, too. Only that you look more mature now, your face different.
Scarier.
Perhaps it’s the moment tinging the night in something… gloomy.
But you just keep looking. So he tries again, “I just… I cannot part from this.”
Then, you speak, a smile dancing around your mouth. “This?”
“From you.”
“Really, Jungkook?”
“You know. You have always known… please.”
His eyes fall shut again. Not due to comfort or pain or any real emotion at all. But in order to make his head stop spinning. As his other senses come alive, he hears you clearly, though you remind him of a faraway sound; a lullaby howling through the forest.
“If you think you are truly ready,” you say, “you need to tell me. We will not part.”
“I have told you. How many times do I need to—”
He stops. Takes a breath. His skin tingles.
Nobody speaks. You only laugh, only for a second. And there is something strange about the sound. Not strange enough to notice at first perhaps — just impossible to ignore. It blends with the water until he can no longer tell where you end and the lake begins.
He feels you move next to him, a sharp finger touching his neck and trailing down his chest and stomach. Then up again; down again.
“Come closer,” your sugary sweet, reverberating voice speaks, quiet. “Closer to me.”
He does. And for a moment, it feels like before. Not before he found the sand under him, but — before.
Before the stranger. Before the issues. Before you left.
It feels no different now. That’s the problem. It is a problem, right? He isn’t sure.
Because each second confuses him. The water slides around his legs. Odd, given the fact that the shore certainly seemed further away before. But he doesn’t find himself as concerned with this as he thinks he should be.
Instead, he remembers the woman he’s loved for so long. The one laughing with him besides campfires. The one he promised forever, too; the one who chose someone else.
Jungkook has tried it all. Attempted to convince himself that he hates you. And then, that he’d never stop loving you. But hate and love are easy — none of these ever bothered him. None of it fractured his soul.
No, what stabbed him over and over again was grief.
Love is stronger than grief.
Maybe he was wrong. And even if this was true, a lower intensity of the latter somehow still overshadows a high amount of the former. Love makes stronger; but grief is stronger. Ironically, renders you weak. That’s what you meant.
Your shoulder brushes his. He didn’t know when, but at some point, he must have stood up. You’re holding his hand.
They fulfill different purposes.
But to you, it’s not about intensity, but about the goal each emotion has. He never thought about it this way, though. Emotions having certain goals… purposes…
We break first and then love harder.
He’s knee-deep in the water. Soul cleanly splitting in half. No wound will ever scar over.
We can use that love.
How are you using his love?
He can’t say. You’re just leading him into the water. He can’t form a thought. Your lips are moving; you seem to be saying something. Singing? Eyes hooded. Your skin and hair are odd. Different…
Another step.
The water is colder a few steps farther in, colder than in the evening. But it doesn’t hurt. His body doesn’t react. He’s busy with what he’s hearing — he thinks you’re still talking, voice low and melodic, like a song one knows or remembers or soon forgets.
The dizzying feeling from before has fully turned into a paralysis almost — a dream. Nightmare? Something impossible to control. When…
The lake curls around his calves, then around his waist.
No.
Grief is stronger than love. Grief is stronger than love. Grief is stronger than love.
Not because one cannot love hard. But because the stronger the grief, the weaker one gets. There’s weakness in strength, isn’t there?
It’s where you needed him. He understands now. He surrenders.
“Do you trust me?” you seem to ask now.
Jungkook nods, no time to think about the question at all. Somehow he does.
The problem is, despite the touches he and you shared, the ache never disappeared, did it? Even at the height of it all, he knew you wouldn’t stay, no matter how intently he begged or how long he waited for you.
This pain was bound to consume him, and you knew. That’s how you’re using this love.
You appeared. Planted the affection in him. Fabricated a life for yourself, that, he now realises, you never truly lived. Made yourself somebody you never were. Who are you then? What are you?
You appeared only to break him over and over again, but never quite managing the final rip that you thirsted for. His adoration for you, and the hope that came with him, backed him up…
But hope is scarce these days. You entered this clearing not with the purpose to return to him. But to deliver that last blow. To finally splinter him enough to claim him. He was too strong before, wasn’t he? Too conscious.
He knew. He has always known: You do not obsess over others.
This is why.
And you never found him by coincidence. The hand-built cottage atop the damn lake signed his death sentence the moment he moved in. There were always creatures in the waters.
Your head turns to him; the glow fades from your eyes. Everything feels distant. Unimportant somehow. You have stopped singing, only muttering words now, and soon, the ground vanishes.
Jungkook floats in the water, his legs remembering to swim until — they don’t.
You deliver a nod, as if to ready him; as if to remind him of every smile, every touch, every broken promise one last time. Granting him mercy. Devilishly thanking him for dropping his guard.
You have always adored his soul. Wanted it.
Love gave him something to live for, to hold onto; he couldn’t resist who you were for him, but he became resistant to your nature. Funny.
One last tilt of your head. And a moment later — he’s drowning.
His lungs don’t burn right away. The feeling creeps up on him. There is no panic, however; he is hollowed out. Filled with empty spaces. And sirens always know to fill empty spaces.
He forces his eyes open underwater. A faint glow of green eyes visible, he follows them. They lure him in, dragging further than he knew the lake could go.
And once the ground comes to sight, they appear. Multiple faces, multiple levels of hunger.
And underneath, somewhere in the dark, just as consciousness starts to fade, the ground reveals skeletons of a near and distant past.
happy festa '26!! lol alright, yes, this is a dream i had and i had to write it out lmao. i promise i do usually stick with happy endings, but men have been outrageous these days, so a piece underlining a woman's power was needed. this one's for the gals. and sometimes it's also just fun to try new genres and stuff.
thanks for reading!! i know i left the story quite open to interpretation at times, esp their backstories and similar. if you have any question, ask away. i have a lot in my head that i couldn't put in the fic, but would love to talk to y'all about. and you know, interaction makes the world go round and all that hahaha so feel free to talk to me, even if you're usually a silent reader. would make my day. see you and love you <3
