Warnings: +18 | Modern AU | Stack x Reader | Dom!Stack | Bratty Sub!Reader | Cheating | Degradation kink | Light BDSM | Vibrator | Spanking/Punishment (if you squint) | Creampie | Overstimulation | Voyeurism (kind of) | Toxic Relationship | Stack is a complete asshole with a big ole schlong 🤷🏾♀️
It had only been two months. An entire eight weeks. Sixty goddamn days since Stack tore through your world and left you in pieces so jagged not even time could sand down the edges. You weren’t counting, not out loud anyway, but your body knew. It kept track of time in the most humiliating ways: in the ache between your thighs that never really went away, in the way your skin felt too tight for your bones at night, and in how nothing you touched yourself with ever came close to what he used to do with a single look and a few cruel words.
The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft, wet whir of the rose toy buzzing uselessly against your clit. Your sheets were twisted beneath you and drenched in the kind of frustration that didn’t ease with heat or friction. You had been at it for almost half an hour now, rolling onto your back, then your side, then your stomach, switching up the pressure, the angles and even the pace hoping something would click… but it didn’t. Your body refused to cooperate, even as your toes curled and your thighs trembled while your fingers pressed harder against the rose’s buttons like maybe it was your fault the thing wasn’t working right… Like maybe you weren’t trying hard enough to replace him.
But the truth was, you had tried and failed. You tried so damn hard to pretend like other men could take his place. One of them was a trainer with big arms and perfect teeth. He was the kind of man who liked to call you “ma” and rub on your leg during brunch. Another was a quiet, artistic type who smoked clove cigarettes and read you poetry right before bed. The last one you entertained was rough with his hands but soft with his mouth, always asking if you were okay and checking in. You thought he would be a safe choice, but just like the others he didn’t fix the itch you needed to scratch.
Your free hand reached for your phone without thinking, the motion muscle memory by now. You rolled over onto your side and dragged the screen to life as the artificial glow casted shadows against your face. Your thumb moved in idle circles, tapping through names, numbers, grainy selfies, and old flings you couldn’t even remember fucking. You paused on a few and thought about what it might feel like to call one of them, just to get a little taste, but every memory came back warped and lacking. Their touches had all faded from your skin like chalk in the rain, unlike the ones from the asshole that branded himself on your heart.
A flashback ran through your mind and that’s when your fingers stopped scrolling.
Stack.
His name stared up at you, still saved under that stupid contact name you gave him: ‘Mr. Big Dick Headache.’ You swiped up without meaning to, pulled open the message thread and stared at the last thing he ever sent you—‘Lose my fucking number.’ It still made your stomach twist in knots, because deep down you knew he didn’t mean it. You were well aware that this was how Stack operated. He got off on cutting deep before you could slice him first. But this time around you were tired of pretending like you were the only one bleeding out.
Your thumb hovered over the call button, heart drumming a steady rhythm that went nowhere. You didn’t bother pressing it and instead let out an annoyed sigh when you remembered Stack blocked you two months ago, right after that last argument when you finally told him the truth. Told him you did fuck someone else but it was a one time situation to prove a point. The only reason you did it was because you wanted him to feel, even for a second, the kind of sick betrayal you felt every time he came home late smelling like another woman’s perfume. You didn’t cry when he cussed you out and called you everything but a child of God. Instead you just stood there, naked under his T-shirt, arms crossed, and waiting for him to finish expressing his anger so you guys could have makeup sex like you always did.
But this time, it didn’t happen. When he was done, he stormed out of your apartment and slammed the door shut. And you hated how that still bothered you.
You hated how Stack got to be angry. How he got to act like you were the problem. Like you had broken the sacred code when he never even gave you a title. No “girlfriend,” no “baby,” not even a damn 24 hour instagram story. But oh, his raggedy ass knew how to claim you when it was convenient. Knew how to hold your face still when he slid inside you and said, “This mine. You hear me? Mine.” Knew how to threaten every man that so much as looked your way and leave marks deep enough to last until the next weekend he decided to come back around.
Even though your relationship with Stack was extremely toxic, you weren’t stupid. You knew what it was. You were the one woman who could take what he dished out. The only one who gave him the fight he craved and the submission he needed. And he was the only man who could tear you down, fuck you back together, and make you feel safe while calling you every disrespectful name in the book.
Still holding your phone, you let the rose toy fall limp between your thighs. You weren’t going to cum from silicone and batteries. Not tonight and probably not tomorrow either. Not until you got what you really needed.
Another sigh slipped past your lips. It was drawn out and bitten at the end like it tasted bitter coming out. You glanced at the time and groaned at it being 12:46 AM. If you left now, traffic would be nonexistent and you could be at his door in less than twenty-five minutes. Your heart was still dragging its feet like a disobedient child being told to go inside after playing too long in the rain. Logic was banging its fists against the locked door of your mind, shouting things about pride, dignity, knowing your worth, blah blah blah. But your body was already making decisions your brain didn’t agree to.
You padded barefoot across the cold floor, stepping over the discarded tank top you tried to wear for comfort. Your legs felt heavy, weighed down by equal parts sexual frustration and adrenaline. You flipped the bathroom light on and caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Your face wore a needy expression that made you whine internally and your chest rose and fell in shallow swells that made your nipples pebble from the draft. You looked used but not in the way you wanted. Not in the way he used to leave you.
You opened the cabinet, brushing past your night cream and sleeping mask as you reached for the little container of body shimmer you hadn’t touched since your last night with him. Stack always liked when your skin glittered, he said it looked like sin pretending to be sugar. You twisted the cap off, dipped two fingers in, and rubbed a little along your collarbones and down the center of your chest. Then more between your thighs.
You took your time dressing up. Half of you did it because you wanted to remind him of what he lost and the other half of you did it because you wanted him to notice you again. To see what he had been missing and hate himself for letting it go so easily. You drenched yourself in his favorite lotion, the one he used to lick off your shoulders with that grin that made you forget every lie he ever told. And when it was time to pick what to wear, you went for the nuclear option. Red lace.
This particular lace bra left nothing to the imagination and put your hardened nipples on display. It came with a matching thong and a garter belt, that hugged your waist and did absolutely nothing to hide the curve of your ass. You pulled it on and smoothed the material over your hips before stepping into a pair of cherry red stilettos you hated but knew he loved. They were tall and dangerous, the kind of shoes that made you walk with your back arched and your thighs pressed tight together just to keep balance. Every step in them reminded you of how sore he used to leave you. How shaky your knees would get when he forced you to hold yourself open while he watched, arms folded and voice like poison wrapped in domination as he told you how you better not finish without his say-so.
You threw on a black trench coat over everything, buttoned only once at the waist, just enough to protect your false sense of control. The hem flared like a threat every time you moved, brushing the tops of your thighs. You grabbed your keys and didn’t think twice about your reckless decision. You didn’t bother calling a friend to talk through your emotions, you just walked out the door like a woman with no shame left to lose.
The drive to Stack’s home was quiet. Streetlights blurred past in long golden lines, smearing your reflection in the windshield. Your phone sat facedown in the passenger seat, untouched. Right now you didn’t need music or any outside distractions. You just needed to see him. Feel him. Erase the last two months in one filthy, hate-laced night.
You parked across the street like you used to, tires crunching over the gravel. His porch light was off, just like always. Stack was a man of routine. Lights off, cameras on and doors locked. You crept up the path in your heels, trench coat catching in the wind as you breathed hard enough to fog the air while your nerves screamed beneath your skin. Your fingers reached for the potted plant beside the steps, the one that always hid the spare key he swore he would never take back. Except… It wasn’t there anymore.
A frown creased on your forehead as your fingers scraped dirt, then mulch, and finally the hollow space where the key used to be. He actually got rid of it. That trifling son of a—
“The fuck you doin’ out here dressed like that?”
The sound of his voice made you freeze and caused every nerve in your body to flicker. You turned slowly, heartbeat hammering. There he was, the bane of your existence looking annoyingly handsome and sweating through a gray tank top so damp it clung to every carved inch of his torso like a second skin. A black gym bag was slung over one shoulder, the strap dragging across the round curve of his delts. His shorts were loose but not loose enough, there was a very distinct eight inch bulge pressing forward, barely restrained, and you knew he was already more than halfway hard.
He wasn’t even trying to hide it as his eyes roamed and his tongue pressed against his cheek like he was already chewing on the storm you dragged with you. “I said…” He walked up the steps, each footfall heavy. “What in the entire fuck is this?”
You straightened your back, fists curled in the pockets of your coat. “I came to talk.”
“To talk?” he repeated, voice dropping to an octave that wasn’t soft or friendly, just low like fire burning underneath your skin. “You tryin’ my patience, woman. Look at you. Out here in the middle of the night dressed like a five dolla’ whore. You really this desperate?”
You squinted your eyes and clenched your fist tighter inside of your pockets. “You got rid of my key.”
“Damn right I did.”
“So that’s it, huh? All that time we spent together and you treat me like I was just… disposable?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You fucked on another nigga, then you wanna stand on my porch talkin’ ‘bout what I did?”
“You cheated on me first, Elias! You didn’t even claim me and I still let that shit slide! The one time I gave you a taste of your own medicine, you ghosted me like I was a side chick and took away my key like I ain’t never meant shit to you!”
His stare didn’t falter. It was as if what you were saying to him went in one ear and out the other. He didn’t bother engaging in an argument with you or meeting your tantrum with one of his own. Instead he looked at you and the wheels in his head began to turn. A breath slid through his teeth, low and crooked, like he couldn’t believe he was wasting time hearing you speak when your coat was flaring just wide enough to expose a hint of candy red lace underneath.
His eyes sharpened like broken glass and then the smirk came. One side of his mouth pulled back lazily like a lion watching a rabbit try to make demands. “So that’s why you here.” He dragged his eyes back up, voice curling around every syllable. “Lil’ nasty.”
You didn’t even blink when he stepped right up in your space, towering over you, his body hot and damp and stinking of exertion. He still smelled like whatever cologne he wore to the gym. It was expensive, dark, and spicy, but beneath that was him. Pure Stack. Sweat, testosterone, disrespect, and everything your body was already begging to wrap itself around.
He adjusted the strap of the gym bag and pushed past you like you were nothing more than an object in the way. You caught the heat of his bicep as it brushed your shoulder. He stopped at his front door and pulled out his key before turning the knob and opening it. To your surprise he didn’t step inside first. Instead he held the door open with one hand and looked over his shoulder at you. His eyes were darker now… full of mischief and hunger.
His voice dropped lower, forcing his Mississippi accent to hang heavy in the air. “Go ‘head, baby. Crawl.”
You blinked, heart punching your ribs. “What?”
Stack leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, cocked his head, and licked his bottom lip like he was savoring the sight of your confusion. “Since you wanna act like a bitch in heat, tryna hump whoever’ll take you…” He nodded toward the entrance. “Get on ya hands ‘n knees. Crawl inside. Show Daddy you know what you came here for.”
For a split second you didn’t move as your thighs squeezed together and the wetness you thought dried during the drive came back in full force. You swallowed down whatever pride you had left and let it rot where it stood.
The porch light stayed off. The street stayed quiet. The night wrapped around the two of you like it was complicit. For a long moment you just stood there, trench coat fluttering slightly around your legs, heels biting into the concrete, your mind screaming while your body leaned forward a fraction of an inch without permission.
Stack didn’t rush you as he stayed rooted in his spot like this wasn’t the most unholy sight he had seen all week. His eyes stayed locked on you, patient in the most infuriating way, like he already knew exactly how this was going to end and was enjoying watching you fight it.
“Clock tickin’, baby,” he drawled quietly, accent thick and lazy around the edges without softness. “Ain’t got all night. Legs already tired from the gym. Don’t make me wait.”
A lump bobbed in your throat and you hated that your knees trembled. Hated that your stomach flipped in that familiar way that always happened right before he stripped you of control. You peeled your hands out of your coat pockets slowly, fingers curling once at your sides as if bracing for impact. Then you bent.
The concrete was cold when your palms touched it. Rough and unforgiving material scraped faintly against your skin as you lowered yourself all the way down. Your trench coat fell open immediately, exposing lace and bare thigh to the night air. The stilettos made the position awkward and forced your back to arch instinctively just to keep balance while your ass lifted without you meaning to present it.
A sound left Stack’s throat, like a king satisfied with his subject. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with that Delta drag that always made your insides melt and twist at the same time. “Ain’t shit changed. Still real pretty when you remember where you belong.”
Heat flooded your face and humiliation burned sharp and bright, chased immediately by lust so strong it made your fingers curl against the concrete. You crawled forward like he told you to, each movement obedient but shaky, heels wobbling, thighs brushing together, lace stretching tight across your body with every shift.
You crossed the threshold on your hands and knees, palms pressing into cool hardwood now instead of cement. The smell inside his house hit you instantly. Clean laundry, leather, his soap, and the faint metallic tang of bullets and blood that followed him everywhere. It wrapped around you like a memory you couldn’t escape.
Stack shut the door behind you and locked it. You barely had time to process it before his foot nudged your thigh, firm but not violent, just enough pressure to remind you who was setting the pace tonight. The toe of his sneaker tapped just beneath the curve of your plump ass like he was testing how obedient you were really going to be and if you were going to follow through with the filth you came here begging for. Like he wanted to see if the woman who stepped on his heart two months ago with venom in her eyes was really about to crawl back into it with no shame left to burn.
“Don’t stop,” he said behind you, voice thick and quiet, laced with something sticky and mean. “I ain’t tell you to pause.”
Your knees scooted forward across the hardwood, muscles shaking as you forced your hands to move again. You had made it halfway down the hallway, the heels on your feet doing more damage than good as they forced your hips higher and your back deeper into that humiliating arch he liked so much. Your palms were starting to sting and the material between your legs had turned from cute to torturous, soaked and clinging, as it stuck to your folds with every little motion.
Stack didn’t follow right away, you could hear him behind you, the quiet shifting of his weight as he leaned a shoulder against the frame and watched. You didn’t have to look back to know the expression on his face. It was the same one he always wore when he was winning. That infuriating calm, like none of this mattered to him.
Your fingers curled into the floor beneath you and you dragged yourself forward another foot. Then another. The silence pressed in on you and it was ironic how it was so loud it made your ears ring. The only sound was the faint creak of your heels and your own shaky breathing, each exhale catching as the air from the vents skimmed over your exposed skin.
By the time you made it past the hallway and into the wide mouth of the living room, your arms were aching and your pride was somewhere back on the porch. The soft lamp glow from the kitchen spilled across the floor in broken amber lines, casting your body in fractured shadows. You dropped your forehead against the hardwood, not from exhaustion, but to breathe through the heat blooming low in your stomach. It was unbearable now. This was the kind of ache that turned your thoughts into soup, made your jaw tighten and your mouth press shut to keep from saying something you couldn’t take back.
He let you stay there for a long minute. Just kneeling and waiting, trying not to fall apart before he even touched you again. Then the sound of footsteps filled your ears.Each one dragged with intent across the floor, cutting through the silence like the blade he kept hidden under his mattress.
He stepped into the living room behind you and stood there, long enough for the heat of his body to lick across your skin in a wave. You stayed exactly where you were, heart hammering against the floorboards, fingers trembling slightly against the wood.
“Look at you,” he said. “Actin’ like you ain’t just spend two months tryna replace me.”
You didn’t respond but you felt his presence shift behind you as he got closer and lowered himself down. His voice cut through the space between your shoulder blades like a brand being pressed to your spine.
“Raise it up.”
You knew what he meant. Your elbows bent immediately and you lifted your head from the floor before arching even deeper and spreading your knees. You pushed your ass back until your cheeks tilted up toward him, the lace cutting into your hips and barely covering anything now. The coat spilled open completely, bunching beneath your stomach like discarded evidence.
Stack exhaled hard through his nose. “That’s better,” he said, voice darker now, simmering under his accent like a storm behind his teeth. “Don’t come to my house beggin’ unless you prepared to earn it.”
His hand skimmed up the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the stickiness smeared there, dragging unbothered circles into your skin like he had all night to figure out exactly how wet you were. He paused at the edge of your panties, thumb dipping beneath the elastic, pulling it to the side with a snap that made you gasp.
He stared silently for a moment and you could feel his eyes on your skin. That heavy intense stare he did whenever he was pretending not to be impressed. Pretending you didn’t still mean something to him.
“Damn,” he hummed. “You came here drippin’, huh?”
Your voice was barely a whisper. “I tried… I tried everything else...”
That made him laugh, like full on belly laugh. “You think I give a fuck ‘bout what you tried?” His fingers slid down the crease of your folds without warning, dragging through your sticky honey like it was something that belonged to him. “You think I care you been ridin’ other dicks that ain’t make you cum?”
You gasped as his fingers brushed your clit, just once, before pulling back.
“I ain’t no substitute,” he said. “I’m the fuckin’ standard.”
You whimpered and your toes curled so hard inside your heels you thought they might snap off. His words landed heavy, settling deep in your chest and lower, right where your desires lived. You swallowed but your throat was dry and your skin buzzed like it was stretched too tight over your bones. He stayed pressed behind you for a heartbeat longer, letting the truth of it sink in and letting you feel how solid he was.
Just when you thought he was going to give you what you wanted, he pulled away. The loss of his heat was brutal. It left you empty and aching, forcing your hips to rock back instinctively like your body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. You sucked in a sharp breath through your nose, fingers curling against the floor as you tried to steady yourself once more.
Stack stepped around you and dropped onto the couch with a careless sprawl, like none of this cost him anything. The cushions dipped under his weight. He leaned back, elbows spread wide, gym clothes still clinging dark and damp to his chest and thighs. Sweat traced slow paths down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tank. His shorts sat low on his hips, the outline was still there and unmistakable. His third leg was so thick and heavy even without him touching himself.
He looked at you like you were an unfinished task. “You got two minutes,” he said, checking an invisible watch on his wrist, voice flat and merciless. “Convince me I should fuck you ‘fore I kick you out my house, take me a shower, an take my black ass to bed.”
Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.
“Two minutes,” he repeated. “That’s it.”
You didn’t argue or stall, the second the words left his mouth your body moved like it had been waiting for permission. You pushed up off the floor, heels wobbling and knees screaming as you staggered toward the bathroom. The light flicked on and you grabbed a washcloth from the rack before running it under warm water, and wringing it out fast while your hands shook with urgency and panic and need all tangled together.
You came back into the living room just as fast, cloth in hand, eyes already tracking him like a magnet. You dropped down in front of him, knees hitting the rug, trench coat falling open completely now as you reached for his thigh.
His hand shot out and caught your wrist mid-motion. “Nuh-uh,” he said quietly. “I ain’t tell you to touch me like that.”
Your breath came shallow. “I just wanna—”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, face close enough now that you could see the glint in his eyes. He was testing how far he could push you tonight since he was still pissed. “Don’t come at me with no damn rag. You know better than that.”
Your stomach flipped. “Stack—”
“Uh-uh.” His thumb pressed into the inside of your wrist. “Use ya mouth. Same way I taught you... If you still remember.”
Heat flooded your face and your thighs squeezed together. Shame and want twisted up so tight it made your head spin. You dropped the washcloth to the floor without another word and settled back onto your knees, posture straightening automatically, shoulders back, and chin lifting just enough to show him you were listening.
He leaned back again, spreading his legs wider this time, gaze never leaving your face. “Clock still tickin’, baby,” he said. “You wastin’ time.”
You scooted forward on your knees, hands resting on his thighs, thumbs brushing over damp fabric. You bowed your head and pressed your lips to his knee first, then higher, kissing the sweat-slick skin through the thin cotton of his shorts. Your mouth worked slow with devotion, tongue tracing the outline of his quad, teeth grazing lightly where you knew he liked it.
A quiet sound slipped out of him before he could stop it. You smiled to yourself and leaned in further, mouth open now, dragging kisses up his thigh and your hands tightening as your confidence crept back in. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his shorts and paused, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Please,” you said softly. “Let me.”
He stared down at you for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “Go on,” he said. “But don’t rush it. You rush, you done.”
You tugged his shorts down just enough to free him, the weight of him heavy in your hand, hot and already throbbing. You leaned in and dragged your tongue along the underside, slow and thorough, tasting sweat and salt and him. Your mouth closed around the head, lips stretching and tongue pressing flat as you took him in inch by inch, just like he liked.
His hand came up and tangled in your hair immediately, not pulling, just reminding you who’s in charge. “There you go,” he groaned, voice low and thick. “That’s it... Show me you ain’t forgot.”
You worked him with your mouth, steady and eager, hollowing your cheeks, tongue tracing familiar paths. Your jaw ached but you welcomed it. You wanted to hurt. Wanted to prove something. Your hands slid up his thighs, nails digging in, grounding yourself as you took him deeper.
“Time still runnin’,” he reminded you. “Why shouldn’t I throw you back outside when I finish?”
You pulled back just enough for air, saliva shining on your mouth, your chin damp and eyes sharp when you looked up at him. “Because you like me right here,” you said confidently. “Because this is the only thing that gets you to shut you up.”
His mouth twisted with annoyance and he pushed your head back with two fingers under your chin, not rough, forcing you to look at him. “Nah,” he said. “You know what I think, sweetheart? I think you should go call that nigga you fucked. Bet he’d love to see you on ya knees like this. Go on. Call him.”
The words hit like a splash of cold water and gasoline all at once.
Your eyes flashed with anger. “Fuck you.”
He smiled wider, taunting you. “There it is.”
“You really sittin’ there actin’ brand new,” you shot back, voice rising and heat pouring out of you now that the dam was cracked. “Like you ain’t been runnin’ through bitches since the day I met you. Like I ain’t swallowed your lies and your dick with the same damn mouth.”
His brows lifted slightly amused at your audacity.
“I mirrored you,” you continued, getting to your feet, anger stiffening your spine, heels planting hard against the rug beneath you. “That’s all I did. I mirrored you. And suddenly it’s a problem when it’s not just you doing the dirt.”
He leaned back against the couch, arms stretched out against the cushions. “Difference is,” he said calmly, “I ain’t never pretended I was loyal. You knew the type of man I was ‘fore you got with me.”
“And I ain’t never pretended I was yours,” you fired back. “You don’t get to cheat on me and then act like I committed some unforgivable sin.”
His gaze dragged over you like a blade, not even bothering to hide the contempt crawling up the corners of his mouth. “You never was mine,” he said, voice dipped in venom now. “Just some decent pussy to fuck when I ain’t have nothin’ else to do.”
A breath left your chest like he had punched it out of you. You blinked twice and then your throat worked around the lump swelling up like fury and heartbreak at once. You knew Stack fought dirty. You knew it. And still, every single time somehow, he found new ways to dig beneath the skin and pull the ugliest parts of you right out in the open.
“Wow,” you whispered, voice raw. “That’s how you really feel?”
He tilted his head and smiled like someone who knew they were hurting you and liked how quiet it made you. “If I wanted somethin’ real, I would’ve picked a bitch that didn’t need to fuck somebody else to feel seen.”
You lost your mind for a second as you moved and your palm cracked across his face. Your fingers stung instantly from the hit and his head jerked a little from the impact, but his expression didn’t change. That same crooked grin stayed there, blooming wider now, like you had just handed him a gift.
“Damn,” he breathed, blinking slow. “There she go.”
“Fuck you, Elias,” you hissed.
He didn’t bother answering you with words. One second you were standing in front of him, chest heaving, eyes burning, and the next his hand shot out and yanked you down onto his lap. You let out a sharp gasp, palms flying to his shoulders, and before you could push off, he twisted his body and pinned you underneath him on the couch. Your back collided with the cushion, coat open wide and legs spread by the force of his hips between yours. The position was too familiar. Too natural. Your body molded to it like it had been waiting.
His hands were on either side of your head, arms caging you in, tank top still sticking to his chest as sweat clung to both of you now. His eyes locked on yours, and his voice dropped to that lethal hush that always came before you lost all control. “I’mma tell you this one time an one time only,” he said, inches from your mouth. “Don’t put ya fuckin’ hands on me.”
You glared up at him, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of him. “You act like I’m supposed to forget all the shit you did and let you talk to me crazy just ‘cause your dick big,” you spat.
He leaned in closer, nose nearly brushing yours. “It ain’t just my dick that got you showin’ up in the middle of the night dressed like a whore.”
Your hand flew up to slap him again, but he caught it mid-air, fingers tightening around your wrist before pushing it back into the cushion above your head.
“You think I ain’t peep that lil’ lingerie set?” he sneered. “That coat. Them heels. Walkin’ up to my door like a treat I ain’t earned. Baby, I own this pussy. Don’t matter what I say or do, you’ll always come back to me.”
“You don’t own shit!” you shouted, twisting beneath him. “I let you fuck me, that doesn’t mean you get to treat me like this—”
“You begged me,” he growled. “Ain’t no lettin’ me. You need me!”
“You need me!” you screamed back. “You're just too scared to say it!”
That cracked something open as Stack dropped his weight against you in one hard push, hips pressing into yours, and kissed you so fiercely it felt like a car crash. This kiss was lip bruising and tongue invading. The kind of kiss that destroyed logic and rebuilt it in his name. Your free hand clawed at his back. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging your head back so he could bite your bottom lip, breath mixing with yours, teeth scraping, mouths cussing between kisses.
“Stupid-ass bitch,” he gasped against your throat.
“Piece of shit motherfucker,” you panted, grinding up against him through your soaked panties.
His hips jerked at the friction, letting out a ragged breath that vibrated against the side of your neck. His teeth grazed the skin just below your jaw, not biting yet, just dragging slow like he was thinking about it. Like he wanted to leave a trail of bruises so deep even your next lifetime would know who you belonged to.
Your back arched off the couch, legs spreading wider without permission and heels digging into the cushions for leverage. The trench coat had bunched beneath you, and the lingerie clung to your body like second skin, sheer and stretched and soaked straight through.
Stack pressed his forehead to yours, eyes burning, breaths coming through his nose like he was holding back something ugly and hungry. “You think anybody else could handle this mouth?” he hissed. “You think that nigga you cheated with could deal wit’ you screamin’ an scratchin’ like this?”
“I wasn’t screamin’ for him,” you shot back, voice wrecked. “Wasn’t scratchin’ neither.”
He grinned with cocky triumph. “‘Course you wasn’t,” he said, tongue flicking the corner of his mouth. “Cause ain’t nobody ever fucked you like me.”
You rolled your eyes and scoffed at his arrogance. “Unfortunately.”
His hand shot down between your legs and pressed against the damp fabric of your panties, cupping you so hard your words turned into a stuttering breath.
“Still talkin’ crazy when this pussy cryin’ for me,” he growled. “You lucky I ain’t make you beg out loud in front of my neighbors.”
“Fuck you,” you gasped, hips grinding against his palm now, unable to stop.
He pulled the fabric to the side roughly, letting the elastic snap once before sliding two fingers along your drenched lips. He didn’t push his fingers in, just dragged the tips over your clit in tight, taunting circles.
Your head dropped back, mouth falling open in a silent cry.
“Yeah,” he breathed, watching you fall apart beneath him. “That’s what I thought. Same mouth that said I wasn’t shit… now you beggin’ me to fuck it full.”
You frowned and bit down on his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, to leave evidence and remind him that you weren’t just going to take this lying down… except that’s exactly what you were doing. Laid out under him, back pressing deep into the cushions, thighs spread, coat falling off your shoulders, heels still on. He smelled like gym sweat and pride and the type of anger that didn’t go away with time, only with friction.
He laughed quietly in your ear, voice sticky and dangerous. “A temper tantrum ain’t gon’ save you,” he said. “You came here to get used. So I’ma use you.”
“You keep acting like I didn’t let you,” you bit back, legs twitching around his waist. “Like you ever had control without me giving it to you.”
He pulled back just far enough to look at you and stare down at you like he was re-reading a sentence that pissed him off. His lips twitched and he spoke. “You really sittin’ under me talkin’ like you special,” he said, voice drenched in disbelief. “You not. You convenient pussy. Easy an familiar.”
You blinked once, and the sting in your chest made your hands curl into fists. “Right,” you scoffed. “That must be why you nutted inside me four times last time and said you felt like crying when you had to pull out of me.”
His jaw ticked, the muscles underneath his skin showing his visible frustration.
You smirked. “Oops. Forgot I wasn’t supposed to remember shit like that, huh?”
“Bitch.”
“Asshole.”
“You know what?” he said, shaking his head, the smile on his face as ugly as it was honest. “I don’t even like you.”
“I don’t like you either,” you shot back, dragging your nails up his sides just to feel him twitch. “You think that dick of yours makes up for that trash personality.”
“Maybe it do,” he said, and shoved his hips forward once, hard enough to make the breath leave your lungs in a gasp as your eyes rolled back for a moment. “Cause it got you showin’ up like a damn junkie beggin’ for another hit.”
You sucked in air through your teeth, hands gripping the cushions beneath you, anger and want tangling together until they both combined into needy desire. Your chest rose and fell hard, sweat slicking your skin, hair sticking to your temples.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Elias,” you shot back, voice strained but biting. “You ain’t special either. You are nothing but a placeholder until I find someone better.”
Way to go, that was the straw that finally broke the camels back.
Something in Stack’s expression shifted. It was quieter and dangerous as the amusement drained from his eyes, and replaced itself with something focused and tired of the back-and-forth. He straightened over you, hands braced on either side of your head, studying your face like he was deciding how best to break you without touching you at all.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m done arguin’.”
Before you could respond, his hands went to your shoulders and dragged the trench coat down your arms, fabric sliding rough against your heated skin. You barely had time to register the cool air hitting your chest before he yanked the coat free completely and tossed it aside like trash. His attention dropped to the lace beneath, cherry red and vibrant against your skin.
His mouth curled. “Real cute,” he muttered. “Shame you think you get to keep this.” He hooked his fingers into the straps at your shoulders and pulled hard. The lace protested before it stretched and tore with a sharp rip that echoed too loud in the room.
Your breath caught. “Stack—”
“Oops,” he said flatly, not sorry in the slightest. He tore the rest away in quick, ruthless motions, fabric shredding under his hands until there was nothing left but scraps clinging uselessly to your hips. “Ain’t nobody else need to see you in this.”
Heat flared through you, equal parts fury and arousal. “You don’t get to decide that!”
He leaned down, face close enough that his nose brushed yours, eyes dark and unblinking. “Just did. Don’t like it, then leave.”
Then he pushed your knees apart wider and slid down the couch, grip firm on your thighs as he repositioned you exactly how he wanted. Your back arched instinctively, skin buzzing and legs trembling as he settled between them. The sight of him there, his broad shoulders filling the space, hands steady, and jaw set made your stomach twist tight.
He looked up at you once more. “Don’t make a fuckin’ sound,” he said quietly, accent thickening, voice sharp with warning. “Tired of hearin’ that mouth.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “You know that I can’t—”
His mouth met you without mercy. You didn’t even get to finish the sentence before his tongue pressed flat against you, licking up the mess you had made just by thinking about him. The laughter on your tongue died instantly, strangled into silence as your back twisted off the couch, hands scrambling to grip anything that would hold you down.
He didn’t ease into eating you out. There was no building or softness, just Stack’s reckless mouth moving like he had been waiting two months to remind you who the fuck you belonged to. Every lick felt personal and every swirl of his tongue was laced with malice and memory.
And then a sound that was small, high and involuntary broke loose from your throat. His head lifted and one eyebrow arched. You barely had time to blink before his palm came down hard on the inside of your thigh. The slap echoed like a gunshot in the room, heat blossoming where his hand struck.
You cried out in surprise, but quickly slapped your own hand over your mouth.
“Thought I said quiet,” he said without lifting his voice. “You act like you don’t remember how to fuckin’ listen.”
Then he dove back in, tongue flicking fast against your clit, lips sealing around it, sucking once more and just when you felt another moan building, another slap landed on the other thigh. This one was harder and stinged with correction.
You jerked under him and whined. “Stack—”
Smack.
“You don’t follow my rules, you get punished,” he said against your flesh. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”
You tried again and bit down on your knuckle. You squeezed your eyes shut and dug your heels into the couch cushion before lifting your hips as if that might help, as if meeting his mouth halfway would take the edge off. But Stack wasn’t letting up. His tongue flicked with devastating accuracy, and just when you thought he might give you a break—smack. Another hit. This time lower, right under the curve of your ass.
You whimpered, unable to hold it in.
“Every time you make a sound, sweetheart,” he said without pausing, “I’mma hit you harder.”
Another moan, this one sharper.
Smack.
Your thighs were shaking now, red and stinging, your body caught somewhere between unbearable pleasure and brutal discipline. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you open wider, mouth locked in place like he had nowhere else to be but right there, destroying you slowly, thoroughly, deliberately.
This went on for three minutes and then he just abruptly stopped. The sudden absence hit harder than any slap. Your hips jerked, chasing what disappeared, a broken sound spilling out before you could trap it.
Stack lifted his head and stared at you, mouth slick, eyes flat. “Still loud,” he said. Not angry. Just done. “Guess I gotta give you somethin’ worth all that noise.”
He rose to his feet without another word and left the living room.
You laid on his couch exposed, legs trembling, chest heaving, and skin still burning from where he had hit you. The quiet was unbearable and every second that passed amplified how you could feel your body screaming for contact while your mind spun in frantic circles, wondering what he was about to do.
You barely had time to gather yourself before he came back. Stack re-entered the room already stripping his soaked shirt over his head, fabric peeling off his skin and tossed aside carelessly. Sweat glistened across his chest and shoulders, muscles flexing as he rolled his neck once, twice, like he was resetting himself. Like he was preparing for work.
In his hand was a small black bullet vibrator. Your breath stuttered and he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, he bent down and picked up your phone from where it had slid onto the floor earlier. His thumb flicked the screen awake. One glance at the contact list. One name.
He smirked.
“Damn,” he muttered. “You really do keep trophies.”
“Stack,” you warned weakly.
He ignored you as he tapped the screen. The FaceTime ring tone filled the room, sharp and intrusive, bouncing off the walls. Your stomach dropped and the screen lit up with Calling…
He set the phone on the coffee table, angled just right so you could see it, so you could hear it. Then he crouched between your legs again, calm as an undisturbed river.
“Relax,” he said quietly. “The nigga ain’t answer yet.”
The ringing continued and your heart pounded so hard it made you feel light headed.
“Hang it up before he answers,” you snapped. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He leaned in close, voice low and even. “Teachin’ you how to shut up.”
Your skin crawled in anticipation, heat crawled up your neck, and your chest rose unevenly as you tried to keep still beneath the weight of that voice… That intent. One more ring came through the speaker of your phone before that dreaded FaceTime Connected sound blasted loudly. You gulped as the screen went to a live, front-facing video of the man you cheated on Stack with.
His room was half-lit and he was sitting shirtless on a couch, blinking in confusion as he stared into the camera. “Hello…?” he said, rubbing his face. “Yo—who the fuck—?”
Stack didn’t even look up from between your thighs. “Bitch-ass nigga,” he said dryly, thumb still resting on the power button of the vibrator but not moving it yet. “What’s good?”
The man’s face twisted instantly. “Huh? Who the fuck is this? Where my girl at?”
You tried to sit up, panic flooding your body in waves, but Stack’s hand landed on your stomach, pushing you back into the couch like your body belonged to the furniture.
“She busy,” Stack said casually. “But I figured since you was so damn memorable, I’d let you watch how it’s really done.”
“Stack,” you hissed through gritted teeth, trying to grab the phone. “Turn that shit off—”
Stack pressed the vibrator directly onto your clit and your whole body bucked. The sound that flew from your mouth wasn’t human.
“That’s my woman!” your ex shouted, his jaw tightening on the screen. “You really went back to that fuck nigga? After everything he did? Have you lost your mind?”
Stack’s laugh rang through his living room like an angelic melody. “Nah,” he said, keeping pressure on the toy with his palm as he looked directly into your pleading eyes. “You must’ve lost yours thinkin’ she actually belonged to you.”
You weakly slapped him on the chest. “E-Elias! H-Hang up!”
He shoved your thigh wider, eyes narrowing, tone turning darker. “Nah,” he growled. “You wanted to be mouthy tonight. This the price.”
“Aye, fuck you, bruh,” the ex barked, voice rising now. “You outta pocket. Who the fuck even are you?”
“I’m the nigga that you’ll never be,” Stack fired back. “I’m the reason she won’t be answering ya texts anymore. I’m the reason she drippin’ all over my couch right now.”
“You sound real comfortable behind a screen, bitch,” the man snapped.
Stack finally looked up, sweat glistening across his chest, muscles flexing as he tightened his hold on the toy that was now pulsing rhythmically against your most sensitive spot. “I am comfortable,” he said into the screen, his voice calm and cruel, Southern syllables slithering out like a threat made of silk and blood. “I’m sittin’ on my own couch, shirt off, dick hard, while my bitch squirmin’ under me.”
You let out a strangled moan, hips bucking against the toy, one hand grasping at the armrest above your head while the other curled uselessly at your side. The vibrator buzzed in relentless, brutal circles against your clit, sending fresh waves of heat crashing down your spine like tidal water laced with shame.
Stack didn’t spare you another glance. His eyes were locked on the screen. The tight smirk on his lips made it clear, he wasn’t just speaking to your ex. He was performing. Declaring. Marking his territory with his chest out and his toy buried between your trembling thighs.
“You ever see her like this?” Stack asked, brows raised, tone sharp and casual like he was talking over a card game. “Nah. You ain’t never earned this.”
“Stack—fuck—I can’t—” your voice cracked, high and shuddering.
He looked down at you then and he saw everything. The tremble in your lip, the glassiness in your eyes, the way your thighs jerked with every pass of the toy, and how your back lifted off the couch like your body was seconds from coming completely undone. You were close, too close. Closer than he wanted anyone else to see you.
Stack’s jaw ticked once, then he reached forward and ended the call.
Click.
The screen went black and he tossed the phone behind him like it wasn’t worth another second of his attention before looking back down at you. His woman. Spread out beneath him completely ruined and needy without him fucking you yet. On the edge of something too raw for pride to interrupt.
“Ion’ share,” he said simply, voice low, dragging and thick with possession. “Not even that part.”
Your hips jerked again, thighs trembling as you choked on another moan, but he didn’t let up. He pressed the toy harder on your clit, the rhythm brutal, your orgasm so close it felt like static in your veins.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
You tried but you couldn’t stop your eyelids from fluttering. The pleasure was pulling you under too fast, forcing your mouth to hang open on a sound you couldn’t hold back.
“Look. At. Me.”
Finally your eyes met his and your body shattered as your climax hit like a car crash. Your legs clamped around his wrist, hips bucking, every muscle locking and twitching as the orgasm tore through you. You screamed without sound, hands digging into the cushions like you were trying not to disappear through the floor. Your whole body convulsed under his hand, thighs shaking violently, tears slipping down your cheeks as you rode it out in full view of the only man who could ever drag something like this out of you.
Stack just watched silently. His lips twitched into a smirk as you finally collapsed with your chest heaving like you had just run a mile. “That’s what the fuck I thought,” he said, pulling the toy back and tossing it to the floor like he was done with his appetizer and finally ready for the main meal.
You blinked up at him, dazed with your mascara streaked and body wrecked. But still there was that look in your eye. A bratty little spark that never died.
Stack saw it and his smirk deepened. He hovered over you, his breath heavy and hot as it poured down across your flushed face. His bare chest gleamed in the dim light, the scent of sweat and satisfaction clinging to his skin like warpaint. His forearms caged your head back in place, and he was far from finished.
You could feel his desire for you pressing right against your inner thigh. His dick jumped with excitement as his swollen tip left streaks of precum across your skin. Every inch of him hovered above you, commanding and still, like a beast watching his prey blink back into focus after the first strike.
“You look like you seen a ghost,” he said quietly, one brow raising. “That lil’ nut took it outta you?”
You swallowed. “You act like you didn’t just try to kill me.”
He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear, and dragged his words across your skin like teeth. “That nigga still breathin’. I was bein’ nice.”
Your eyes shut closed, breath catching as his hips pressed lower, the weight of him grinding against your bare center.
“But since you still wanna act like a mouthy lil’ bitch,” he continued, voice calm and sharp, “we can do this the other way.” Your thighs squeezed reflexively. He chuckled, deep and full of filth. “Ahh… there she go. Actin’ like she don’t love when I talk to her like this.”
You wanted to tell him to shut up. You wanted to say something mean and nasty, just to keep up the tension, just to keep the game going. But your mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Your brain was still recovering from the overload he gave you. All you could do was lie there, stripped bare of pride, heart hammering, and thighs still shaking in that aftershock rhythm.
He bit down on his bottom lip as his hands tugged your ruined panties down the rest of the way and off your ankles. His fingers trailed down the curves of your thighs with a sick kind of admiration, like he was preparing a meal he had waited too long to devour. His gaze dipped down between your legs, and he let out a low breath.
“Still twitchin’,” he groaned. “You that fucked up already? Two months without Daddy got you this sensitive?”
You managed a weak, bratty laugh. “Please. I’m just getting warmed up.”
He looked at you then and that trademark Stack expression spread across his lips like a storm: proud, annoyed, aroused, and possessive.
“Cute,” he said. “You still talkin’ like you in control.”
He spit into his hand before palming his dick and giving it a few tugs. Veins wrapping down his brown shaft like he was built to destroy and nothing else. He had the kind of dick that made your mouth water and your eyes widen. The kind of dick that made your thighs instinctively shift apart to make room even when your body was already shaking from everything he had just done.
“Turn over,” he ordered. “Face in the cushion. Ass up.”
You unintentionally hesitated and Stack was on you in an instant, flipping your body like you weighed nothing. He grabbed your hips and dragged them up until your knees sank into the couch and your ass arched high, back bowed, face buried in the cushion like a punishment.
“Yeah,” he praised, voice thick now, tone changing. “This how I like it. This how I missed it.”
His hands roamed down your back like they were retracing territory that had been stolen from him. His palms dragged along the curve of your spine, heat radiating through his fingers like fire looking for somewhere to catch. He gripped your waist again tighter this time before his thumbs pressed into the dips just above your ass as if molding you into the position he wanted, not what you thought you could give.
You were open and vulnerable in a way that should’ve made you ashamed, but all it did was make your walls flutter around nothing, already begging for him. Stack’s length slid between your swollen lips, heavy and dragging through the mess he just made, tip nudging your entrance without going in. And he just held it there as he let his possessiveness fester.
You could feel it before he said anything. How it boiled in his skin, pulsing behind his grip. That jealousy he never liked to admit. That quiet rage tucked beneath the bravado. It was all there, swelling under the surface, waiting for an excuse to come out and you were the perfect excuse.
His voice dropped lower and rougher. “You gave him this?” he asked, hips pressing forward just enough for the head to breach, then pull back again.
You opened your mouth to speak and swallowed the words back down.
“You let him touch what I broke in?”
You swallowed hard, face still buried in the cushion. “It wasn’t like that—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His hand came down hard on your tender ass, palm stinging against your skin, the sound loud and final. You jolted beneath him, a gasp falling out of your mouth before you could catch it.
Stack’s hand stayed there, firm and heavy like a silent warning. “You got me fucked up thinkin’ I’m just another nigga in rotation,” he said, grinding the tip against your entrance. “This mine. You don’t get to hand this shit out like clearance candy.”
Your hips jerked back on instinct, chasing the contact, the friction lighting you up in a way that made your thoughts scatter. The denial sat sharp in your chest, equal parts anger and need, and it made your voice come out reckless. “You don’t get to say that,” you shot back, breath uneven and fingers bunching the cushion beneath your cheek. “You don’t get to claim shit when you disappear whenever it suits you.”
His grip tightened, it was hard enough to make your body register it as a command. He leaned in, chest pressing along your spine and heat seeping through you like a warning flare. “I get to say and do whatever I want,” he replied, accent thickening, words cruel and dangerous. “You still spreadin’ yourself open for me.”
You sucked in a sharp breath as he rolled his hips again, the head of him dragging through you with maddening patience. It felt like he was tracing your outline, memorizing every reaction and cataloging every twitch like proof.
“See that?” he continued, voice low near your ear. “That little shake. That’s you rememberin’.”
“I remember you lying,” you snapped, still bratting, still biting even as your knees trembled. “I remember you saying you’d be back and not showing up.”
His hand slid from your ass to your hip, fingers digging in, holding you steady. “An I remember you answerin’ texts you shouldn’t have,” he countered. “I remember you lettin’ another nigga think he had access.”
The tip pressed in a fraction, then retreated. Again. Again. Each time closer, each time crueler.
“You still wanna argue?” he asked softly. “We can argue like this all night, baby.”
Stack nudged forward just enough to make you gasp, not enough to satisfy, then pulled back again, leaving you empty and aching. Your thighs shook. A sound threatened to escape, and you bit it back, teeth sinking into the cushion. A quiet sound slid out of his chest as his hand left your hip and slipped beneath your thighs, fingers spreading you wider, lifting just enough to change the angle and steal what little balance you had left. The shift sent a sharp jolt through you, heat pooling fast and heavy. His thumb brushed your bundle of nerves once, feather‑light, like an accident he planned from the start.
“There it is,” he said, voice calm, almost patient. “That little twitch. You still wanna talk?”
You didn’t want to give Stack the satisfaction of giving up so easily as your mouth opened with something sharp lined up, something mean and clever, something that would keep the fight alive. Instead, another broken sound slipped out, thin and helpless, and you hated yourself for it.
He smiled without looking at your face. His thumb circled your clit again, firmer now, tracing slow, taunting paths that made your toes curl and your back bow deeper. You could feel him pressing into you at the same time, the head of him thick and insistent, slicker now. The heat of it pulsed against your inner walls, and you felt the telltale warmth spread where he leaked into you, sticky and undeniable.
“I know you feel that,” he taunted, almost conversational. “That’s from me bein’ backed up an irritated.”
Your breath came uneven, chest dragging air like it wasn’t enough. “You always gotta make everything a fight.”
He laughed quietly. “You the one who won’t shut up.”
His thumb pressed harder, just enough pressure to make you see stars. You tried to pull away, more reflex than plan, and his grip tightened instantly, fingers locking you in place.
“Uh‑uh,” he warned. “Stay.”
Your hips betrayed you, rocking back into his hand, chasing the contact even as your pride burned hot. He felt that too as he leaned in closer, chest brushing your back, voice dropping lower and heavier.
“Finish sayin’ whatever bullshit you had ready so I can finally fuck you proper,” he said. “Go on. Get it out.”
“I hate how you do this,” you managed, words breaking apart. “You act like you don’t care and then—then you—”
His thumb swept just right, and the sentence died in your throat. “An then I what? Huh? What does Daddy do to you?” he prompted, pressing into you again, letting more of that heat spill inside. You felt it this time, unmistakable, his need leaking into you as much as yours was pulling him in.
“And then you make me forget why I’m mad,” you admitted, breathless and angry at yourself for it.
“That’s what I thought,” he said.
His hand moved with more purpose now, thumb working steady, fingers lifting your thighs higher to keep you open, exposed. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t let you drift. He kept you right there, suspended, arguing with him in half‑sentences and broken sounds while your body told the truth for you. The truth was, despite everything, you were his. You hated him. You wanted him. You were brattier than he could stand, and he was meaner than you could handle, and yet, here you were, strung out on his touch.
Stack kept his hand between your thighs until your legs trembled, until your head dropped forward, until the only sound leaving your lips was a strangled whimper. Then when you were back on the edge of no return, he pulled his hand away, and slammed himself into you with no warning.
You sobbed with delight from the sudden fullness, your hands clawing for anything to steady you as he bottomed out inside you, all that leaked frustration now buried deep in your walls, throbbing with each brutal inch.
His breath left him in a grunt. “Fuck.” All the anger, all the months of silence, the imagined visions of you with someone else, the ache of missing you but being too damn prideful to admit it… it all hit at once.
Stack gripped your hips like they were handles and dragged you back onto his dick with vicious, hungry strokes. His rhythm was punishing, each thrust landing like he was carving his name into you from the inside.
“You don’t get to leave me like that,” he growled, sweat rolling down his spine, skin slapping yours in loud, wet echoes that filled the room. “You don’t get to walk out, give this shit to somebody else, then come back actin’ like I owe you a soft welcome.”
You cried out beneath him, head dropping, arms collapsing beneath you.
“Couldn’t even breathe without thinkin’ about this pussy,” he spat, pace never slowing, dick punching into you with a rhythm that forced your body to comply. “Had me losin’ sleep. Dreamin’ ‘bout you. Wakin’ up hard, mad as hell I ain’t hate you enough to let it go.”
Your only answer was a cry that was raw and desperate and torn from your chest as his grip tightened and his body crowded yours. The couch groaned beneath you both, cushions dipping with every drive of his hips, the room filling with the sound of skin meeting skin and the rough drag of breath you couldn’t steady. Your thoughts scattered. Every time you tried to form a word, he stole it back with another thrust, deeper, firmer, and claiming space inside you like he was filling the silence he had carried for months.
He leaned in, chest pressed to your back, sweat slicking you together. His forearm slid beneath your thighs again, lifting, changing the angle, making everything feel sharper and closer all at once. The pressure bloomed, hot and demanding, and you felt how wet you were around him, how you took him without hesitation despite every argument you had thrown like knives.
“Say somethin’,” he urged, voice rough at your ear. “Say you hear me.”
“I hear you,” you managed, words breaking apart as your hips betrayed you, pushing back to meet him. “I hear all of it.”
He answered by setting a pace that made your legs tremble. His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, fingers spreading, holding you still when your body tried to run ahead of him. Then everything shifted as he hauled you up and over in one fluid motion, strength effortless, like he had been waiting for this angle the whole damn time. Your back hit the couch cushions again, breath spilling out of you as he folded you in on yourself, thighs pressed tight to your chest, knees hooked over his shoulders. Your body bent and open, nowhere to hide, nowhere to look but straight at him.
“Eyes on me,” he said, already there, already lined up.
His legs planted wide on either side of the couch, muscles locked, stance solid as he drove back into you. The change left you breathless and getting fucked like this felt different. Every thrust felt deeper and louder in your body. Every stroke pushed something loose inside you. Every pullback made your toes curl as he came right back in again, hammering with intent and with all that pent‑up frustration he had been carrying since you guys broke up.
You grabbed at his forearms, fingers digging in, nails leaving marks you would see tomorrow and pretend not to remember.
“Look at you,” he said, breath heavy now, eyes dark and fixed on your face. “Tryna argue with me when this how you fold.”
“I hate you,” you said, but it came out thin, breathless, wrecked by the way he filled you.
He smiled and let out a chuckle. “Say it with your eyes,” he told you, thrusting harder, hips snapping forward until the couch thudded against the wall. “Say you ain’t been thinkin’ ‘bout this every night.”
Your gaze locked with his, pupils blown, jaw tight as another wave rolled through you. You nodded once, sharp and helpless.
“Good,” he said. “Don’t lie to me now.”
His grip shifted, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you higher, folding you tighter until the stretch made your muscles burn. His legs braced, powerful, keeping him steady as he drove into you again and again, each stroke landing right where you were weakest.
The couch creaked under both of you, the rhythm harsh and unforgiving. You couldn’t catch your breath and your body was coiled so tight it felt like you were unraveling one nerve at a time. Stack didn’t let up. He didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. His eyes tracked every tremor, every twitch, like he was reading a code only your body could write. But then a wave of tightness squeezed his dick and he paused for just a second as his brows lifted.
“You tryna cum again?” he asked, words like smoke curling off a live wire. “Hmm? This dick got you feelin’ good?”
You whined and nodded as your thighs shook and clit throbbed in time with your heartbeat. He smirked and then spit. Thick and hot, the trail of it landing right between where you were joined. It dripped down, sticky and warm, and made your whole body jolt.
“Ight,” he said, the edge in his voice cutting deep. “I been doin’ all the work. Rub it out. Right now. Make a mess of that pussy.”
Your hand trembled as you reached down, fingers slipping between your folds, circling that swollen bundle like it owed you something. It was too much to handle with his dick buried inside of you, the way he held you there, stuffed full and stretched wide, and the filthy slick sound of everything between you amplified by spit and slick and need.
Your other hand reached out on instinct, bracing against the only thing that felt real, Stack’s lower stomach, firm and warm, rippling under your palm.
“Uh uh,” he warned, eyes narrowing with something darker. “Move that hand.”
You froze.
“Get that hand off my stomach an keep rubbin’ that clit.”
“I—I just needed—”
“You need to follow directions,” he cut in, voice sharp enough to leave marks. “Wanna cum so bad, but can’t even keep ya hands to yourself.”
You whimpered again, dragging your hand back to your side, focus breaking from the ache to the heat in his tone. But you didn’t stop touching yourself. You couldn’t. The pressure was too much.
“Daddy,” you whispered, desperate now, hoping the nickname might soften something, anything. “Please, Daddy—”
His face didn’t move. He didn’t show not even a flicker of sympathy. His jaw stayed tight, eyes fixed on your face like he saw through the plea and down into the part of you that was trying to manipulate him. “Oh now I’m Daddy again?” he asked, not amused. “You only call me that when you want somethin’.”
Stack held you there, folded and full, letting the words hang heavy while your body kept betraying you. You could feel it happening anyway, the way you clenched around him, the way your clit twitched beneath your fingers like it had a mind of its own. Heat spread and pooled, slick gathering faster than you could control. It leaked down, warm and shameless, making a soft sound every time he pressed deeper.
“There it is,” he said, voice cutting, eyes tracking the way your body responded. “Be a perfect lil’ slut an make a mess on me.”
You bit down hard on your bottom lip, breath coming apart. “I—I—I—”
“Don’t tell me you can’t,” he cut in, rolling his hips just enough to make you gasp. “I can feel you. You grippin’ me like you scared I’m gon’ leave.”
He leaned in closer, one hand braced by your shoulder, the other steadying your thigh so you couldn’t close. His gaze never left your face as he spoke, like he wanted you to hear every word right as it landed. “Go on,” he taunted softly. “Rub it just like that. Small circles. Squeeze that pussy an cum for me.”
Your fingers obeyed, trembling, slick sounds filling the space between your bodies. The sensation climbed sharp and bright, making your toes curl and your back bow tighter. You could feel yourself leaking more now, heat spilling as the pressure built.
“That’s it,” he said. “See how wet you get when you stop arguin’?”
Your mouth opened on a sound you couldn’t stop, eyes squeezing shut as your hips jerked.
“Eyes open,” he ordered, tightening his grip. “I wanna see it.”
You forced them open, meeting his stare just as your body tipped closer to the edge. The look in his eyes was dark and intent, not cruel now, just focused, like he was guiding you through something inevitable.
“You right there,” he continued, voice steady, almost instructional. “That shake in your legs? That’s it comin’ on. Don’t fight it.”
“Let it happen,” he said. “You leakin’ like that ‘cause you want it. ‘Cause ya body know where it belong.”
Stack watched you the whole time. He watched the way your brows knit, the way your mouth tried to hold back sound and failed, the way your thighs quivered against his forearms as he kept you folded and open.
“Mmmhmm,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as another shudder rolled through you. “There it is...”
You tried to speak again and couldn’t. Your fingers slick and shining kept moving just like he told you, small circles that tightened the pressure until it felt like your body was winding itself into a knot. The couch creaked as he drove in again, not harder, just deeper, making the fullness bloom and hold.
“Good,” he said, catching the hitch in your breath before it broke. “Stay with it. Don’t pull away now.”
Your head fell back against the cushion, eyes glassy as the heat climbed and hovered, bright and unbearable. The leaking turned into a steady spill, warmth spreading as your muscles constricted and grabbed without permission.
“That’s it,” he coached, tone unwavering. “You right on top of it. You ain’t gotta say nothin’. Just cum for me.”
The last sentence tipped you over. Your body seized and shook, legs drawing tight as the release tore through you in long, rolling waves. A sound finally escaped, broken and honest, as you rode it out, breath stuttering while he held you exactly where you were, steady and present through every tremor.
Stack stayed buried deep, letting you finish on him, letting your body milk every last aftershock without interruption. He watched your face as it happened, watched the way your jaw slackened and your eyes glazed, watched the way your fingers curled uselessly at his forearms like you needed something solid to keep from floating away.
When the shaking eased and your breath finally found a rhythm again, he shifted and the change pulled a startled sound from you, oversensitive and spent, and that’s when he finally let himself react. A low groan rolled out of his chest, rough and dragged straight from his gut as hips started to move again with intent that had nothing left to prove to you and everything to prove to himself.
“Ight,” he said, voice strained now, edges fraying. “My turn.”
He adjusted his stance, legs planting wider, muscles tightening as he set a pace meant for him. Each thrust was full and claiming, the kind that dragged sensation from your spine down to your toes even though you were already wrung out. You felt how hard he was, how slick he had made you both, how his control shifted from instruction to hunger.
His hand slid to your hip, fingers digging in possessively. “Look at you,” he taunted. “Two times an you still takin’ me like you ain’t tired.”
You tried to answer and couldn’t. Your body answered for you, soft and open and still welcoming every drive.
“That’s what get me,” he went on, breath uneven, jaw tight. “You talk all that shit but ain’t nobody else gettin’ this. Ain’t nobody else see you like this an live to tell it.”
His rhythm grew heavier, more insistent, the couch rocking beneath you both. He leaned in, forehead brushing yours, eyes locked on your face like he needed to see exactly who he was finishing with.
“You mine tonight,” he said, ego flaring as the pressure built. “Say it.”
You could barely form a thought, let alone a word, but that didn’t stop your lips from parting, voice raw and sweet from overuse. “I’m yours.”
That was all Stack needed to hear before a growl tore from his throat like it had been caged too long. His grip shifted, possessive hands dragging your hips down to meet every bruising thrust. The sound of your skin meeting and the sloshing of your wetness filled the room but he didn’t let up. He fucked you like it was the last time. Like someone might steal you if he didn’t leave his mark in every damn place they could reach. Like he had been starving for months and your body was the only meal worth waiting for.
“That’s right,” he gritted out, voice rough and strangled now. “Say it again. Say who this pussy belong to.”
You tried to speak again but all you managed was a broken moan and his name on a breath that sounded more like worship than surrender. Stack leaned over you, sweat dripping down the angle of his neck. His chest heaved, body strung tight with all that possessive rage simmering just beneath his skin.
He spat on his fingers before sliding them on your overworked clit again while he kept pounding into you, each stroke hitting deeper than the last, chasing his own high now with no regard for mercy.
“Say it.”
“Y-you—E-Elias, it’s yours—it’s always been—”
“Damn right,” he snapped, body trembling now. “Ain’t no other motherfucker ever gonna touch what’s mine. Not ever again!”
And then you felt it, that slight hitch in his movement, that drop in control, and that telltale sign that he was seconds away from losing every ounce of composure he had left.
Your legs gave out as you had finally reached your own limit for the third time tonight and were done fighting it. “D-DADDY—”
“I know,” he breathed, voice breaking. “I know, baby.”
He slammed into you one last time and stayed there, everything in him going rigid as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding your insides in waves. His jaw tensed, teeth bared, and his breathing became heavy as he heaved through flared nostrils while his orgasm tore through him. And he stayed buried in your pussy like it was his second home. Arms braced around your trembling thighs, eyes locked to yours even as they narrowed from the intensity.
Stack stayed buried deep, twitching inside you, body refusing to move even after the worst of it had passed. His breath came ragged now, chest rising like bellows, nostrils wide, jaw still locked like he didn’t trust what might come out if he opened his mouth too soon. Sweat beaded at his temples, rolled down the line of his neck, dripping onto your collarbone like proof that he had left every drop of himself inside you.
He moved, barely, but just enough to lean forward and press a kiss to your forehead, and even that felt like a threat wrapped in tenderness. His weight dipped, elbows framing your head as his palms flattened beside your shoulders. His hips jerked once, deep and involuntary, and it pulled a gasp from both of you. Yours was softer, stunned; his like he was mad sex with you still felt this good even after the fight, even after the mess.
Your fingers moved instinctively, trying to remold his damp waves back into place, trying to soften him, but he didn’t want soft from you. Not yet.
“Uh-uh,” he warned, grabbing your wrist and pinning it down to the cushion beside your head. “You don’t get to touch me all sweet and pretend like you ain’t start this shit.”
You squinted your eyes ready to rebuttal his claims, but he tilted his head, eyes sharp, daring you to test him again. “I said you mine,” he breathed. “You’ve been claimed. Ain’t no goin’ back. Not after this.”
He pulled back just enough to look between your bodies and see the creamy mess already starting to spill from where you were stretched around him, at the obscene mix of arousal and release that soaked both your thighs and glistened in the low light. He groaned under his breath, rough and pained.
Then without warning, he rolled his hips again, slow but deep, grinding his softening dick inside you like he wanted to push everything back in.
“Still fuckin’ twitchin’,” he said, eyes narrowing again. “Greedy ass pussy… We got two more rounds left before I forgive you. Turn over again, baby.”
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Note: Let's just pretend I haven't been withholding these updates again *cough* I'll be back 🤸🏾♀️🤸🏾♀️🏃🏾♀️🏃🏾♀️
summary: you were hired as the most highly sought after escort in your city to ‘entertain’ the members for kim seokjin’s 34th birthday. but how far does ‘down for whatever’ usually go?
word count: 6,528
content warnings: no actual smut in this part, use of y/n, alcohol use and smoking, reader isn’t a fan but know of them, y/n is a cisgender female who uses she/her pronouns, established safe word, y/n is tipsy but cognisant enough to give informed consent, y/n is stripped naked by the guys.
author’s note: this was gonna be one part, but it was getting so long i didn’t want you guys to go too long without content!! thank you to my friend yugen for the suggestion 😗
You were the type of person to, so to speak, leave no stone unturned whenever you prepared for anything. That’s what your mother had always told you — fail to prepare and you’re prepared to fail. Something told you that she didn’t exactly mean escort work, but it still similarly applied regardless.
You had gotten used to managing yourself after being through how brutal the escorting world could be after working under someone. They had no shame in stripping you of your remaining pennies if it meant lining their already protruding stomachs before yours that growled into dark hours. It was hard to start out independently, what with being stripped of the comfort and safety of an organisation of sorts, but it wasn’t long before your name grew roots among the elites. You had escorted for international basketball players, reality TV stars — you had even happened upon business moguls from time to time who were always equipped with a thick wad of cash besides the premium you already charge. Money was aflow and never in the far distance — that’s exactly how you like it.
It was one faithful day that an agent — foreign number, name unknown to your ear — had contacted you, asking for your services on behalf of their client. This was nothing new, as many of the public figures you had the pleasure of working with required some form of confidentiality in working out arrangements. However, even you thought this process was overkill. You had met up with this agent three separate times; a local, quaint café you frequented because of their delightful matcha lattes, a sculpture park in the middle of the city where the scent of the air was thick with freshly mowed grass, then finally a rented-out office space where the atmosphere still smelled faintly of paint. There was no shortage of disclaimers from said agent that his clients were relatively easy to please so long as your personality was at least a step or two over a lick of drying paint on dry wall — at the very least, you had that going for you. Then came the contracts. In your years of experience, you had come to be talented in the art of picking out bullshit quicker than most lawyers. Armed with coffee, your highlighter and your reading glasses, you took both contracts home with you to fully dissect.
You were given two contracts — both almost exactly identical in language, phrasing and clauses. As for the contents itself, there were no flaws with regards to possible holes to fall into or any loopholes that might work against you in the future. However, there was a distinct difference that even the agent had explained when he had slid both wads of paper across the grey table towards your manicured nails. One was non-sexual, one was. Now, you were no stranger to sexual clauses in your contracts nor did you shy away from signing a few in your seasoned career for the right price. While the non-sexual price was already paying handsomely in the high five figure range, the sexual contract was easily close to mid six-figures. You had attended parties of 20 for less, let alone a party of 7. Food was provided, transportation was provided and so was all 7 men’s STI testing results for the last six months. All follow up questions you could’ve possibly asked were answered carefully any with effort in simply reading the contract. How many times had they done this before?
Naturally, you met with the agent once again with the signed contract and your previous six months of STI testing documentation in tow.
BTS was a name you were vaguely familiar with between news stories, pop gossip and their music blasting through the speakers of your local store and radio stations. It wasn’t something you had paid much heed to, but you were acutely aware of just how famous they were. In the weeks leading up to the faithful night, you were privy to just how crazy the fandom were through the agent’s own words and videos on the internet.
It was all a little intimidating, really.
Two days prior, you checked into the very hotel the singers would soon arrive in. You made a very good impression of a tourist, if you do say so yourself. The agent had given you a junior suite, which suited you just fine with a fully stocked mini bar, room service and access to the spa included in your stay. You used it to its fullest potential, almost forgetting you’re there to work.
Alas, duty calls.
You staked out in the smoking area of the hotel the morning of, burying yourself behind a dusty book courtesy of the bookshelf in the lobby. You didn’t shy too far from the corny movie stereotypes, it seemed. The smoking area was located at the rear of the building, surrounded by a wooden barrier-like fence covered in climbing ivy, but the seat you had chosen allowed you to get a sliver of a view at the staff only entrance to the hotel, where you were sure the members would slip through. Just as you raised your mojito to your lips, letting the ice jut into your top lip and the minty alcohol slide down your throat as easily as your saliva, a low, familiar grumble of an engine signified a car pulling in close. The other hotel patrons barely batted an eyelid, still engaged in their conversations and showing off their cigar collections. However, you fixed your eyes on the small gap in the wood which allowed a clear view of the outside. Sure enough, seven men all tumbled out of the sprinter with practiced speed and ease, their hair covered with baseball caps and/or hoodies, and their faces carefully shielded with dark face masks. They were led in by a more senior employee, possibly a manager, whereas the rest of their staff worked to unload their luggage. It was then that you raised to your feet and tucked a few bills under the lowball glass you had been nursing and retreated to your room. That was your cue to prepare.
Hours later, you were fixing the strap of your heel. Your body was bound tightly with a black dress, so sleek and supportive that you were able to forgo a bra with ease. Your hair was carefully parted to the side and fell in loose curls that tickled your side, layers framing your face just-so. Your makeup was also done in a way most of your clients took a liking to — simple, neutral shadow, black eyeliner darkening your waterline and lash line, your eyelash extensions wet and wispy as described by the technician. Your cheeks were lightly dusted pink and matched your peach colored glossy lips. You had also taken the liberty to dust the inner corner of your eyes with the same blush to carry the same soft glam. Your feet were sheathed in low denier stockings which shimmered under low light, and a black belt with garters lay hidden under the viscose of your dress like a present waiting to be revealed. From your ears dangled gold earrings which twirled carefully around your curled locks. From your neck fell a simple golden pendant of your star sign (it felt like a good luck charm of sorts). On your right wrist lay a small stack of gold bangles which often left observers with a twinkle in their eye. Finally, your feet sparkled in your bejeweled Louboutin heels which had been previously gifted by some other sponsor from the past. You looked what many would quote as a million bucks — why not look like what you earn?
After a quick twirl in the mirror and a once over of your pink and gold clutch bag contents (your phone, a power bank, gum, mini perfume, a roll of condoms, the key card to their suite which had been slipped under your door while you were having a shower, loose packs of lube and a hair tie), you let yourself out of your hotel suite.
There was another surprise that you had hidden under your sleeve, but that can be revisited later.
The walk to the exclusive elevator felt like the longest walk known to man. It was natural to feel nervous prior to bookings, but this particular fluttering in your stomach was unlike any other. You almost felt sick with the ascension of the elevator. You let your eyes fall short for the few seconds ride to the top of the building. You drew in all the breath you could muster in the small space into your lungs and carefully drew it out in a low exhale. Unlike with regulars, you had decided to go sober in order to suss out your surroundings before letting loose — your nerves suffered as a result of your chosen temporary sobriety, the mojito you had sipped long vanished from your veins.
The clack of your heel almost coincided perfectly with the drums of the mixtape flowing through the sound system as you carried your body towards the door. As your shadow casted over the white aspen door, complete with yellow gold accents and cursive lettering confirming you did indeed arrive at the Penthouse Suite, you raised your arm to wrap at the door, the clanging of your bangles accompanying the melody. You tried to knock hard enough that it would be heard over the music, but you weren’t too sure when the banter indoors stretched and continued for a long few seconds. You were contemplating on letting yourself in when the door clicked open.
A young man with dirty blonde hair swung the door open. He had opened it curiously at first, unsure, but something about your appearance etched half crescents into his eyes as his mouth stretched into a grin. Shit-eating, if you will. A thin, brown sweater hung lazily on his body, almost hinting at the appearance of his chest with its low cut, along with dark slacks and his feet covered in simple black socks. If you had to guess, they had gone somewhere earlier in the day and had come back not long ago. His hand nursed a bottle of soju which had a swig, maybe two, left knocking at the bottom of the glass. His smile, being so painfully infectious, caused the corners of your mouth to similarly rise.
Suddenly, from behind, a hand gripped Jimin’s shoulder and sharply tugged him back away from the open part of the door, the door as a result swinging wider. “Already hogging the girl for yourself, greedy fucker,” a silvery voice rang into the atmosphere. There stood Jung Hoseok in all of his hyper glory, face positively flushed the same hue of pink as your blush, similarly nursing a beverage in hand — this time, a premixed alcoholic cocktail in a can. He too was all smiles like you were the one thing in the world anchoring all of his happiness, and it edged a small laugh out of you. “He was just introducing himself!” You spoke in Jimin’s defense, placing a hand on your hip. Your tone remained airy and light, finding yourself to slowly warm up to the singers. Hoseok too mirrored your movement, his free hand decorated with rings finding purchase on the belt holding up his baggy chamoisee pants, subtly riding up the short brown overcoat over his shoulders which revealed a white decorated t-shirt of a random band from the 80s. He shook his head in mock disapproval of Jimin’s actions, while the blonde stood to the side incredulous. “You couldn’t even invite her inside bastard?” Hoseok snapped, feigning a kick to his side by raising his foot sharply and stopping just short of the other’s thigh to force Jimin to flinch. A short exchange of ghost punches ensued between the two, and your giggles had stopped them, as if their short lived rivalry had caused them to forget about their guest.
With both of them taking your hand (your clutch bag’s strap slung around your shoulder), you allowed the two to walk you inside. Besides a two-second long walk through a small corridor, the room opened up to something much larger. Under your red heel laid deep mahogany that seemed to stretch forever despite different rugs and fixtures in its path. Towards a back wall you spot an unmanned bar — well, manned by none other than Min Yoongi. He had been in the middle of pouring himself a healthy glass of whiskey when you had been escorted in. In the middle of the room were two large velvet beige couches with silver accents that seemed to go on forever, both L-shaped and joined in the middle to create one large piece that would be more than enough to sit 25 people at least. On the couch sat Kim Namjoon and Kim Seokjin, seemingly cracking loud jokes over Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook who were both on the gigantic coffee table in front of the couches and before a TV that easily rivalled most in-home cinemas. On the TV displayed a rap music video, where Taehyung and Jungkook messily recited what sounded like the lyrics to it, but went through a garbage disposal in the process. However, what shocks you the most was the pool. The main area of the suite was open plan, no walls to shield from the outdoors. Just beyond the living area were deck chairs, a stack of beach towels, and a long stretch of glowing aqua, sparkling with the backdrop of the city lights. With it being a surprisingly warm December, there was no bite to the air besides a gentle breeze that whipped curls over your shoulder. For the first time in a while, you were blown away. However, there was no time to be shocked — whoops and hollers were soon hurled in your direction.
Naturally, as the entertainer you were paid to be, you immediately got into work mode. Swaying your hips back and forth, you gently let Jimin and Hoseok's hands drop while making your way to the men in the main living space, happy to welcome you. "Oh shit!" Namjoon exclaimed with glee, raising to his feet. Seokjin too followed suit while giving you a standing ovation, and suddenly a black satin sash draped over his left shoulder was more visible. 'Birthday Boy' was swirled across the material in sparkly silver writing. A silver crown with yellow gems, put together by the cheapest costume jewelry a craft store could offer, sat lopsided on his head of dark locks. Still, his wide smile could've fooled you into believing it was his most prized possession.
Letting your clutch purse fall from your shoulder and onto the end of the settee, your grin almost rivalled that of the elders as you reached up to wrap your arms around his neck in a sweet embrace, hips still subtly swaying to the music's intense bass. The dark haired man's arms snaked around your waist and his own hips mirrored your own in your shared intimate cuddle. "Happy birthday Jin!" you cheered, raising your voice into his ear due to the mix of loud music and the unrelenting banter coming from all sides — which had now intensified with you and Jin's shared dance. Soon, you broke the embrace to greet all the men properly, though not as intimately as the cuddle you and Seokjin had previously shared with one another.
And so, chaos ensued.
The evening unwound itself like an idle ball of yarn on an inclined hill.
It started with you joining Jungkook and Taehyung on the table for their rap performances — performances that the likes of Kendrick Lamar, Drake, Megan Thee Stallion and Cardi B may sue for defamation if their performances somehow saw the light of day. While you had few lyrics in mind, the men were easily pleased and just about cheered you on for anything you did. Then, naturally, drinks started to flow. They were initially administered normally — in cups or shot glasses. It gradually devolved into just about whatever cup they laid their hands on, then soon it was double shots poured directly into each other's mouths by the bottle. It seemed that the liquor went down smoother that way and everyone similarly agreed — even Namjoon when the tequila went down the wrong pipe and spluttered up the alcohol all over Jimin, who was a mere bystander and the one pouring in the alcohol into his open mouth at the time. Then, it was all of you sitting on the couch while they recounted funny stories whilst on tour. While you were having fun, you didn't forget about the fact that you were working. While they were in the midst of their bantering, you made yourself available to each man, one by one – manicured nails drawing idle circles in the nape of Namjoon’s neck where his grey turtleneck didn’t quite reach, your smaller hand drawing up and down Jimin’s thick thighs while he chortled, a hand idly resting on Yoongi’s chest, your fingers playing wordless games with Taehyung’s longer, more venous digits, laying your head on Seokjin’s lap as he ran his fingers through your loose curls, the tip of your nail tracing the shapes of Jungkook’s sleeve of tattoos and finally running the back of your pointer finger over Hoseok’s cheek. You could tell that the men loved your company – if not for the later events that would confirm how you felt, it was the way they regarded you with something a little more emotional than lust, like they actually appreciated you there. It was a funny predicament because you didn't even feel like you were working with the amount of fun you were having.
So, how exactly did you come to find out they were really enjoying your company?
It all started with fuzzy die.
“Kiss…” Jungkook grumbled, spying the die closely. One furry cube had come to a still on the royal blue carpet before all of you, while one took the liberty in enjoying an extra tumble while the rest of you waited in suspense. Soon, it came to a stop at your feet. “... Lips?” You had finished, your gaze switching from the pink cube of fur at your feet to Jungkook. He clicked his teeth in disapproval, clearly unamused at the tameness of the option it had finally landed on. The others also cracked jokes about how the eldest had somehow landed himself something so innocent. It was clear that they expected something anticlimactic, akin to a peck or something short and sweet, but the mischievous glint that sparkled in Seokjin’s eyes fueled the daring thought that had already been cooking its way up in your head. With the ample alcohol dancing within your veins, a hint of hesitation could not be detected in your next actions.
You rose to your feet, leaning over the table to grab a bottle of sweet liquor from the array of half full bottles scattered across the oak. You didn’t break eye contact with Seokjin for even a split second, and he too trained his eyes on you despite being heavily lidded from drinking. You had initially thought that he might be too drunk, but the way his steady hands moved to hold your waist with such firmness when you shifted your knee onto the couch to straddle his waist. Though there was some hype among the men, it was translated in the form of low ‘ooohs’ and intense staring. Raising the neck of the bottle to your rosy glossed lips, you tipped your head back with ease. The liquor still carried a bite to its flavor profile, but after a night of casual drinking, it’s not something that wrecked havoc on your taste buds or throat like it normally would. “Hyung, you don’t know how to handle her,” Taehyung piped up and chastised. You offered a small smile at his statement, seeing as your mouth held the alcohol, but Seokjin didn’t react. In fact, he had been solely focused on how you had taken the alcohol in your mouth so carelessly. He was hungry — and it was a good thing you were too.
Your manicured hand moved to cup his honeyed skin, simultaneously as you handed the bottle to Namjoon who had settled into a seat beside the two of you. Then, when your hand was free, it similarly moved up to cup the other side of his face. At first, your mouth moved to simply press against his own, and you could feel him following the lead you were taking in your shared kiss. It was then that your mouth opened slightly to let the liquor pour in a small, steady stream directly into his mouth. The small moan he emitted into your mouth was not lost on you and sent a flutter directly to the pit of your stomach. As your mouth emptied, one of your hands dropped to cradle the side of his neck, thumb brushing over the thinner skin and feeling his Adam’s apple bob with effort. When the drink that remained in your mouth was just the essence of its recent presence, your lips began to move against his in a slow, deep kiss. His lips were soft, calculated, controlled, but the hands on your waist told a different story. His grip was tight, running along your sides. It was tight enough for you to appreciate the grooves that his rings were leaving on your clothed torso.
“Okay, okay, fun’s over birthday boy,” you had heard Taehyung nag at the time, all the while the men excitedly made commentary on how deeply your lips moved against one another. However, just like Seokjin was prior to their kiss, you paid no heed to the outside world when Seokjin was this much of a great kisser. It was when his hands moved lower to cup the round of your ass that the chorus of protests erupted. “Leave some for the rest of us!” you had heard Jimin wail. It was closely followed by the feeling of a soft thud against the sides of you and Jin’s faces, which adequately broke the kiss so as to see the weapon. It was a cushion that had previously been supporting Taehyung’s back, but he had clearly wielded it as a weapon. “I don't know if you forgot, but it’s my birthday brat,” Jin retorted, grabbing the cushion to hurl back at Taehyung with surprising accuracy. You laughed at the scene before you while you moved to resume your previous position on the couch, but Jin’s grounding grip on you stopped you in place. “Don’t move,” he murmured, regarding you carefully. “At least, wait until the next roll.” With that, you instead spun your body around to face the rest of the group while your back pressed against the satin sash splayed across the elder’s front and his hands wrapped around your waist, his chin subtly perching on your shoulder. “I have chills, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this smooth with a woman,” Hoseok commented, his hand running over his arm for emphasis. You quickly threw a wink in his direction. “I tend to have that effect on people, Hobi.”
Taehyung was quick to rise to his feet to pick up the set of fuzzy dice to try his luck in getting his hands on you. While he fumbled around with that, Seokjin’s lips gently tickled your ear from the grazing of his mouth to his soft, warm breath. It made you shiver ever so slightly. “Baby,” he started, his voice an octave lower than normal. It made your breath catch in your throat, but you were able to squeeze out a little ‘mhm’ to prompt him to continue. “Your safe word is strawberry. If you don’t feel comfortable with us, use it — we can cut this short and send you on your way.” The sound of his voice in your ear was enough to make you feel lightheaded, so a mere ‘uh huh’ was the only thing you could muster in agreement. Understandably, that wasn’t sufficient for the young man. “Use your words and repeat it. What’s the safe word?” His voice suddenly had a sort of dominant streak to it, catching you aback. Still, it was hard for you to not follow such an authoritative man. “Strawberry,” you mumbled with flushed cheeks, just as Taehyung let the die tumble on the ground. “Good girl,” he drawled in your ear, evidently pleased. It wasn’t something you had noticed before, but in the corner of your eye, there’s a soft red glow. You turned your head slightly and there it was — Yoongi and Namjoon sitting quietly at the other end of the settee, taking quiet drags of their cigarettes while watching the chaos unfold itself before them. They were both watching you, very closely at that, and their eyes drank up the sight of your body sat plush against Seokjin’s. Their expressions were unreadable. You soon broke out of your trance at the hoots on the other side of the room and you turned to see what the commotion was about facing up on the die was one with the illustration of a tongue, followed by the other displaying the word ‘thighs’. Though you too whooped in celebration, the deep thump of your heart made your nervousness undeniably present.
As Jimin, Jungkook and Hoseok chanted in encouragement, Seokjin did the second thing that had surprised you all night. With one hand firmly gripping your thigh, he parted his legs which as a result parted your own due to your position. Although you had no qualms spreading them in the first place, something about the dark haired man spreading it for you, like you lacked the faculties to do it in the first place, was strangely arousing to you. Taehyung was in front of you in a few strides, and it didn’t take much convincing (or any at all) for him to drop to his knees before you. Taehyung’s eyes always seemed to draw you in with no effort required — you had no issues to report in you craning your neck to meet his gaze whenever he spoke. However, there was something particularly damming about how good he looked on his knees before you, especially now that as a result of Jin’s strong hold, you bore all before him. The previous hype from the men surrounding the three of you and died now, not quite into nothingness, but mirrored the thoughtfulness and observation of Namjoon and Yoongi. There were still sarcastic comments thrown and soft laughs and giggles that were majorly alcohol driven, but for the most part they waited on bated breath for Tae’s next move.
Leaning in close, his pink tongue darted out and laid flat against your stocking clothed flesh. As much as you hated it, your breath immediately hitched at the sensation of the warm, wet organ caress your lower body. You blinked slowly, almost immediately dizzy at such feeling. You were previously laughing right along and joking with the group, but you were faced with the very real possibility that things were escalating fast — and you didn’t want to slow down for a second. Taehyung’s tongue, much like Seokjin’s lips, took their time with taking in the mild taste of you, despite the cloth barrier. It seemed like he was revelling in your shivers and how absent minded you had appeared more than the action itself, because his eyes didn’t dare to leave yours for even a split second. The dark circles in his eyes had grown so large his eyes closely related to black and it caused your breath to shudder. Out of the corner of your eye, Yoongi seemingly adjusted his crotch area with the cigarette dangling from his lip; his hand seemingly remained there.
Jimin sighed, exasperated, as he rose to his feet with soju bottle in hand. “You’re making me feel left out,” he spoke, almost whiny, with a deep frown etched into his forehead. Bringing the neck of his bottle to his lips, he threw his head back to allow the rest of the liquor crawl down his throat while walking towards the abandoned dice. You were trying so hard to focus on the dirty blonde, but you were already doomed between your slight inebriation, Jin’s grip and breath on your neck as well as Tae’s licks (which he had taken the liberty in turning to pecks) across your darkened flesh. After setting the empty bottle on a nearby table, Jimin picked up the cubes and let them roll on the floor. Hoseok leaned closer to the dice in order to read for himself. Jimin had evidently already understood the instructions, judging from how he approached you with a shark-like grin. “Kiss nipples,” Hoseok stated matter-of-factly. There was no smile on any of the other members’ faces anymore; they were enjoying the view of you being slowly picked apart by each action towards you. The amount of eyes, as well as hands, on you made you feel overwhelmed in the best way possible. “That’s okay with you, Y/N?” Seokjin’s voice in your ear grumbled. Your head nodded in approval quickly, followed by an audible ‘mhm’.
The hand Seokjin had left on your waist moved to grab your hip, the pad of his thumbs firmly pressing into your lower back to prompt you to sit up away from his chest. It was then that you felt his thumb gently dig into your spine, where the true fabric of the dress began, to grip the little zip. While he busied himself with that, Jimin cradled your chin in his hands and tilted your face towards his own. “You look kind of dumb right now,” he remarked with a smirk. It was a comment that carried the same weight as a slap across the face but similarly sent a deep throb to your core. You were so wet, you were sure of it, and you weren’t entirely sure how you’d got to this point. Alas, Jimin was correct — you managed to look so disheveled and something in your heart knew they were just getting started. You couldn’t even find the words to respond to Jimin beyond a soft, strangled whine. Hoseok and Jungkook cooed to themselves at how adorable you were, but it went through one ear and out the other rather quickly. The only thing consuming your senses in that moment in time was Taehyung’s lips, Seokjin’s strong grip and Jimin’s intense gaze that sent shivers down your spine. It only got much more intimidating as you heard the quiet scratch of your zip parting itself, and the tight squeeze of your chest suddenly released. You were still clothed, but your dress merely hovered over your breasts. Almost in perfect synchronicity, Jimin pinched one strap of your dress while Jin pinched the other and they both pulled them down from your shoulder and off your arms. The cool air of the night came into contact with your exposed breasts immediately and you sighed a breath of relief. You could hear Namjoon murmur a ‘wow’ under his breath.
Suddenly, the room had become deathly quiet. Even Taehyung’s lips had stilled its torment between your legs.
Gently, Jimin’s hand cupped around the bottom of your right breast, holding it just so it perked up perfectly for him, and dove down to wrap his lips around the hardened peak of your nipple. It wasn’t what you would describe as a kiss, what with his tongue flicking against it, but you were happy to forgo technicalities and semantics for now. You moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut as your head knocked back against Jin. He had taken the liberty to knead your other neglected soft mount, breath heavy on your neck. By habit, your hips began to grind themselves on the man below you, him almost immediately rolling his hips to meet yours, and you becoming acutely aware of his length pressing itself on your backside. “She’s so pretty like this hyung,” Taehyung spoke from underneath you. He had stopped stimulating your inner thighs a little while ago in place of appreciating the view from below. “You’re telling me,” Seokjin almost growled in response.
It wasn’t long before Jimin detached himself from your chest and raised his hand up to tangle in your curls, gripping the back of your head by the root. It didn’t hurt, but the way he held your hair meant he could maneuver you exactly the way he wanted. By up or hair, he pushed your head slightly more towards him while he leaned down until your lips met. No warming up was needed — from the start, the kiss was unadulterated hunger from both of you. A mess of tongues and lips somehow choreographed into a routine that made sense, so much so that both of you moaned at the same time. All the while, you could feel the man behind you begin to pepper kisses all over your neck while the man below you began to hitch your dress higher and higher. Once it hit the swell of your ass, Jin took the initiative to pull it up to your waist. A groan left Jin and Tae simultaneously; if you had to guess, it was probably the unexpected appearance of your belt and garter and possibly your dark thong. If you didn’t look like a mess before, you undoubtedly looked like one now. “She looks like a fuckin’ picture,” you heard Jungkook comment. His comment this time around was darker, not of the same calibre of funny jokes and remarks he was making before. Your hand took the liberty of traveling onto Jimin’s bare torso under the hem of his loose sweater, and you could feel the bumps of his abs across his skin. There was so much going on, all you could do was your best in order to make everyone feel seen.
The throb between your legs was so present, you were sure that Seokjin could feel it radiate towards his bulge. It forced humility to wash over you, but you couldn’t let that break the flow you had already begun. You broke the kiss you shared with Jimin with great regret, holding eye contact for a brief few seconds as your eyes fluttered open, before switching your gaze to Jungkook and Hoseok. They evidently weren’t expecting your acknowledgment, but their eyes flooded with lust translated as readiness to you. “I didn’t know your group was a bunch of voyeurs,” your voice spoke, poking fun at their passiveness. You didn’t direct it towards Yoongi and Namjoon — you had a feeling the older men would happily participate wherever they saw fit. With a disapproving click of his tongue, Jungkook almost sprang to his feet and stalked over to the group, reaching down to grab your hand. When you let his hand envelope yours, soft and warm yet firm, he pulled your body towards his and prompted your body to rise off of Seokjin’s lap and away from Jimin and Taehyung. There were words and distresses of protest, but not much — they were intrigued to see what the youngest had in store.
When you had been brought to your feet, Jungkook couldn’t quite swipe the mischievous smirk on his face. He clearly loved the way your body looked, particularly admiring the way your stockings made your legs sparkle, how the belt and garter was taut against your bare thighs, the twinkle of your heels. “You’re so fine,” he grumbled, his hands finally unable to resist temptation as it raised to caress the curves of your torso. For the third time that night, your lips met with another man, and this time it mirrored Jimin’s; messy, needy, hungry. Clearly, being a mere spectator had done a number on him. You feel another set of rough hands grip the dress that had gathered at your waist and pull them down your legs, and suddenly the only thing offering you even bare minimum coverage was your sheer stockings and thong. You were effectively naked, the only one at that, and you didn’t quite like it. Through the mess of tongues and Jungkook’s being hands running up and down your sides, your hands moved to his leather jacket, pulling the fabric over his shoulder to prompt him to shed himself of the cover. He was the one to part ways with you just as his jacket hit the rug beneath your heel. The only thing covering his chest was a black compression shirt, carefully squeezing itself against his skin so as to expose the bulging muscles that lay in wait beneath. You physically swallowed — his body looked edible.
Then, the next thing he did was enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
His touch left your body and he retreated to the couch. He sat down with practiced ease and laid his body down across the sofa, still so big in size it didn’t interrupt the position of the other men sitting along its expanse. His head laid just below the armrest at the end of the couch, his facial piercing gleaming under the soft lighting of the vast suite. It was then that the young man turned his face towards you and beckoned you to come, two thick fingers posed in your direction and motioning a ‘come hither’ ministration.
“Come sit on my face.”
taglist: none yet! pls comment or inbox to be added 🫣
Megan cooked for that man’s family, spent holidays with him, brought his favorite artists out for his birthday, bought a house with the man, expensive gifts, had him in such good graces with female fans bases—
JUST TO CHEAT. NOW KLAY THOMPSON IS PUBLIC ENEMY #1
the upmost fluffiest jk plot. First date karaoke at his house date. Nervous/playful touches. Both trying out the dating scene after 3 years or so. Scared but ready vibes.
ahhhh this is such a cute idea!!! adding this in my to-write list 🫡
The group have been working on their comeback for a few months now, recording all the songs and coming up with choreography. With Map of the Soul: 7 having some solo tracks and the '95 line having a duet, the couple considered putting their own song, only after talking to the others about it.
Jungkook and Y/N began dating about two years ago and kept it secret from the public to avoid all the hate that would probably be received. But when working on their song together, they started to reconsider and suggested having it on the album.
"Are we sure we should do this?" Y/N questions, staring down at the sheet full of lyrics. "What if it goes horribly?"
"We could make a pros and cons list." Jungkook suggests with a small shrug.
"Everyone hates us." Y/N immediately points out.
"No one will hate us. Not true ARMY, anyway." Jungkook says, rubbing her hip. "Plus, we probably won't be able to hide forever."
"We could try." Y/N counters.
"Are there any other cons?" Jungkook wonders.
"I don't know." Y/N answers. "But I'm scared. Because if nobody likes us, it could hurt the comeback... it could hurt the whole group. And the comments will be full of hatred, and while there will be some directed to both of us, the hate is always directed more towards the girl in the situation. They'll call me names and say cruel things. I know it."
"Plus, even with not knowing we're together, there are still people who hate the idea of us being together." She continues.
Jungkook's chest tightens at the worry shining in her eyes, his hands coming up to cradle her cheeks.
"I won't let you believe any harsh words they say." Jungkook promises. "They don't know us as well as they think we do, jagiya. And if anything goes too far, the company will do something. I'll protect you from the bullies. They're just insecure people with nothing better to do than to bring someone who doesn't deserve it down."
"What, are you gonna ban every account that leaves a mean comment?" Y/N questions, only half joking.
"If I have to." Jungkook nods.
"Good luck." She lets out a weak scoff.
"Look, we don't have to release the song if you don't want to. As much as we both love it, I understand your fear. I especially don't want you to get hurt just for living your life like we've all been through so many times. I know some jerks will treat you like a criminal just for being in a relationship, which isn't fair. But if you do want to release it, I'll protect you from their words the best I can."
"What do you wanna do?" Y/N questions.
"Whatever you want to do." Jungkook answers making a small smile cross her face. "Whatever makes you comfortable, jagi."
"I love you." Y/N quietly tells him, his lips pulling up into his adorable bunny smile.
"I love you, too." He whispers, pulling her into a kiss.
And when they released the song, while there were definitely negative opinions, most of the fans -- the real ones who actually care for the group -- left positive comments.
I KNEW THEY WERE TOGETHER!!!!
their vocals are so good together
this is going down as the greatest love song 🥹🥹
they're so in love
hearing the adoration in their voices, i love this so much
summary: hybe publicly announces you and jungkook’s relationship, but you struggle with the extreme response from the ‘fans’.
word count: 2,210
content warnings: use of y/n, very brief mention of not eating due to busy schedule, y/n receiving threats and general cyber bullying, y/n is a cisgender woman who uses she/her pronouns, L-bomb, smoking jungkook mentions, fluffy fluff.
author’s note: my first piece of work!! 😞 please go easy on me im literally just a girl
The world was able to offer endless and bountiful amounts of information at anyone’s disposal to just about prepare for anything basically at one’s fingertips at any time — however, there didn’t seem to be a “Dating an Idol for Dummies” book anywhere (you did try looking for something of the sort on at least one occasion).
You were a freelance tour manager in the K-Pop industry for 4 years, having worked hard enough to get your phone number in manager’s phone book and eventually be the trusted name in the industry that was the first one to be uttered in Zoom calls and board meetings when idols touched the tarmac of American airports. You were diligent, efficient, sharp — yet still carried an air of warmth despite the daily stressors your occupation offered to you on a platter of gold.
It was one faithful day when the name “BTS” came across your desk. It wasn't like you hadn’t worked with the biggest names in the industry already, but they were easily the biggest on the planet. Sold out shows, high production value, concerts that went on for hours — you had naturally tuned into other tour shows when you weren’t working and could tell that the stressors surrounding a BTS tour would be uniquely special in the worst way possible. You couldn’t have been more correct.
Days went by without sleep. Countless amounts of biting your tongue not to curse yourself a storm at a backdrop being the wrong shade. Dumb amounts of occurrences of lost earpieces and jewelry. Yet, you still showed up as the competent, productive worker you were, never uttering a request without a ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.
Jungkook saw all of it.
All seven of the men were sweethearts (even Yoongi who you had assumed seemed a little standoffish initially, but was truly warm on the inside) and there was no interaction with them that was truly negative apart from a harsh word in moments of chaos or a click of the tongue in an exchange of words. However, Jungkook’s smile was always that little bit wider when you came into view. He attempted to speak English with you tirelessly to impress you, despite you having learned Korean and you tirelessly reminding him that you were fluent in his native tongue because it was a requirement of your job. You always attempted to carry an air of professionalism consistently, but Jungkook broke the persona effortlessly without much thought.
After a successful American tour, all of the production team arranged a small dinner with the BTS members to celebrate a fruitful tour and to thank everyone, but namely you. It was then that Jungkook really let loose and poured himself out to you — most of your conversations on tours were maximum three minutes at a time, a short “hi” or “how are you” while running helter-skelter — but this time, he had followed you out to the restaurant’s exterior for some air in the midst of the members and other production staff engaging in excruciatingly painful karaoke.
Between you stepping outside and the two cigarettes that Jungkook went through, you became hyper aware of the fact that you were falling for him hard.
He made it clear that he too had fallen for you.
So where does that leave you?
In bed crying?
The soft dark sheets seemingly cradled you, a small bunny plush in your grip, its brown ears mopping up your salty tears that fell incessantly. The rest of the apartment was eerily quiet and dark besides the sobs that wracked your body like a fever of sorrow that you couldn’t quite shake off and the soft glow of your phone screen.
BTS’ management had made the executive decision to make you and Jungkook’s relationship public — after months of him begging them to do so — and so the articles started rolling in since morning. Dispatch, Pop Crave, TMZ among countless other pop gossip pages and websites spread the news like the gospel. Of course, there was a chorus of people in support of your relationship — but whether or not it was louder than the hate, you weren’t sure.
Your Instagram and Twitter DMs became flooded with the most horrendous string of words and phrases you had ever seen in your life. You had been threatened endlessly, your baby pictures that had harmlessly been on your mother’s Facebook page became warped and edited with the most heinous things. Your comments (before you had limited them) were littered with fans egregiously slut shaming you, thousands of puking emojis, thousands more of poop emojis. Even as you laid there, hiccuping through your devastated sobs, your phone maintained its light with more and more notifications of hate rolling in. HYBE had already issued a warning threatening legal action, but it was of no use.
In that moment, as the saltiness of tears was the only thing your tongue could confess, your lip twisted into a quivering frown, the gentle fur of the toy in your grasp interrupted by wetness, your eyes burning and sore from unadulterated sorrow, the darkness in the room and the light of your mobile further drawing you into maddening misery — you were a shell of a woman. You had dealt with the most overindulgent music artists, been dealt harrowing words from your superiors, ran yourself on nothing but coffee and determination for 24 hours straight, but nothing seemed to come close to how awful you felt now. Your heart ached with an ache you had never previously felt before.
You had been so overcome by your own emotions that you missed the familiar melodic beeps that coincided with Jungkook’s arrival. He had rushed from dance practice, hurriedly packed away his damp sweat towel, looped the elastic of the dark face mask around his bejewelled ears while racing down the corridors, bundled himself into his arranged transportation with an air of urgency and insistence that pulled onto the threads of his heart urgently. However, now that he had set foot in your shared apartment, the young man had become eerily unsure.
He had spent most of his day scrolling through social media and running through his pack of cigarettes at an alarming pace. Jungkook was not new to this — he had been subjected to intense criticism from the most audacious rumors stemming from seemingly wearing something similar to another female idol, or even a small interaction with one that was so insignificant that he couldn’t even recall them if he were asked. This was different. you didn’t ask for this. You wanted to proudly be Jeon Jungkook’s partner, to freely post about your cute text messages, the gifts he showers you with — to be a normal couple. You didn’t ask to be in this shit storm that had been created. For that, he was devastated.
He had tried hopelessly to text and call you where his schedule allowed. The last time he had called you was that morning right before the news broke. You were elated. There was a sweet relief in your tone that was infectious and Jungkook couldn’t help but to succumb to its effects. It wasn't long after that you became unavailable, gradually distancing yourself with every comment, every message, every email that laid out just how disgusting you were, how you were unworthy of being in Jungkook's life.
The air in the apartment was thick with something that the singer could not describe. It was so stifling, he immediately shed himself of his mask, cap, boots and backpack at the front door. If he wasn’t nervous before, he was definitely anxious now. His socks padded along the wooden floorboards, barely making a peep, as he made his way to the bedroom. Just as he found the door ajar, the sound of your wrecked sobs was enough to stop him in his tracks for a long minute. He too needed to take the time to swallow down the lump in his throat that had seemingly formed out of nowhere. Nonetheless, this was his cross to carry and not yours. Nudging the door open with his foot, his eyebrows set a deep frown at the sight of your body, completely enveloped in the sheets, turned away from the door. You shook a little from the extent at which your weeps rippled through your person, so much so that you even missed his presence at the door.
It was only when you felt his arms wrap around you, the grieves of your voice became relieving.
He pressed his face into your neck, pressing the smallest pecks against your warm skin. His body was cold from the evening winds that had whipped around him, but it did wonders in beginning to anchor your body in what seemed to be lost and flailing in your despair. For what seemed like hours, his presence vouched for him in what all the words in the world could not say. His soft humming of a love song, his thumb stroking the back of your hand which still held onto your bunny plush, his soft, sweet caresses of his lips — they all dwindled your spiralling state into one of peace, reducing your previous weeping to residual hiccups and tear stained cheeks.
“It was all so.. bad,” you managed after some time. you still did not have the heart to turn around and face him. His humming had stopped as soon as you had opened your mouth, but his other calling ministrations continued, a nonverbal way of encouraging you to continue voicing your feelings. So, you did.
“It’s everywhere I look. It's like I can’t escape it and I feel like maybe I deserve it.” Towards the end of your sentence, your words got caught in your throat once again and fresh tears welled up in your eyes, shamelessly threatening to spill over. There was no better time to use his words.
“Did you burn down an orphanage?” He spoke simply. The comment, so bizarre and out of place, was enough to draw a small smile across your mouth. “Not quite,” you had quipped, almost incredulous of the sudden conversational detour. It was then you finally moved to face him, one hand raising to press against his clothed chest. You could see, even through the darkness, his facial expression softened at the dimmed sight of your face. Though there wasn’t much he could see, the moonlight through the window did enough to reflect the wetness of your eyelashes, the lightly colored streaks staining your skin, your eyes looking so fatigued and low. You’d been through hell and back within a day, and Jungkook wasn’t there to brave the flames along your side. Still, he couldn’t stop what he had started.
“Then why on earth would you deserve the shit they’re saying to you?” His voice had an edge to it — as if there was venom he was trying so desperately to keep at bay but was seeping to the surface despite his efforts. Your voice was lost on you, unable to gather the words that had been whirring in your brain nonstop for hours. Your gaze dropped, as if to be looking for the words in the bedsheets.
“Hey,” his voice smoothed. He raised his inked arm to your face, where his pointer finger tucked itself underneath your chin and forced you to raise your gaze to meet his own. His eyes were strong, stoic yet gentle, emphatic. “You’re perfect, Y/N. Everything about you. You're perfect for me and they don’t see that,” his voice whispered, and for a moment you think he might shed a tear from how unstable his voice became at the tail of his sentence.
“I’m sorry that you’re going through this alone. I know we wanted this but you didn’t sign up for… whatever this is.” The finger propping your chin upwards moved to the flesh of your cheek, lovingly tracing the trails of sadness. You found your head nodding, finally receiving what he was pouring into you. “We’re gonna sue every last one of those losers blowing your phone up, okay? The only thing….” A kiss on the cheek. “…that matters…” A kiss on the forehead. “…is me and you.” A kiss on the lips. By the end of his little monologue, a small smile had finally reappeared on your face. Jungkook couldn’t have been more grateful to return the color back into your vision.
“I love you,” you grinned. You finally moved in and pressed your lips against his, soft and gentle. Jungkook, however, was not going for that. He quickly deepened the kiss, with his other hand moving to cup the back of your neck. His lips moved slowly against yours, painfully unhurried, yet so deep he stole the breath from your mouth. His lip rings pressed into your own naked ones, bound to leave a temporary dent in the pink. He was staking his claim on you. It was a kiss that gave you all the reassurance the world could possibly muster for you. The rhythm he established was so pleasing, it drew a soft moan into his own mouth. After a stretched minute, he was the one to break the kiss and rest his forehead against yours, breathless.
