mindurbuzznezz

[mindurbuzznezz]

satoru loves sucking on your nipples.

it’s been a hard day at work? just the thought of him sucking on your tits when he comes home makes him feel instantly better. he’s bored? he’ll come to you and do exactly that, simply because he can.

doesn’t matter if you’re sitting on the couch scrolling on your phone, standing in the kitchen making coffee or lying in bed half asleep. he’ll just appear behind you, turn you around to face him, hands on your waist before lifting your shirt up and starting to play with your nipples, pinching them and rolling them between his fingers.

if you’re in the kitchen, then he’ll scoop you up and sit you on the counter, put himself between your legs, lower his head and start sucking on them like there’s no tomorrow.

he hums a little while he sucks too, like he’s savoring every second and god, as much as you tell him it’s annoying and that he should stop with this stupid obsession, you can’t help but love how actually fixated he is on your chest.

he bites softly sometimes, just enough to make you gasp and arch into him and he actually grins when you do, he’s completely addicted to the way you react.

sometimes he’ll lean down in the middle of a conversation, start by massaging your boobs a little, then put his mouth to work and when you try to cover your mouth to hide a moan, that’s when he bites a little harder, because if there’s one thing satoru gojo loves more than sucking on your nipples, it’s hearing the little sweet sounds you make while he’s doing it. well, that and obviously, your cunt.

but yeah, he doesn’t care. he’s relentless.

“you’re so perfect,” he murmurs between sucks, “i could do this forever.”

you try to push him away, joking, “satoru, not now,” but it’s useless. he’s got that stubborn, possessive grin and before you know it, your hands are tangled in his hair, pulling him even closer to your breasts while he’s got both of them in his mouth, sucking, nibbling and teasing your nipples.

he loves it. loves it more than you can even describe. every gasp, every shiver, every soft whine coming from you makes him grin wider. he’s addicted to you and to your chest.

and let’s not even get started on how obsessed he is with you giving him tit jobs. he loves feeling you squeeze his cock hard between your boobs, watching you lick his tip while grinding your chest up and down with one hand under them to press his cock between them even harder. he moans and groans when he cums on them, watching his cum spill over the curves of your breasts, running down to your hard bubs.

“satoru, again? so soon? are you serious?” you scold him, noticing how hard he’s already getting again.

“baby, it’s not my fault!” he whines, pressing himself against you. he buries his face in your chest, groaning as he laps up his cum from your tits, utterly desperate and addicted to the taste of himself on you. “i just love my pretty girls so much!”

sometimes he murmurs lowly, almost to himself, “mh, can’t wait to get you pregnant so they can feed me,” making you laugh a little at how ridiculously desperate and dumb he sounds.

he’s a freak, and he knows it—and he wears that title proudly.

and honestly? you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[mindurbuzznezz]

Prompt #3: You are in love with your best friend. He writes a song called Unrequited, but it is not about you.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Female Reader Summary: You’ve been in love with your best friend for years, but when you stumble upon his new song, Unrequited, you’re convinced it’s about someone else. Weeks of avoidance, misunderstandings, and bottled-up feelings finally erupt into the one conversation you’ve both been avoiding — and the truth changes everything. Genre: Slow-burn coworkers-to-lovers, idol AU, best friends to lovers, angsty but fluffy ending, older woman by a few years Warnings: Heavy pining, jealousy, workplace proximity, mutual misunderstanding, emotional tension, heated makeouts, minor swearing, mentions of other love interests (misunderstanding), strong language, fade-to-black intimacy, happy ending Word count: ~9.3k Posting date: August 11, 2025

---

It has been a while since you have felt something like this. A feeling so strong that nothing else has made sense. Even after you have rationalised it, broken it down into whys and nots and pros and cons, you always end up at the same conclusion. You love him.

The list has always been comprehensive. He is genuinely kind and goes out of his way for the people he cares about, and he cares about you. That is true. Over the last few years, you and he have gotten closer, especially since you started working directly for him. The work friendship adapted and evolved into a real one, and now he is one of your best friends. Finding friends, real friends, at this age is rare, and you have found him. And he has you. You have earned your place in the closest-circle category, carved out space in his world meant just for you. That is not a lie.

But just because he is kind and takes extra care with you does not mean it is love. Maybe it is the unnecessary but now habitual hand-holding. Maybe it is the late nights at your place, the warm smell of buttered popcorn in the air as you explored films in languages neither of you speak. Maybe it is the many letters and emails he sent you while he was away, the paper still faintly smelling of his cologne. It has to mean more, and for you it has always meant love.

“Unrequited,” you say out loud, the word tasting strange in your mouth as your eyes trace the heading scrawled in his uneven handwriting. The pages lie scattered across his desk, curling slightly at the edges. You are here to pick him up before heading to a friend’s farewell, but he is taking forever, and now you are alone in his studio. The air is warm with the faint hum of old equipment, and the scent of stale coffee lingers from a paper cup on the console.

It is hard not to read further. You are too curious for your own good, too much of a fan to resist. He has shared works-in-progress before, sometimes accidentally, since you usually handle finalised tracks and release plans. Spending time together means things get shared, from riffs played absentmindedly to half-finished choruses hummed under his breath.

But the word Unrequited feels heavy, like something dropped into your stomach.

Some things, however, are better left unknown.

The lyrics describe moments that are not yours. The soft clink of coffee mugs in cafés you have never visited. The muffled thud of car doors in parking lots you have never stood in. The sound of rain tapping against windows during late-night drives you were never part of. He writes about being in love during all of them, but never with you.

Your heart sinks, an ache that seems to tighten your chest. You turn the page, desperate for something familiar, some mention of the inside jokes you share or the way you tease each other mid-work calls. Nothing. Every line paints a picture of someone he has loved for a long time, someone who does not reciprocate.

And then you see the name. Mina.

In all your love for him, you never realised.

She is on your team, though you barely interact. You try to recall moments when she could have been such a fixture in his life without you noticing. How could your best friend have feelings for someone else, and you never saw it?

You open her Instagram. Her profile picture looks like it belongs in a magazine. Hair catching sunlight, laughter frozen mid-shot. You think, what an idiot, not to reciprocate his feelings. Then, what a bigger idiot I am, to love a man whose heart was never mine.

Why has he been spending all this time with you instead of chasing her? Everyone sees the two of you together. It is no secret. But suddenly, you are running through all the ways he could have been with her instead.

The faint creak of the studio door snaps you out of your thoughts.

“Okay, I am here,” Yoongi says, walking in, his face now looking far more alive than it had thirty minutes ago. The faint scent of his aftershave drifts into the room. “I cannot believe we are going to a farewell. Honestly, no one will be expecting me. No one will care. What? Why are you so pale?”

His hands are warm against your cheeks as he cups your face, his thumbs brushing your skin lightly. It is actions like these that make your heart imagine possibilities that cannot exist.

You shrug his hands off. “I am fine. I already told them you are coming,” you say quickly, standing up and putting distance between you.

“You okay? What is up?” He reaches out to hold your hand, but your mind is too busy replaying situations where he could have chosen her instead of you. Maybe you are just a convenient replacement, now that he has realised his feelings for Mina are one-sided.

“Yup, let’s go.” You take the lead out of the room while he grabs his wallet and follows you.

The farewell is only a few floors down. The closer you get, the more you feel the dull buzz of music from the hall. Mina will be there. You do not feel like being in the same room with her and Yoongi, only to start realising situations you never considered before.

“Remind me again what he does?” Yoongi asks in the elevator. The click of the buttons is sharp in the quiet space, and you stew in your thoughts.

“Publicist. He managed your D-Day release,” you mutter. “How can you forget?” Does he only remember things Mina does?

“Of course,” Yoongi says, frowning at your sudden agitation. He knows you well enough to see you are pouting, thinking faster than you can keep up with yourself. “Just slipped my mind.”

The farewell is a blur. The scent of cake icing mixes with the faint musk of the crowd. You keep looking for signs that he might be watching Mina. He does not. No side glances, no sighs. He talks to Namjoon or another producer, then stands next to you, whispering jokes to make you smile. If he has written a whole heartbreak song for this woman, he hides it well.

“I am gonna go,” you say after your last attempt to spark some interaction between them fails. Neither of them seems interested in speaking to the other.

“What, wait.” Yoongi catches your wrist. His grip is warm and firm. “You brought me here, you cannot abandon me.” He laughs.

“It is your company. And Joon is here too.” You pull your hand away.

“We have our movie night tonight. Will you come by seven?”

“You know seven on a Friday is prime time. People go on dates, dinners, approach people they like and ask them out.”

“Do you have a date?” He tilts his head. “You are choosing a date over our ritual.”

“Stop it,” you roll your eyes.

“I will see you at seven. I have been waiting to watch this movie, and you are not bailing.”

You are too caught up in your own thoughts to process his words, so you do not go.

The next day, he barges into the office, calling your name loudly enough for every head to turn. You duck behind your laptop, but he strides over. “Can I speak to you? Or should I start asking my questions here for everyone to hear?”

“Okay, okay, follow me.” You lead him into a meeting room.

“What is wrong with you? I called and called, so much that I thought something happened to you. Then I see Daniel post a story with you in it.”

“He came over to meet Suzy,” you explain. “I was just there.”

“And you could not answer my calls?” His arms fold across his chest. “It is rude. What is up with you? Did I do something? You were fine until your sour mood yesterday.”

“Nothing, I just did not feel okay.”

“You know what? When you figure it out, let me know.” He walks out.

Days pass. You avoid him. Until one late evening, the office almost empty, you hear the scrape of a chair behind you.

“You’re still here,” Yoongi says.

“So are you.”

“I had a session. You’re here avoiding me.”

“I’m working.”

“You’ve been avoiding me for two weeks.”

You finally turn to him. “I found Unrequited.”

He blinks, then leans forward. “You read it? What did you think of it? I’ve been sitting on those lyrics for two weeks. It was brutal to write them. I wanted to hear your thoughts sooner, but you’ve been hard to get a hold of.”

“I didn’t know you felt so strongly about Mina,” you say quietly. “Does she know?”

“Mina?” His brows knit. “Why would I write about Mina?”

“What?”

“I took inspiration from Seohyun’s experience. You know, the producer. She told me about something she went through. I wrote it down for inspiration.”

“You didn’t even know Mina’s name?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. I put it there as a placeholder so I could finish the verse.”

“Are you kidding me? I thought you were in love with her, that you’d had all these experiences with her. I kept wondering when you found the time because you’re always in the studio or with me. I thought all these feelings I have had to go away—”

“Feelings? What feelings?”

“It doesn’t matter now. It’s all fictional.”

“It matters. Tell me.”

“You dummy,” you say, your voice breaking. “I love you. I have for a long time. I was stupid enough to think maybe it could mean more. But when I read that song, it felt worse. Worse because I could take your rejection, but not before I got the chance to tell you.”

He is quiet for a long moment, his gaze locked on yours.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he says at last, his voice low.

Then he is kissing you.

It is deep from the first second, the kind of kiss that feels like it’s trying to make up for every moment you didn’t have this. His hand slides into your hair, pulling you closer. You taste coffee and something faintly sweet on his lips. Your hands fist in his hoodie.

When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours. “I’m not letting you run from me again.”

You don’t answer before he’s kissing you again, rougher this time, his hands sliding down to your waist and tugging you onto his lap. Your palms flatten against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. His lips trail down your jaw, then your neck, leaving a path of heat.

He bites lightly at the base of your throat, and you shift instinctively against him, drawing a low sound from his throat.

“Still think this doesn’t matter?” he murmurs.

“It matters,” you whisper.

He stands, lifting you with him, and your legs wrap around his waist. He carries you to the desk, setting you down gently. For a moment, the kiss softens, slow and deep, until you are dizzy with it.

His mouth trails from yours to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. His hands slide from your face to your waist, thumbs pressing into your sides.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his voice rough.

You meet his eyes. “Don’t stop.”

---

Yoongi is back! Yay! I couldn't help myself. What do you guys think? It's been so long I wanted to write something sweet.

Thank you for reading this you lovely lovely person!

[mindurbuzznezz]

⛈️ Strangers in the Night ⛈️

🤝 Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

🗒️  Summary: A storm puts a damper on your travel plans - but a chance encounter with a handsome mystery stranger could just be the thing you need to turn your bad luck around.

📚 Genre: Fluff, Smut

⚠️ Chapter Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex (remember , kids - no glove, no love!),  profanity

🔤 Word count: ~4.8K

✍️ Notes: I am so deep in my missing Min Yoongi hours, the way that I cling to each and every crumb we get of him is ridiculous. This came out fast and furious inspired in large part by LA streetwear Yoongi - all we got were like 3 glimpses but that was honestly more than enough to get my creative energy going lol! Thank you @ktownshizzle for being my cheerleader and encouraging me along the way.  Thank you for beta-ing. And thank you for being such an inspirational writer and amazing motivator.  This one’s for you, K. 💜

Your footsteps are muffled against the carpet as you trudge down the hallway, scanning the signs and doors for your room number.  Double checking the digits on the keycard envelope with the numbers on the door you had stopped in front of, you scan your card against the reader. The expected click and whirring noise confirms its acceptance as you turn the handle and with a weary sigh, enter the hotel room, reflexively taking a look at the interior.  A single queen-sized bed, pristine and perfect, sheets smooth across the surface with not a wrinkle to be seen.  Wall mounted flat screen TV across from that.  Large floor to ceiling windows opposite the entrance.  Leaving your rolling carry-on and Birkin bag next to the dresser, you make your way over to the windows, pulling the navy blue drapes  back to assess the view outside.  As if on cue, a blinding flash of lightning greets you.  You wince, just as a large rumble of thunder reverberates not long after.  

At least the airline had played it safe.  They weren’t kidding when they announced the weather related cancellation over the PA system at the airport just over an hour earlier. It had been an agonizingly long day for you, starting with an early meeting for your company’s latest round of contract negotiations.  They’d taken far longer than anticipated, the client wanting to review and re-run the numbers.  You had known scheduling your flight that same evening was a risk, but fortunately they had given it their blessing and you had made it to the airport with a couple hours to spare.  

Not that it had mattered.  You’d checked in for your flight, managed to grab a bite to eat, and were waiting at the gate when the announcement came through.  The winds had changed (quite literally), and a massive thunderstorm that was originally predicted to move north had suddenly switched directions causing flights to be cancelled left and right - including yours.  

The poor gate agents had been overwhelmed with frustrated passengers upset about their travel plans gone awry, but then word had come through that they would be providing compensation and a limited number of hotel / meal vouchers to those passengers who chose to postpone their travels to the following day.  You had been one of the lucky few to snag those coveted vouchers, and so here you were.  Leaning against the window, you savor the feeling of the cool glass against your skin, the subtle vibrations of the rain pelting the pane from the other side.  

You should just change out of your professional attire and go to bed, but the residual tension from earlier in the day has you feeling anything but relaxed, and you know at this point sleep will be elusive. Maybe what you need is a stiff drink.  You’d noticed a bar downstairs when you were checking in…might not be a bad idea.  

**********

To your pleasant surprise, you find the restaurant relatively empty for this time of night. The bartender had made light, polite conversation with you, nothing past the usual niceties, and now stands at the other end of the counter, wiping down a glass and talking to one of his colleagues.  

There are currently only two other people at the bar - an older couple two seats down to your left enjoying a meal of what appeared to be some sort of risotto dish (for her) and chicken wings (for him).  You’d thought given the storm and number of stranded travelers it would be busier here… but honestly you like it better this way. Quiet, and unbothered, you are mulling over whether to order something to eat for yourself, when you feel another presence approach the bar.

 You look to your right and a familiar looking younger man takes the seat on the far end - backwards LA Dodgers cap, black utility blouson jacket, vintage Red Hot Chili Peppers T shirt, and light denim baggy jeans, belted casually around his waist. This newcomer stands out - the epitome of streetwear among a small group of business casual; though you suppose it doesn’t really matter - this is a hotel bar, privy to all sorts of travelers and individuals from all walks of life.  If it had been a gastropub or a michelin establishment the expectations might have been a bit different, but here, in this hotel just a few kilometers from the airport… anything goes.

Something about him keeps drawing your attention back to the strikingly familiar stranger. You try desperately not to make it too obvious but the magnetic pull is too strong. Your mind is racing, trying to place him… why does he look so familiar? Have you met before?  Where have you seen - 

All at once it hits you and your mouth goes dry in a flash of panic - you grab your phone, needing to confirm that you weren’t going crazy.  There was no possible way he was here, right now, in the same city, the same hotel, the same room as you.  THE Suga from BTS.  Min Yoongi.  Agust D.  There was just no fucking way. 

Wait - so then where are the other members?  Any security?  Bodyguards?  You look around the establishment, but as you had initially assessed - other than the few restaurant staff, and the couple next to you, the famous rapper / producer / singer / songwriter is the only one of his group here.   

You steal another glance in his direction only to find him gazing right back at you, a playful sparkle in his eyes. The corner of his lips lift slightly into a small subtle smirk, and you quickly avert your gaze, heat prickling your skin at the thrill of being caught looking.  You stare instead at the picture on your phone.  Your bias, your crush…and here he was, at the same hotel, in the same room, sitting in the same bar as you.  Be cool, man….be cool.  You can feel the nerves taking hold, anticipation and anxiety simmering below the surface.  You force yourself to take a deep calming breath.  You got this.  No one else is here, maybe it would be okay if you just approach and smiled and introd-

“Here you go, miss,” the bartender interjects, replacing your now empty gin and tonic with another full one.  

Your brows furrow in confusion as your brain struggles to reset itself to the present.  “Wait - but I didn’t…”

“From the gentleman on the end.” he nods in Yoongi’s direction. 

You look up and the man of the hour is once again glancing your way, that cocky grin unmistakable now. He lifts his glass of amber liquid in your direction and you find yourself nodding back in acknowledgement, raising your own glass back at him.  Not even a moment later you mentally say fuck it and grab your phone and wristlet, making your way towards him with your drink.

You adjust your long button down dress as you take the seat next to him.  Your outfit is professional enough for a corporate meeting, comfortable enough for air travel, and alluring enough for a flirtatious encounter with an attractive stranger.  The slit sits tantalizing on your thigh as you cross your legs demurely, offering just the right amount of skin.  “I thought it would be rude of me not to come over and thank you properly for the drink.” 

He glances down at his drink, then back to you, his eyes raking over you with zero shame. “My pleasure. To be honest - and please don’t take this the wrong way - it kind of looked like you needed it.” 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes your throat. “That obvious?” You shake your head, “You’re not wrong though. It’s been a helluva day.” 

“Lemme guess. That storm outside has something to do with it?”

“Your guess would be correct. I don’t think anyone’s flying out of here until at least tomorrow morning.”

As if to prove your point, a distant rumble of thunder resonates through the bar area and you hear the rain continuing its assault on the windows and becoming markedly louder as the storm outside picks up in intensity. 

You sit in silence for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Do you call him out on his celebrity status? You certainly don’t want to make a scene or make him feel uncomfortable. You figure easing into it slowly is the best approach.

“So what brings you into town?” You dip your toes in the water cautiously, testing it out to see his response, praying that he doesn’t shut you down.  “Working on solo activities?” 

His eyes meet yours and he scans them carefully, gauging the recognition behind them, as if trying to assess for any potential threats, eventually accepting that you mean no harm. “Solo activities. Yeah, you could say that.”  He hesitates a moment, then smiles, a hint of cockiness playing on his lips.  “So I take it…..you know BTS?”

You laugh at his trademark line, “Yes, I do.”

He hums in agreement.  “So, you know who I am.  It’s only fair that I know you.” 

You oblige him and introduce yourself, feeling a warmth creep up your spine at the way his deep voice echoes your name. You engage in casual small talk - what you do for work, your adventures at the airport today, and he tells you a little about what he’s been up to (a photoshoot for a highly reputable skincare line to be featured as part of an advertorial in an upcoming issue of Dazed, followed by an appearance at the Samsung Unpacked event in Seoul the following week).  You marvel at the amount of traveling he does and how exhausting it must be.  He merely shrugs - par for the course at this point.  

“I’ll bet you can’t wait to get home after all the chaos of today,” he comments, sipping his drink.  “Sounds like quite the adventure.”

“I was hoping to get home tonight, but obviously the weather had other plans,” you gesture at the floor to ceiling windows beside the bar, the lights of the city distorted and barely visible through the rain traversing haphazard paths down the outside of the pane.

“A gorgeous woman like you must have someone waiting for you at home…”. His eyes flit to yours, curious, assessing the situation.

Jesus Christ - handsome and smooth as fuck.  Damn, Min Yoongi’s got game. You are pleasantly taken aback by his flirtatious query, not that you haven’t been circling the issue like two birds engaged in a delicate mating dance for the last hour.  You match his gaze, your foot gently nudging the inside of his calf, once again testing the waters to gauge his reaction: “Does it matter?” 

He shakes his head, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter.  “I suppose not…I guess what happens during a freak thunderstorm where travelers are stranded in a random hotel stays in said random hotel.” 

You look at him incredulously, “you know that’s not how the saying goes... like not even a little bit.”

“So then how does it go?”

Your foot makes its way higher still, and you notice him shift in his seat, his legs parting ever so slightly.  “Well... I could invite you up and we could find out.” 

*************

The tension on the way up to your room is palpable.  It takes every ounce of your will power not to jump him right there in the elevator.  Despite the fact that the two of you are the only ones in the car, he silently insists on standing right next to you, his fingers gently brushing against yours, every touch sending heated sparks right through your veins all the way to your core.  The only thing holding you back from pouncing on him and ravaging every inch of his body right then and there is the innocuous red blinking light marking the presence of the security camera in the top right corner of the elevator - you most certainly do not want your business splashed across every tabloid in the country for indecent exposure (you’re pretty sure he doesn’t, either).

“7th Floor,” the automated female voice announces with a ‘ding’ as the doors open, and you step out and make your way towards your room.  As you fumble in your purse for your keycard, your hands trembling, you feel him press up behind you, the warmth of his body like fire on your already heated skin. His hands come around to guide yours, his breath gentle on your neck.  

You breath hitches as the door clicks and whirrs, and not a moment sooner than he’s ushered you in that he spins you around to pin you against the closed door, his mouth finding yours hungrily.  The connection is immediately electric, frenzied.  Your keycard and purse fall from your fingers, landing somewhere you don’t know and frankly, don’t care.  Your hands fly up, knocking the baseball cap off of his head, fingers tugging at his soft black hair, eliciting a soft groan from him that sends a rush of wetness to your panties - you can already tell they are beyond ruined. 

“Tell me to stop,” he gasps, his lips nipping at your jaw, then your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there - biting gently and making you hiss, then soothing it with the warmth of his tongue. His hands have wandered from their initial death grip on your waist, one reaching down slowly to find your ass and give it a firm squeeze while the other hand slides up to cup the back of your neck. 

A feeble whimper escapes your lips begging him for the exact opposite of what he asked for as you grind against him, feeling his hardness even through his jeans. 

“Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”  You’re gripping the lapel of his jacket in desperation, fumbling to push it past his shoulders.  He lets go of you long enough to take it off the rest of the way and toss it haphazardly to the side. 

His mouth is relentless with its attention on your neck, and your head tilts back to allow for easier access. It’s so much but also not enough. You need more of him. Need to see more, feel more, touch more. Your hands grip his biceps, strong and firm, seeking something to ground you and reassure yourself that this is, in fact, real.  

Fingers race against clothing and before you know it your dress is halfway unbuttoned and pooled around your hips.  His lips mouth at one breast over your bra, his large hands fondling, squeezing the other.  

He breaks the kiss to look at you again, a slow smirk playing on his lips and before you can open your mouth to even attempt to protest, he's dropped to his knees in front of you, bunching your skirt up around your waist and pulling your panties down.  How he manages to do both simultaneously you're not sure, but you barely have time to register that thought because the next thing you know you can feel his warm breath between your legs as his mouth places delicate, open mouth kisses on your thighs, nipping playfully until he reaches your center, his tongue flattening to trace across your slit.  You gasp at the welcome sensation and your head falls against the wall with a dull THUD, prompting a reflexive "ow!" to escape your lips.

He pulls back for a moment. "Are you okay?"  

"Fuck, yes, Jesus don't stop..." you admonish him breathlessly.  

Obligingly, he dives back in between your legs, this time lifting your right leg so that it rests over his shoulder, giving him better access to your sex.  His finger strokes your folds, tracing the wetness there, then slipping in as his tongue continues licking, his lips finding your clit and latching, sucking, eliciting a moan from your lips. God they really weren’t kidding about that tongue technology.  Storm or no storm, this man was well on his way to taking you to Hong Kong, first class all the way. 

Within minutes he's added another finger inside of you, his tongue and lips continuing their assault on your most sensitive parts.   You struggle to grab something, anything, anything at all next to you to brace yourself for what is imminent. You manage to bury one hand in Yoongi’s hair, the other flat against the wall behind you, clawing at it in vain as you groan, "Yoongi, please...just like...that..I'm...I'm almost...holy FUCK a little mo-OH!" A cross between a squeal and a scream fills the room as your legs shudder and you thank your lucky stars you have one leg propped up on Yoongi’s broad shoulder to support you - you're sure you would have collapsed otherwise.  He laps up all of your juices and then gently moves your leg from his shoulder, grinning as he stands up to kiss you deeply.  You wobble, slightly unsteady, and moan at the taste of yourself on his lips. 

"You good?" he whispers, his trademark smirk playing on his lips.

"More than good," you pant, smiling as you catch your breath.  "But you're not..." you protest with a frown, cupping his hardness through his jeans.  He inhales sharply as his lips forge a trail down your jaw, towards your neck.   "Let me take care of you." You offer as you start to lower yourself to your knees but he stops you with a shake of his head, his grip firm on your arms.    

“I won’t last - I need to be inside you.”  Your pussy is still quivering with the aftershocks but painfully empty - you don't have to be told twice.   Within seconds you’ve unbuttoned and shoved his pants and his boxers halfway down his thighs - the urgency and desperation of the moment allowing only that much -  just before raising your leg again.  You fumble for a moment, then manage to prop it upon the bench next to you for leverage, allowing him better access to your sex.  He rubs the head of his cock against your folds, gathering the wetness from them and drawing a shaky sigh from you in the process, before sliding inside of you, both of you groaning at the sensation.  

"Yoongi..." you breathe.  "Please..."

"Fuck baby," he groans against your ear, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, this time harder than before. "So tight for me.  You feel so fucking unreal." 

"All for you," you reply breathlessly.  

His left hand finds your breast, his hand kneading it as his mouth latches onto the skin between your neck and your shoulder.  

You drape one arm around his neck for support, the other reaching down between your throbbing bodies, finding your clit and rubbing it.  The familiar knot is back, building in your stomach; you clench your toes in anticipation.  "Yoongi...almost...so close."

"Right there with you," he pants, the rhythm of his hips never wavering.  Within seconds you feel your second orgasm of the night and with it, your walls pulsing around his cock - driving him over the edge as well.  His hips stutter, falter, his thrusts becoming sloppy and jerky as he finishes inside of you.  Bringing his hands up to cup your chin, kissing you softly before resting his forehead against yours, catching his breath.  You slowly lower your leg to the ground, wobbling slightly. 

"You okay?"  he asks, his hands on your hips, steadying you.  You nod, then look down and notice that he’s still hard.  “You’re still…”

He chuckles.  “What can I say… it’s been awhile.”

Your eyebrows dart up in surprise.  “You?  Min Yoongi?  BTS Suga?”  You click your tongue disapprovingly.”Tsk tsk tsk. Well we can’t have that, can we?”  

You push him gently. He stumbles backwards, his pants still bunched around his thighs.  Holding his gaze, you slip your dress off the rest of the way, letting it pool at your feet.  His eyes widen, taking in the sight of you in your black lace bra, the cups sheer and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, your sex glistening with the remnants of your earlier orgasms. Stepping out of the dress you make your way over to the queen-sized bed in the center of the room - a coy glance over your shoulder as you reach around back and unclasp your bra, letting that fall as well.  

He swallows audibly as he watches you stride to the center of the room.  “You coming?” you ask, before turning back to climb on top of the bed.  

“FUCK yeah I am.  In more ways than one…” Sure enough, his erection is now most definitely back in full force.  In record time his pants and boxers have been shed, and he’s whipped his shirt off, his chest broad, toned, defined.  He quickly takes his position on top of you on the bed, the heat of his body pressed up against you, his cock sliding easily through your wet folds.  You gasp as it grazes your clit in just the right way.  

“Fuck,” you arch your back, needing to be closer still.  How is this possible, you’d already come twice…but a third?  Do you even have it in you? Fucking hell though this was Min Yoongi - it seems that anything is possible.  

He trails his way up your body with his mouth, and then swiftly slides into you, easier this time but still tight - your walls clinging to him like a vise.  His thrusts come slow at first, savoring the feeling, wanting so much to make this last for as long as possible.  His hips stutter, his ass tensing under your fingers - you can tell he’s close.   

Without warning, you push him off; he starts to voice his objection but relents when he realizes it was just to allow you to switch positions - you quickly guide him over so he’s laying on his back underneath you.  You settle yourself on top of him, wasting no time sheathing his cock in the heat of your cunt.  Slow swivels, back and forth, stimulating your clit, watching him for his reactions, and sure enough, you can feel him approaching his climax once again. His hands guide your hips, you can feel him tensing, he’s close, so fucking close.  You can see the silent pleas in his eyes, his fingers gripping your hips just a bit harder.   

With a mischievous smirk, you brush his hands away and slip off of him again- he’s stunned and frustrated, this is now twice that he’s been edged and you can sense his exasperation by the annoyed “what the FUCK” that he utters, grasping feebly at you, insistent at pulling you back onto him to resume your mistrations on his cock.  Ignoring his protests, you straddle his leg, your wetness soaking his thigh just above his knee, his muscle there stimulating your clit as you grind against him. 

Before he has a chance to fully grasp what’s happening and before he can protest further you’ve bent over and taken his cock in your mouth. 

“Oh FUCK!” His exclamation is raw, guttural, pulled from the depths of his throat by the thoroughly unexpected action.  The tastes of your essence and his arousal mingling in your mouth only serve to make you even wetter, and his hands come down to bury themselves in your hair, seeking purchase, stability, something to ground himself. His grip is strong, pulling to the point of tears that cloud your eyes but the pain merely elevates your pleasure and you find your hips grinding harder against his thigh, chasing your own release.  

Your head is spinning with a million different sensations - the taste of him, the taste of you, the stimulation your clit is receiving, the feeling of his balls in one of your hands, your other hand stroking his cock as your mouth bobs up and down on his length, tongue tracing the sensitive underside, desperation fueling your movements as a litany of curses spew forth from his lips.  You moan around his cock, the stimulation nearly overwhelming; by now his gasps and whimpers are barely intelligible - murmurs of “don’t stop don’t fucking stop”, and “please please please oh fuuuuuuck”.

It’s only a matter of minutes now - one more swallow around his cock and gentle squeeze of his balls and his body tenses beneath you, one final guttural groan that barely sounds human and he spills in your mouth, his seed dripping down your throat.  You’re ready for him, swallowing every drop as he gives it to you and with one last grind against his leg you’re coming as well, your walls spasming feebly around nothing, your lower lips pulsing against his thigh.  You are well and truly spent, collapsing against him, your head on his abdomen. You tilt your head up to see him to find his hands are now in his hair, dragging down his face, chest heaving. 

He looks down and sees you smiling lazily at him; he chuckles weakly.  “What the actual fuck, baby.  I think you may have just sucked my soul out of my body.  Like there’s actually nothing left.” 

A playful giggle escapes your lips.  “Well we can’t have that, can we? The night is still young…”  You plant soft kisses along his stomach, slowly working your way up his body.  “...and I wouldn’t mind a round two. Or are we on three now?”  Your tongue finds his nipple, gently flicking it with your tongue, feeling his breath catch. His hands find your ass, stroking, groping, squeezing.  Moving to the other nipple lest it feel neglected, you look up at him, waiting for his response.  

“Shit…I don’t even know. ” he breathes.  “I think I lost count.  Not that I would mind, but seriously…Imma need a minute or two.  Or like…twenty.” 

You giggle again as you work your way further still, nipping at his collarbone, sucking on his neck, the sensitive spot near his ear that makes him whimper, spending extra time on the mole on the base of his neck near his right shoulder.  Pulling back just slightly you can see the purple bruise slowly starting to form; you smile at your handiwork and catch his gaze. Sure enough his eyes are hooded, half open, lips swollen, face flushed; he looks fully and thoroughly fucked out.  You finally meet his waiting mouth with your own, his tongue tangling with yours, as he tastes himself on you with a muffled groan.  

As you part just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads pressed against each other, you take a moment to savor the closeness, until he breaks the silence with a reminder of your words from earlier in the night. “‘Does it really matter?’” He scoffs.  “Are you KIDDING me?”  

You giggle, rolling up off of him and snuggling into his side, your leg coming up to drape across his hips. “Too much?”

He pulls you in closer to him, nuzzling the top of your head.  “I don’t know, I kinda feel like I should be worried if this is how you’re going to respond to every stranger you meet in a hotel bar.” 

You can hear the pout in his voice.

You laugh, flipping your hair over your shoulder and crane your neck up to give him a kiss on his adorable cheek. “Not every stranger.” You clarify.  “Just the handsome ones I happen to share a last name with.”

He pulls you in for a kiss, his hand gripping your thigh still hooked around your waist, thumb gently stroking at the skin there,  “Well, thank you for indulging my fantasy.”

“Oh believe me, when I say it was my absolute pleasure,” you reply.  “Though I have to say, I really was surprised to see you here.  I thought you had schedules until early next week. I even double checked your itinerary when we were downstairs.”

“I did… but I thought I’d rearrange my flights with a stopover here to try and catch you at the airport after your meetings, then the storm came through, and… well… here we are.”

“You certainly kept me on my toes,” you smile.  “I saw you come into the bar and it took me a minute to register because I just wasn’t expecting to see you there. But then I figured it was as good a time as any… and when you got me the drink, I knew it was game on.”

“Well, thank you.” He pulls your leg up tighter around him, and you can feel his cock twitch against your skin.  

Propping yourself up on one elbow, you seek out his lips, capturing them with your own, this time soft and gentle, knowing you have all the time in the world.  “You are so very welcome.”  Sliding your body across so that you are once again straddling him, you feel his increasingly hardening member grazing your ass. “I take it we’re ready for round three Mr. Min?” 

He hisses through his teeth as your fingers rake down his chest, your nails leaving the faintest of marks in their wake. “Oh we most certainly are, Mrs. Min.”

Outside, the thunder and lightning are long gone and the storm has since dissipated into a light drizzle.  In much the same way, all your movements for this round are quieter, calmer, more precise - calculated, deliberate, and unhurried, savoring every moment of the night ahead. 

[mindurbuzznezz]

Pretty girls lie pretty.

“Break up with your girlfriend for the night.”

↝ 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔: What if your girlfriend’s pissy friend didn’t want to steal you away? What if he just wanted to fuck the goodness out of you? And what if you let him?

↝ 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: smut ↝ 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: explicit (18+) ↝ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: yoongi x reader ↝ 𝒘𝒄: 15k ↝ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: taken!reader, messy!yoongi, reader is in a wlw relationship and cheats on her with yoongi, yoongi has a tongue piercing bc i’m a whore, yoongi is mean/mocking, explicit themes: sex on table, degradation kink (insults, shaming, mocking), spitting (in mouth + pussy), muffling kink (hand over mouth), lowkey(?) hate sex, choking, hickeys, biting, marking, orgasm denial, ruined orgasm, public risk / sex with girlfriend in the next room, fingering, oral (f. receiving), cum on body (ass, thighs), spit as lube, slight handjob, spanking (light/cock), name-calling (“slut”, “messy”, “liar”), slight objectification (“pussy”, “hole”), intense eye contact kink, face grabbing, hair pulling, verbal power play, rough sex, aftercare non-existent, humiliation kink, thigh grabbing, cheating kink, minor clothing kink (panties described/obsessed over), yoongi mocking / complaining about clothes, rough unprotected penetrative sex, messy/wet sex, impact play (table banging), cleanup with napkins 😭 ↝ 𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒔: playlist | song that inspired it

You really don’t think he’ll notice—the way your gaze snags on him, sharp and shiny as a fishhook—but here’s the kicker: 

Yoongi notices everything.

Wet china sticks to his palm, heat and dish soap biting under his nails. Bubbles pop around his wrists, too clean, too domestic, as if scrubbing meringue off a plate could rinse out what’s rotting under his ribcage. 

To his left, the door hangs half-shut: voices peel through, laughter at the wrong pitch, forks clinking against cheap porcelain. 

Your girl’s laugh, syrupy, and so, so fucking annoying. 

He’d almost rather shatter this plate just to shut her up for half a second.

So fucking loud, all of it. So impossibly not enough.

You’re somewhere out there. Probably pretending to listen to some friend’s vacation story, lips twisting into that smile you reserve for duty. Not pleasure. Not even guilt—God knows you save that shit for him, press it into every accidental brush of your fucking shoulder, every break in that missionary stare. 

He knows the shape of it now.

Guilt looks like you.

Ducking your head to your chest, fingers fussing with silverware, refusing to meet his eyes for more than a second. Like you might combust if you hold it too long.

Sickening isn’t even the word for it. The dish clatters—too hard, almost cracks. He tightens his grip. Wonders if the muscles in his jaw will snap before the ceramic does.

How many birthdays is this now? Three? Four? 

He’s lost count; all these parties blur together. Same sticky heat leaking through the shutters, same goddamn scent—lemon rind, sweet wine, something synthetic you wear on your wrists just to get through the crowd. 

He can taste it, even from here. Bitter almond. 

Makes his molars ache.

The worst part is the pretending. The way you look away on purpose, telegraphing distance like you actually believe you have any left to give. You think if you just blink, just hold your breath, your desire won’t drip out onto the kitchen tiles for him to notice. 

You think you’re some patron saint of loyalty. 

Hah. 

Saints don’t fidget every time he walks behind them. Saints don’t swallow so hard when their girlfriend puts a hand on the small of their back. Saints don’t keep checking to see if he’s looking.

Here’s a secret: he always is.

Soap squeaks between his knuckles. He stacks the plate a little too rough, doesn’t care if it chips. 

What if it did? Would you flinch? Would your perfect little world splinter, just for a moment? 

He imagines the sound—porcelain on tile, gasps from the other room, your head snapping up, eyes blown wide with something that’s not fear. Not quite. 

He wonders how it would feel to ruin something that actually mattered tonight.

In the dining room, someone starts singing off-key, and Yoongi scrubs harder until his hands burn. He doesn’t need to see you to know exactly how your face looks right now: pinched, guilty.

Avoiding him even from thirty feet away.

Yeah, run along. Pretend you don’t want him to follow. Pretend a little harder.

He drops the next dish in the sink with a sharp clatter—just to see if you’ll finally fucking look.

Then, a sound, a voice, a permission.

He hears it—your girl’s voice, syrup slick, cutting through the party racket: “Babe, could you grab that bottle from the kitchen?” 

Ridiculous how she manages to sound grateful and controlling at the same time. 

Maybe she knows. Maybe she fucking knows.

Chair legs screech. Footsteps, soft but pointed, crossing tile—he knows the sound of your tread, timid and dubious. 

You linger by the door like you’re still deciding if you’ll breathe in here. He doesn’t bother looking. 

Why indulge you?

Door whispers shut. Exile. 

Now it’s just the two of you. Your shallow, nervous breaths fill the cracks between his knuckles and the faucet’s hiss. 

It gets hotter. Air growing thick with something moldy, unspoken.

He keeps washing. Doesn’t spare you a glance, because if he does, he fears something beside the silverware will shatter. 

But he does speak. “Aren’t you tired?”

You blink, unsure, thumb tracing the seam of your top. 

That stupid, white tank top that clings to your chest like a promise he knows he can’t keep, you can’t keep.

“Sorry?”

“Deaf now?” He raises a brow—not even for you, mostly for himself. “I asked if you aren’t tired.”

That little panic-glitch you do—eyebrows up, smile flickering. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He sets a plate down harder than necessary. Water slaps the counter. 

“No? Funny, that. Hard to believe, with how you eye-fuck me every two seconds.” 

He wipes his fingers on a dish rag, stares at the back of your neck, the red where your collar pulls tight. His tongue prods at the cold weight of metal behind his teeth, a habit when he's bored or pissed or thinking about you.

You stare at the counter, clutching that bottle of wine you’ve retrieved from the fridge like it might split open and save you. 

Your silence is loud. Worse than excuses.

He lets it hang. Not even mercy; just wants to see how long you’ll squirm. 

“Don’t start playing innocent now. Not when you’re so damn obvious.”

You shake your head, quick—automatic, honest in a way words aren’t. “What? I’m not—”

He cuts you off. “Sure you’re not.” He spits the words, not even angry. Bored, if anything. “Should try not looking so hungry, sweetheart. Gets embarrassing.”

You hover near the doorway, torn between fight and flight, but you do neither. 

You stay. 

Of course you do. 

That’s the root of it, isn’t it? You want him to rip the decency out of your chest, just so you can blame someone else.

The bottle trembles in your grip. Cork stuck, label peeling where your thumb keeps rubbing nervous circles. You’re going to drop it—he can see it in the way your wrist shakes, the way you’re gripping too tight, knuckles bone-white.

“C’mere.” He sighs. “Let me open the fucking bottle for you before you break it.”

You hesitate. Of course you do. Always three steps behind your own impulses, aren’t you? 

But you move anyway, shuffling closer until you’re within arm’s reach, wine bottle extended to him like you’re offering something besides the container.

He doesn’t take it immediately. Just stares at your fingers wrapped around the neck, the way they tremble when he doesn’t move fast enough. Your pulse hammers in your throat—he can see it jumping, frantic and guilty.

“Relax,” he says, finally taking the bottle. “Not gonna bite.”

Liar. 

He wants to sink his teeth into that soft spot where your shoulder meets your neck, wants to make you whimper his name while your girlfriend laughs in the next room.

The cork pops with a wet sound. Wine sloshes, bright and bitter. He sets it on the counter harder than necessary, glass ringing against marble.

You lean against the counter now, arms crossed over your chest. 

It’s pathetic, really. The distance you’re trying to create when you’re already this close, when you came to him instead of asking literally anyone else to open a simple bottle.

“You should break up with your girl for the night.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but he sees you flinch in his peripheral vision, sees the way your breathing stops.

“What?”

“You heard me.” He looks up then, studies your face—the way your eyes go wide, the way your lips part around nothing. “Tell her you’re sick. Tell her you need air. Tell her whatever lie comes easiest.”

You shake your head, automatic. “I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” He steps closer, just enough to make you press back against the counter. “Can’t lie? You’ve been doing it for months. Can’t disappoint her? You disappoint her every time you look at me.”

Your mouth opens, closes. Fish gasping on dry land.

“She knows,” he continues, voice dropping lower. “You think she doesn’t, but she does. The way you go quiet when I walk in a room. The way you find excuses to stay late when I’m around. She’s not stupid.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what? Stop saying what you’re thinking? Stop noticing how wet you get when I’m mean to you?” He’s close enough now to notice the way your eyes darken when he talks.

It makes him sick. It makes him so fucking sick he needs to kiss them away from you, let them die like your heart does when you glance at him when he doesn’t. 

“You want me to stop pretending I don’t see how you fall apart every time I’m within ten feet of you?”

Your chest rises and falls too fast. Panic or arousal—probably both. “This isn’t—we can’t—”

“We can’t what?” He leans in, smell of cigarettes on his breath, soap on his skin. “Can’t want each other? Too late for that. Can’t act on it? That’s just cowardice.”

You press yourself further back against the counter, but there’s nowhere to go. He’s got you pinned, not with his body but with his words, with the weight of everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist.

“I love her,” you whisper, and it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him.

“Sure you do.” He reaches past you, palm flat against the counter on either side of your hips. Caging you in. “Love her enough to eye-fuck me at her birthday party. Love her enough to think about me when she’s between your legs.”

You make a sound—half gasp, half sob. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” His voice is barely above a whisper now, eyes fixed on yours. “Tell me you don’t think about me. Tell me you don’t want me to bend you over this counter and fuck you until you forget her name.”

Your hands fly to his chest, but you don’t push him away. Just rest them there, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt.

“I don’t like you,” you breathe.

“Sure.” His eyes flick to the tears gathering in your eyes, the way your lips are swollen from biting them. “And pigs fly.”

A tear falls.

But you’re not saying no. You’re not moving away.

“One night,” he says, and it’s not a question. “One night to get this poison out of our systems. Then you can go back to being the good girlfriend, and I can go back to pretending I don’t want to destroy you.”

Your voice cracks when you speak. “And if I say no?”

“You can say no.” He thumbs away a tear, the gesture almost tender. “But you won’t. Because you’re tired of being good. Because you want someone to make the choice for you so you don’t have to live with the guilt of making it yourself.”

You close your eyes, lean into his touch despite yourself.

“Look at me,” he commands, and you do. “Tell me no. Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away. Go back to washing dishes like nothing happened.”

But you can’t. He knows, you know. You can’t say no because you don’t want to, and you can’t say yes because you’re too scared of what it makes you.

“I—”

“Don’t think.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, and you shiver. The tip of his tongue flicks out, silver ball gliding over his own lip, slow and taunting. “Just feel. Just for once in your pathetic, repressed life, let yourself feel something real.”

The party continues in the next room—voices and laughter and the clink of glasses. Your girlfriend’s voice rises above the rest, calling your name.

“She’s looking for you,” he says, but he doesn’t step back.

“I know.”

“You can go back to her. Pretend this didn’t happen. Pretend you don’t want me so bad it’s eating you alive.”

You stare at him, torn between duty and desire, between the life you’ve built and the hunger that’s been growing inside you for months.

Then you grab the bottle and move away, back towards the door like a fucking leashed animal going back to its cage.

“Or,” he continues, like a throwaway comment, “you can let me fucking rock your world, for tonight.”

You stop, reach for the door but don’t open it—just turn around to watch him, check his reaction. He smiles, knows that look. You wear it like it’s your default setting—guilt.

You’re considering it. 

So he moves until he’s in front of you—you against the door, him checking you out.

He notices the strand of hair that’s fallen across your shoulder—always the same piece, always escaping that way you pin it back. 

He brushes it aside with the back of his knuckles, barely touching, but you shiver anyway. Your skin pebbles under his attention.

“I’ve been thinking about this spot for so long,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. 

The place where a necklace would sit if you were the type to wear one. If she so much as asked, you would. He knows. 

His thumb finds that exact spot, drags across it with laziness. Pulse jumps under his touch—frantic, guilty, alive. 

Even when trying to remain composed, your body betrays you around him. 

It’s funny, really. 

“So fucking long,” he continues, thumb tracing circles that get smaller, more focused. “Watching you cover it up with high necklines and scarves. Like you knew I was looking. Like you knew what I wanted to do to you.”

Your girlfriend’s voice again—“Babe, where did you go?”—but neither of you move. 

Instead he leans closer, closer now that his breath ghosts over your skin. 

“You’re so full of shit,” he whispers against your throat. “Standing there like some martyr, like you’re not dripping wet from three words and a thumb on your neck.”

You make a sound—half protest, half moan. Your free hand flutters uselessly at your side, searching for something to hold onto that isn’t him.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, but his mouth is already brushing against your shoulder, lips barely grazing the skin he’s been obsessing over. “Tell me to fuck off and I will.”

But you can’t. You won’t. Your head tilts back despite yourself, giving him better access, and that’s all the permission he needs.

He starts with the softest brush of his lips, testing, stud dragging a cold line across your skin. Your skin tastes like salt and that fucking perfume you wear—fig and almond, bitter and sweet and it matches the feeling he swallows down his throat every time he sees you.

He trails lower, following the curve of your shoulder, marking a path with his mouth.

Then he bites.

Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make you gasp, to make your knees buckle. His teeth sink into that tender spot where your shoulder slopes down, and you arch into him instead of away.

“There you fucking are,” he mumbles against your skin, soothing the bite with his tongue. 

His hand settles on your waist, fingers splaying wide, claiming the space between your hipbone and ribs. You’re trembling now, full-body shaking, and he feels sick for how much he enjoys that.

“Babe?” Your girlfriend’s voice is closer now, probably checking the hallway. “Did you find the wine?”

Yoongi nips at your shoulder again, teeth scraping, and your hand flies to his shoulder—gripping, desperate. 

Not pushing him away, not anchoring yourself. 

Just holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“Answer her,” he murmurs against your skin, mouth moving lower to taste the hollow of your collarbone. “Tell her you’re coming.”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky breath. He bites down again, harder this time, and you bite back a moan.

“Can’t even lie anymore,” he says, and he sounds pleased. Victorious. “Look at you, falling apart from a few bites. What’s she gonna think when she sees the marks?”

Your grip on his shoulder tightens, nails digging through his shirt. 

Still not pushing him away.

“That’s right,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Hold onto me. Let me give you something to really feel guilty about.”

He works his way back up your shoulder, each kiss hungrier than the last, each bite a little deeper. Your breathing is ragged now, desperate little gasps that make his cock twitch in his jeans.

“I’m—” you start, but he cuts you off with another bite, this one right at the base of your neck. The sound you make is pure sin.

“You’re what?” he asks, pulling back just enough to look at you—lips swollen, eyes glassy. “You’re sorry? You’re a good person? You’re not enjoying this?”

Your girlfriend calls your name again, impatient now.

He moves to your neck again, mouth hot and demanding against the tender skin just below your ear. 

And the kicker of all this is—you keep making fucking sounds—small, desperate whimpers that are going to get you caught if you don’t shut up.

Maybe that’s exactly what you want. Maybe he’s not the only monster, after all. 

His hand slides up from your waist, fingers spreading across your ribs before moving higher—up until he clamps his palm over your mouth, not gentle, thumb pressing against your lips.

“Bite down,” he commands, voice rough against your throat. “Before you get us both in trouble.”

You do—teeth sinking into the pad of his thumb, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to muffle the moan that tries to escape. He groans at the sensation, hips pressing forward until you can feel exactly how much he wants you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, mouth working against your neck. “I should fuck you in front of her. Let her watch while I make you cum on my cock. Let her see how good you truly are. How pliant, how kind.”

Your teeth tighten around his thumb, eyes rolling back—and he knows then the fantasy is bursting behind your eyelids—brutal and wrong and so fucking appealing it makes your knees weak.

Nasty, you’re so fucking nasty. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he continues, barely containing his own satisfaction. “Want her to see how desperate you get when someone you crave touches you. How you turn into a whore the second someone pays attention to all that’s rotting beneath your lil’ nice act.”

You shake your head, but it’s no use, really. 

Your body tells the truth—the way you arch into him, the way your breathing goes ragged against his palm.

“Liar,” he growls, nipping at your pulse point. “Your cunt’s probably soaked just thinking about it. About being bent over while she watches, about her seeing exactly what kind of slut she’s been dating.”

“Babe? Are you okay in there?”

Yoongi’s hand tightens over your mouth, thumb pressing deeper between your teeth.

“One night,” he whispers urgently against your ear. “Tonight. After they all leave and she’s busy washing dishes in the kitchen.”

Your eyes go wide, pupils blown with arousal and terror.

“The dining room,” he continues, voice low and filthy. “Right on that table where we all just ate. Where she served you her birthday cake and all you could do is keep stealing glances at me. I’ll bend you over it and fuck you until you forget her name.”

You shudder at that, he feels it, he knows you do too. His thumb is wet with your saliva, and you’re still biting down like your life depends on it.

Maybe it does. He knows your girlfriend is seconds away from finding out. 

And the most twisted of it all? He’s getting off on that. 

“Picture it,” he breathes, mouth moving to the other side of your neck. “Her humming in the kitchen, twenty feet away, while I split you open on the table. While I make you beg for my cock in the same room where she sang happy birthday an hour ago.”

You whimper at that—the words, the motion, he doesn’t know, but he wants to swallow the sound down his throat anyways. 

“She’ll be so focused on cleaning,” he continues, painting the scene for your nightmares. “Won’t even notice how long you’ve been gone. Won’t hear you whimpering my name or the sound of the table legs scraping against the floor.”

Your girlfriend’s footsteps grow louder in the hallway—really fucking close now, and your breath comes in short bursts against his palm. 

But he can see you thinking, weighing the cost, imagining it. Considering it. 

“Nod if you understand,” he says.

You stare at him for a long moment, like you’re not sure if it’s worth the risk, if your guilt is worth the reward. 

But then—then you fucking nod.

Just once. Barely a movement. 

But he’s seen it, telegraphed it and now he fucking knows for certain. 

He drops his hand from your mouth, steps back like nothing happened. 

You slump against the door, legs shaking, lipstick smeared and hair mussed. His tongue darts out, runs over his lower lip, the stud catching on chapped skin.

“Fix yourself,” he says, walking back to the sink. “You look like you’ve been thoroughly fucked, and we haven’t even started yet.”

You push off on unsteady legs, smoothing your hair with trembling fingers, covering the blooming red marks with your free hand. 

“Tonight,” he says without turning around, hands already back in the soapy water like this is just another conversation. “Don’t make me come find you.”

The kitchen door swings open then. 

“There you are,” your girlfriend says, smiling as she steps into the kitchen. “I was wondering where you’d gone.”

“Just helping with the wine,” he says easily, voice betraying nothing. “Cork was stuck.”

Your girlfriend looks between you both, taking in your flushed cheeks and the way you’re gripping your neck like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asks, moving closer to press the back of her hand against your forehead. “You look a little flushed.”

“I’m fine,” you manage, voice barely steady. “Just warm in here.”

She nods, accepting the lie, and takes the wine bottle from you with a grateful smile. 

Then, she looks at Yoongi. “Thanks for helping. You didn’t have to do that.”

“No problem,” he says, still focused on the dishes. But his eyes find yours over her shoulder, and the look he gives you is all malice. “Happy to help.”

She grabs your hand, and you let yourself be guided out of the kitchen.

Not without hearing a last: 

“See you in a bit.” 

And goddamn if he doesn’t mean it. 

Your mouth ruins him.

Not in the way people mean when they talk about lips, or smiles, or whatever bullshit poets write. No—your mouth ruins him because you don’t even know what it does. 

Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the worst part.

He watches you swipe a thumb through whipped cream, tongue flicking out to catch the mess. Innocent. Stupid. You don’t even taste the cake, just the sugar on your skin. 

The plate is untouched. Waste of flour, waste of time. The real dessert’s right there, sitting across from him, legs tucked under the table like you’re not hiding bruises under that kerchief and those shorts that barely count as clothing.

You laugh at something your girlfriend says—soft, feeble, the kind of sound that makes people think you’re gentle. You nod when she asks about the wine. 

“It was fine,” you say, voice steady—but you’re a fucking liar.  You haven’t tasted a thing since you walked back in here, since you let him mark you up in the kitchen like you were begging for it.

He counts the glances. Five in two minutes. He’s not guessing. He’s keeping track, tallying every time your eyes dart his way, wide and pleading, like you want him to call you out in front of everyone. Like you want to get caught. Like you want to be ruined.

You don’t even try to hide it. That’s what pisses him off. 

You sit there, pretty as a picture, tank top clinging to your chest, shorts riding up your thighs, kerchief tied tight around your neck like it’s a fucking leash. 

You think that’s enough? You think a strip of fabric can erase the way you let him bite you, the way you whimpered into his hand, the way you nodded when he told you exactly what he’d do to you later?

Pathetic.

He digs his fork into the cake, doesn’t taste it. Sugar, cream, nothing. He wants to throw the plate. Wants to watch it shatter, see if you’d flinch, see if you’d finally stop pretending. But you wouldn’t. You’d just look at him, big-eyed and guilty, and he’d want to crawl across the table and fuck you until you sobbed.

Your girlfriend leans in, presses a kiss to your shoulder. You smile, soft and grateful, like you’re not thinking about someone else’s hands. Like you’re not dripping onto the seat every time Yoongi shifts in his chair. He can see it—the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twitch against your fork. 

You’re not even eating. You’re just waiting.

He hates you for it. Hates how easy you make it. Hates how you don’t even have to try and he’s already hard, already angry, already picturing what you’d look like bent over this table, shorts around your ankles, everyone watching while he ruins you for good.

Someone asks a question. He doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t care. He’s too busy watching the way you lick your lips, too busy cataloguing every nervous glance, every movement you fucking make in your seat. 

You’re not subtle. You’re not innocent. You’re just good at pretending.

He wonders if anyone else notices. Wonders if your girlfriend sees the way you keep touching your neck, fingers ghosting over the kerchief like you’re checking to make sure the marks are still hidden. Like you’re proud of them. Like you want someone to ask.

He wants to ask. Wants to rip the fabric off, show everyone what you let him do to you. Wants to see you cry when they realize you’re not the good person you pretend to be.

You catch his eye again. Six. Your mouth parts, just a little, like you’re about to say something. 

You don’t. 

You just look at him, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, and he knows you’re thinking about the kitchen, about his hand on your mouth, about the promise he made.

He wants to make you beg for it. Wants to make you crawl under the table, suck him off while your girlfriend laughs at some stupid joke. Wants to see if you’d do it. 

He bets you would. He bets you’d thank him for it.

He digs his nails into his palm, forces himself to look away. 

The room is too bright, too loud. Laughter bounces off the walls, forks scrape against plates, someone pours more wine. He watches the red spill, thinks about how easy it would be to tip the glass, stain your perfect white tank top, give you something else to hide.

You’re talking now, voice low, answering some question about work. He doesn’t care. He only hears the tremor, the way your words catch when you glance his way. You’re scared. You’re excited. 

You’re fucking sick, and he loves it.

Your girlfriend squeezes your hand under the table. You squeeze back, smile at her, lean in like you’re grateful. Like you’re not dying for Yoongi to drag you out of here and fuck you raw. Or maybe not even drag you. Maybe you want it right here, in front of everyone. Maybe you want to see how far you can push before someone calls you out.

He wants to call you out. Wants to see you break. Wants to see you sob and beg and thank him for making you feel something real.

You laugh at something, head thrown back, throat exposed for half a second. He sees the edge of a bruise, purple and red, peeking out from under the kerchief. You see him see it. Your eyes go wide, mouth dropping open, and he feels his cock twitch.

You’re disgusting. He’s worse.

The conversation moves on. Someone toasts to your girlfriend, to another year, to happiness. You smile, raise your glass, clink it against hers. Your hand shakes. He sees it. No one else does.

He wonders if you’re wet. Wonders if you’d let him check, right here, under the table. Wonders if you’d spread your legs for him, let him finger you while your girlfriend thanks everyone for coming. He bets you would. He bets you’d cum so hard you’d cry.

He wants to see you cry.

You look at him again. Seven. Your mouth is a fucking sin.

He wants to ruin it. Wants to ruin you.

He takes another bite of cake, doesn’t taste it. All he tastes is you. All he wants is to see you fall apart.

You’re going to. He can feel it. You’re already halfway there.

He hopes you choke on your own sweetness. He hopes you beg for more.

Finally—someone suggests wrapping up.

His foot's been vibrating under the table for God knows how long, bouncing against the floor like a fucking jackhammer. 

When did that start? When you licked cream off your thumb? When you adjusted that ridiculous kerchief for the tenth time? When you looked at him like you wanted him to drag you over the table and fuck you in front of your girlfriend?

Doesn't matter. His blood's singing now, electric and vicious, and he's never been more grateful for small mercies.

People start moving. Chairs scrape. Plates clink. 

The birthday girl—your girlfriend—starts collecting glasses with that insufferable smile, thanking everyone for coming like this wasn't the most torturous three hours of his life.

And you. 

Of course you're helping. Of course you're stacking plates like the perfect little housewife, like you weren't begging for his cock with your eyes twenty minutes ago. 

Miss fucking saint. Miss patron of purity. 

He watches you lean across the table, those shorts riding up just enough to make him want to rip them off with his teeth. 

They're long—stupidly long, covering way too much thigh for something that's supposed to be summer wear. What's the point of shorts if they cover most of your thighs? 

They're practically pants. Completely unreasonable. How is he supposed to see anything when you're covered from waist to shin like some prude?

He fucking hates them.

And that tank top—white cotton, innocent as Sunday, except he can see the outline of your bra underneath. 

Why are you wearing a bra? It's hot, it's summer, it's Napoli for fuck's sake. The logical thing would be to let your tits breathe. But no, you've got them locked up tight, probably some modest little thing with full coverage because God forbid anyone see a nipple.

It's completely impractical. Uncomfortable, even. 

He slams his plate down on the pile.

You flinch. Hard. The whole stack wobbles, and for a second he thinks you might drop everything, watch it all shatter on the floor like he wants to.

But you don't. You just swallow, throat working, and look up at him with those wide, terrified eyes that make his cock twitch.

Fear and arousal. The combination that's been driving him up the fucking wall all night.

He wants to shove a dish down his own throat, see if that stops the bile from rising, stops the sick satisfaction from spreading through his chest like poison.

"Stop it," he mutters, voice low enough that no one else hears.

Your throat bobs again. Pupils blown wide, lips parted around nothing. "Stop what?"

He wants to bite his knuckles. Wants to bite yours. Wants to bite that soft spot on your neck until you cry.

"Stop looking at me like that," he says, leaning closer, "or I swear to God I won't be able to contain myself anymore."

You shudder. Full-body tremor that he feels in his bones, and he hates how it reels through him, makes his hands shake with the need to touch.

"My cock's been aching since the fucking kitchen," he continues, voice barely above a whisper, "and you haven't been helping your case."

The blush spreads down your neck, disappears under that stupid kerchief. 

You look away, skittering your gaze to the side like you can escape this, escape him.

God damn it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Around you, people are laughing, cleaning, saying their goodbyes. People filter out. Hugs and air kisses and promises to do this again soon. Your girlfriend's in the kitchen now—he can hear water running, dishes clinking, the domestic symphony of someone who doesn't know her world's about to implode.

And here you are, blushing like a virgin at dirty words, looking like you want to crawl away, or maybe crawl under him.

He stacks another plate, harder than necessary. The sound makes you jump.

"Scared?" he asks.

You shake your head, but your hands are trembling as you reach for another dish. "No."

"Liar." He moves closer, close enough to smell that fucking perfume again. Fig and almond. Sweet and bitter. "You're terrified. Turned on and terrified."

You look at him again, and the expression on your face makes him want to flip this entire table.

Soft. Pleading. Like you're asking him to make the choice for you.

Like you want him to drag you out of here right now, consequences be damned.

He wants to. Jesus Christ, he wants to throw you over his shoulder, carry you to the nearest flat surface, and fuck you until you forget your own name. Forget her name. Forget everything except the way he feels inside you.

But he doesn't. He just stacks another plate, watches you flinch at the sound, watches the way your chest rises and falls too fast under that modest tank top.

"You know what's about to happen," he says, not a question.

You nod. Barely a movement, but he sees it.

"Good,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen. "Go give those to her.”

You don't move. Just stare at him with those big, stupid eyes.

"I want you back here in three minutes."

Your tongue darts out, wets your bottom lip. "Why?"

He almost laughs. Almost. "You know why."

But you don't move. You just stand there, plates trembling in your hands, looking at him like you're waiting for permission to breathe.

"Three minutes," he repeats. 

You swallow hard, nod once, and finally—finally—walk toward the kitchen. He watches you go, watches the way your shoulders hunch like you're trying to disappear.

He hears your voice in the kitchen, bright and helpful: "Let me help with those." 

Your girlfriend laughs, says something about how sweet you are, how lucky she is.

If only she knew.

He counts. One minute. Two.

He glances around the dining room—eyes locking on the table where you all just ate, where your girlfriend blew out candles and made wishes. 

Where he's going to bend you over and fuck you until you forget her name.

His hands curl into fists. His cock throbs against his zipper.

Two and a half minutes.

He can hear you in there, voice getting higher, more nervous. 

You're stalling. Of course you are. Probably hoping he'll change his mind, hoping this is all some sick joke.

It's not.

Three minutes.

Footsteps. Slow, reluctant. You appear in the doorway like you're walking to your execution.

Good. You should be scared.

You should be excited.

You are both, and he can see it in every line of your body—the way you hover by the door, the way your hands shake, the way you can't quite meet his eyes.

"Close the door."

You hesitate. "She's right there—"

"Close. The fucking. Door."

You do, soft click that might as well be a gunshot. Now it's just you and him and the weight of what's about to happen.

He doesn't move from where he's standing. Doesn't need to. 

"Come here."

You do.

God help him, you fucking do. Walk toward him like you're programmed to obey, like every instinct you have has been rewired to follow his voice. 

That shouldn't make his dick stand at attention, but it does. Makes him sick how much it does.

He stays where he is, hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching you cross the room with careful steps. You're trying to look composed, but he sees the tremor in your legs, the way you keep glancing toward the kitchen door like you might bolt.

You won't. You both know it.

You reach the table, rest your ass against the edge. Safe distance. Or what you think is safe distance.

There's no such thing. Not anymore.

He moves then, slow and intentional, pulling his hands free. You tense when he gets close, but you don't move away. Don't even breathe, from what he can tell.

His fingers find the strip of skin between your waistband and tank top. Just a sliver, maybe an inch of exposed flesh, but it's enough. Your skin burns under his touch, soft and warm and real.

He trails upward. Slow. Watching his own fingers map the path along your ribs, feeling the way your breathing stutters when he reaches the curve under your breast.

Higher. Over the cotton of your shirt, feeling the rapid beat of your heart, the way your chest rises and falls too fast.

His hand reaches your neck. Settles there, fingers spanning your throat, thumb brushing against the fabric tied around it.

"The kerchief is cute," he says, eyes still fixed on where his hand rests.

He grabs the end of it. Tugs. Not hard enough to untie it, just enough to make you feel the pressure, make you remember what's underneath.

Now he looks at you. Really looks. Takes in the way your pupils have swallowed the color of your eyes, the way your lips part around nothing.

"Won't help for covering all the fucking marks I'm gonna leave on you tonight, though."

Your breath catches. Audible little gasp that goes straight to his cock.

He can hear your girlfriend in the kitchen—humming something off-key, water still running. Completely oblivious to what's happening twenty feet away.

His thumb presses against the fabric, finding the spot where he bit you earlier. You wince, just slightly, but you don't pull away.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

You nod.

"Good." His grip tightens, just enough to make you feel it. "It should hurt. Should remind you what you agreed to."

Your hands flutter at your sides, searching for something to hold onto. The table edge. Your own clothes. Anything but him.

"You can still change your mind.”

You shake your head. Quick, desperate.

"No?" He tilts his head, studying your face. "You want this? Want me to ruin you while she's right there?"

Another nod. Smaller this time, like you're ashamed of how much you want it.

You should be ashamed. It's fucking sick, what you're about to do. What you both want.

His free hand finds your waist, settles there like he owns it. Like he owns you.

Maybe he does. Maybe he has since the moment you walked into that kitchen, since you let him corner you, mark you, make you promises you're too weak to refuse.

"Look at me," he commands.

You do. Eyes glassy, lips swollen from biting them.

"Tell me you want this," he says. "Tell me you want me to bend you over this table and fuck you until you forget her name."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"I—"

"Say it."

The kerchief falls completely now, pooling on the floor like surrender. The marks on your neck are fully visible—his teeth marks, his proof that you're not the saint everyone thinks you are.

"I want—" you start, then stop, eyes darting toward the kitchen.

"She can't hear you," he says, hand tightening around your throat. "But I can. So say it."

You look at him then, really look at him, and he sees the exact moment you break.

"I want you to fuck me," you whisper.

His cock throbs against his zipper. Finally. Finally.

"Good girl," he says, and the praise makes you shudder. "Now sit on the table."

You do what he says, as expected. 

He steps between your legs, the space too narrow now, too charged. 

His thighs press against yours, and you’re already tilting your head back, looking up at him like you’re waiting for what comes next.

Like you’re ready to let him do whatever the fuck he wants.  

His hand finds your stomach, palm flat against the soft cotton of your tank top. He presses—not hard, just enough to guide you, to show you where he wants you.  

You go easily. Of course you do.  

Your back meets the table, hair spilling out around you like some kind of halo.  

Fucking ironic.  

He keeps his hand there, splayed across your stomach, feeling the way it rises and falls too fast under his touch. Your breathing’s uneven, shallow, like you’re trying to keep it together and failing miserably.  

His middle and index fingers twitch, then start to move, tracing a line down the center of your stomach, following the curve of your body like it’s something he’s memorizing.  

You shiver, he feels it under his fingertips, the way your muscles jump, the way your body reacts without permission.  

His fingers reach your navel. Pause there for a second, circling the dip, the fabric of your tank top bunching slightly under the pressure.  

He doesn’t look at your face. Doesn’t need to. He knows what he’d see—knows how your lips would part, how your eyes would flutter shut, how your chest would heave like you’re trying to breathe through the tension.  

Instead, he watches his hand. Watches the way his fingers move lower, past your navel, toward the hem of your tank top.  

It’s not cropped. Not short. It covers you all the way down, modest and practical and completely fucking infuriating.  

His fingers slip under the edge of the fabric, finding the strip of skin just below. He presses a little harder, feels the way your abdomen tenses under his touch.  

You’re so fucking responsive. It’s disgusting.  

He drags his fingers lower, tracing the line of your body, following the path down to the waistband of your shorts.  

The shorts.  

God, the fucking shorts.  

They’re normal. Mid-thigh. Nothing out of the ordinary. But to him, they might as well be a full-length gown.  

His fingers pause at the button, resting there for a moment. He undoes it with one hand, the pop of the metal louder than he’d like.

He’s about to drag the zipper down when you shift slightly, your thighs brushing against his.  

His eyes flick to the hem of your shorts, to the sliver of skin where they end.  

His other hand moves there, fingers skimming the edge, tracing the line where fabric meets flesh.  

“These are so fucking long,” he mutters, voice low and rough.  

You don’t respond. Just look at him, wide-eyed and trembling, like you don’t know what to say.  

“What’s your point?” he asks, fingers still caressing the hem. “You trying to piss me off?”  

You swallow hard, throat bobbing, but you don’t answer.  

“Because you’ve been doing a hell of a good job for quite a while, I should say.”  

Your head tilts slightly, confusion flickering across your face. “What?”

“These shorts,” he says, voice low and sharp, “they cover everything. How is anyone supposed to see anything when you’re wrapped like a fucking nun?”

His hand rests on your outer thigh now, thumb still tracing the edge of the shorts. You blink, lips parting like you’re about to say something, but he cuts you off.

“They’re… normal length?” you say, hesitant, like you’re not sure if it’s the right answer.

“Normal for what? A convent?” His thumb presses harder against the fabric. “They go past your fucking knees.”

“They don’t—”

“They might as well.” He pulls at the hem, just slightly, just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. “Completely impractical. It’s summer. It’s hot. Why would you want to cover this much skin?”

You don’t answer. Just stare at him, lips pressed together, cheeks flushed.

“Makes no sense,” he continues, pulling the fabric higher, exposing more of your thigh. “Shorts should be short. Should show something. Should make people want to see more.”

You still don’t say anything, and it pisses him off. He pulls more aggressively now, bunching the fabric in his hand, dragging it up until it’s gathered near your groin.

“But no,” he says, voice dripping with disdain. “You wear these things that cover everything, hide everything, like you’re trying to torture me specifically.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Weren’t what?” His hand grips your exposed thigh now, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Weren’t thinking about me when you got dressed? Weren’t wondering what I’d think when I saw you in these fucking things?”

You don’t answer. Can’t, probably. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out, and he feels your thigh tremble under his hand.

“Because I think about it,” he says, leaning closer, voice dropping lower. “Think about how much I hate these shorts. How much I want to rip them off you. How much I want to see what you’re hiding underneath all this fucking fabric.”

His grip tightens, and you whimper—soft, barely audible, but enough to make his cock throb against his zipper.

“Sorry,” you whisper, voice shaky.

“Sorry what?” 

“Just… sorry.”

“Next time,” he says, voice sharp, “wear something shorter.”

The zipper goes down in one harsh pull, almost violent, and he doesn’t bother hiding his frustration. 

Stupid fucking shorts. Stupid mid-thigh monstrosities.

They slide down your hips, peeling away from your skin like an insult, and then they’re gone, bunched around your ankles, leaving you bare.

And fuck.  

Red hearts. Little red hearts on white cotton, snug over your hips, wrapping you up in a way that makes his teeth ache.  

His cock jumps, a harsh throb against his zipper, and he hates it. Hates you. Hates those fucking panties and how they make his balls fucking hurt. 

A shaky exhale rattles out of him before he can stop it.  

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice is sharp, bitter.  

You look at him then—wide-eyed, soft, devastated—and it’s like pouring kerosene on a fire that’s already out of control.  

You’re not even trying. That’s what makes it so fucking infuriating. You’re not doing anything, and yet here he is, rock hard and pissed off, because apparently little red hearts on you are enough to have his cock doing backflips. 

He leans in, hand sliding up your thigh, thumb hooking under the elastic. “You wear these for her, or for me?”

Your breath stutters. “I—I just—”

He laughs, sharp and mean. “Don’t bullshit me. You know what this does to me? You know how fucking hard I am right now? You like that? You think it’s funny?”

You shake your head, but your hips lift, chasing his touch. Pathetic.

“Because I’ll tell you what I think,” he says, voice sharp, bitter. “I think you’re a fucking tease. I think you’re a liar. I think you wear shit like this because you want me to lose it.”

You flinch, but you don’t pull away. He can see it—the way your chest heaves, the way your fists clench like you need something to hold onto.

“You like it, don’t you? You like knowing how much you piss me off. Like knowing how much I hate you for making me want you.”

“I don’t—” You try, but your voice is weak, useless.

“Don’t lie to me.” His hand moves higher, fingers skimming the thin cotton, pressing just enough to make you gasp. “You’re soaked through these stupid fucking things, and you’re gonna tell me you don’t like it?”

You turn your face away, cheeks burning, eyes squeezed shut.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t.  

His hand shoots up, gripping your jaw tight, forcing your face toward him. His fingers press into your cheeks just enough to hurt.  

“I said, look at me.”

Your eyes meet his again, reluctant and glassy, and it’s all there—guilt, shame, that fucking arousal you can’t hide no matter how much you squirm.  

His cock twitches again. Harder this time. 

You swallow, throat working, and he watches the guilt flicker across your face, chased by something darker.

“Say it,” he says, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “Say you like it. Say you like knowing how much you fuck me up.”

“I…” You falter, eyes shifting to the side like you’re looking for an out. His grip on your jaw tightens.  

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns, voice low and dangerous. “Say it. Or I’ll make you say it.”  

Your throat bobs as you swallow hard, and for a second, he thinks you might cry. But then, barely audible, you whisper, “I like it.”  

“Louder,” he demands. His thumb presses against your lip, tugging it down slightly. “Say it like you mean it.”  

“I like it,” you repeat, voice louder this time but no steadier.  

He lets go of your jaw, and your head drops back against the table like you’ve just been let off the chopping block. His hand slides back to your thigh, the pads of his fingers brushing against the soft skin, and he squeezes—hard.  

“Good,” he says, voice clipped. “Because I’m gonna make you fucking regret it.”  

You shiver, and it pisses him off how badly he wants to feel that same tremor under his tongue.

He straightens his spine, stepping back slightly, standing tall between your thighs. His hands rest at his sides for a beat, tension coiled in his shoulders as he looks down at the mess you’ve already made.  

The damp spot. Right there, soaked into the cotton, red hearts darkened around it.  

He clicks his tongue.  

“Of course,” he mutters, fingers twitching at his sides before moving in again. 

He skims over your hips, trailing down toward your pelvis, ignoring the way your thighs shake when you feel his touch. His thumb hovers just over the fabric, teasing the outline of what’s underneath.  

And then he finds it.  

His thumb presses down over your clit through the wet cotton.  

You yelp, jerking slightly, one leg bunching up like you’re trying to close yourself off. 

“Don’t,” he snaps, his voice sharp, unbothered as his thumb starts tracing slow, purposeful circles.  

You freeze, body going rigid under his touch. He watches your hands clench into fists beside your head, knuckles white, watches the way your lips part as you fight to keep quiet.  

Your eyes are screwed shut. A rookie move. He sees it for what it is—an attempt to escape, to shut out just how far gone you already are.  

“Open your eyes,” he says.  

You don’t.  

He presses harder, thumb grinding into the fabric, slow but firm, and you bite back a moan. It comes out as a strangled gasp instead, barely audible but loud enough to make him smirk.  

Your head turns sharply toward the door, panic flashing across your face.  

Ah, right. You’re scared she might hear.  

His eyes flick to the door briefly, listening for anything—footsteps, voices, the sound of the faucet shutting off. 

Nothing. She’s still in the kitchen. Oblivious.  

When his gaze lands on you again, you’re trembling, face flushed, chest rising and falling like you can’t catch your breath.  

“Up,” he says, voice steady. He waits for you to look at him, but you don’t. “On your elbows. Eyes on me.”  

You hesitate, lips trembling, body frozen against the table like you’re weighing the risk.  

He tilts his head, thumb still circling, and says, “You really want to test me, doll? Because I swear I’ll give you a reason to be worried.”  

Your hesitation breaks. 

Slowly, painfully, you prop yourself up on your elbows, eyes darting everywhere but him at first.  

"Eyes. On me."  

When they finally meet his, it's like setting fire to the gasoline pooling in his chest.  

Wide. Glassy. Pleading. 

Fuck, you're a sight.  

His thumb doesn't stop moving, relentless against the fabric. He watches your lips part again, trembling as you try to suppress another sound.  

"That's better," he mutters, almost to himself, thumb circling slower now. "Much better.

He doesn't break eye contact.  

Not as he shifts his weight, not as he lowers himself down until his knees meet the floor. His eyes stay locked on yours, watching every ripple of emotion that crosses your face.  

The way your breathing stutters. 

The way your lips part, trembling like you're not sure whether to beg or cry. 

The way your pupils swallow up the color of your eyes, wide and glassy and full of guilt you can't even try to hide.  

His hands move to your thighs, gripping just above your knees, and he spreads them wider. Your body resists for half a second, tension clinging to your muscles like you think you want to stop this, but then you give in. Of course you do.  

His gaze drops reluctantly, dragging down your body, over the curve of your stomach, past the waistband of your panties, until it lands on your core.  

Pretty. Wet. Fucking ruined already.  

His jaw tightens as he breathes through his nose, forcing himself to stay composed, even as his cock throbs so hard it's almost painful. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, feels the ruby stud click against his teeth—a habit when he's wound up, when he's trying not to lose control.

He hooks the thumb of his left hand under the right hem of your panties, tugging them aside with a firm push. The fabric shifts, bunching against your left groin, leaving you bare and exposed to his gaze.  

"Would you look at that," he mutters, eyes heavy-lidded as he takes in the mess you've made of yourself.  

You whimper—an actual fucking whimper—and his lips twitch in something that might have been a smirk if he weren't so goddamn wound up.  

"You're a fucking mess," he says, voice low and rough, like he's spitting out the words. "So fucking messy, huh? All that because what—because I mocked you? Because I was mean to you?"  

You puff out a shaky sigh, and the sound pushes something hot through his chest.  

Your cheeks are burning, completely flushed, and you look like you're about two seconds away from breaking. Tears are already pooling in the corners of your eyes.  

"You gonna cry?" he asks, leaning closer, his breath ghosting over your skin.  

You don't answer. Just bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark, and he doesn't know whether it's guilt or shame or arousal that's making your hands curl into fists at your sides.  

Probably all three.  

He lets his other hand move now, middle finger dragging up your slit, slow and unhurried, gathering slick on the pads of his fingers. Your whole body jolts at the contact, thighs twitching against his palms. He rubs his thumb and middle finger together, obscene.  

"You're drenched," he says, voice even, but there's a sharp edge to it that wasn't there before.  

Your lip trembles, the tears in your eyes threatening to spill, but you don't break. Not yet. You're still looking at him, still caught in whatever fucked-up spell he's woven around you.  

Good. You've come this far. He's not letting you off easy now.  

His eyes drag back up to yours, and he leans in just enough for you to feel his breath against your skin.  

"If you look away for a single second," he says, voice low and dangerous, "I'll make sure you moan so fucking loud even your neighbors know."  

Your breath hitches, and for a second, you look like you might protest, but then his tongue presses against you.  

One long stripe, unhurried, from your entrance to your clit, letting the ruby stud drag along your slit as an extra point of pressure that makes your hips jerk—unexpected and different, he bets.

Your girlfriend doesn’t have one. 

Your lower lip trembles as you try to hold back a sound, eyes wide and glassy, locked on his like you're afraid of what might happen if you look away.  

Then; he allows his tongue to drag up one side of your pussy, slow as sin, tracing the outer fold obscenely whilst the piercing follows, a firm line of sensation that's neither rough nor gentle—just there, present in every inch he covers. But he doesn't touch your clit—not yet. 

He wants you desperate. Wants you twitching.

He shifts, nose pressed close enough to feel your heat, and moves to the other side, tongue flat and wet, collecting the slick that's already pooling there—and that has your thighs trying to close around his head. He hears you whimper—high, needy, pathetic—and it almost pulls a smile out of him. Almost.

And all the while, he keeps his eyes on yours, unblinking. 

The angle's awkward, but he doesn't care. He wants you to see it. Wants you to know exactly who's making you fall apart. Wants you to feel that piercing—the one you've stared at during conversations, wondering what it would feel like.

Miss perfect, spread out on her girlfriend's table, getting her cunt licked by someone who isn't supposed to touch her. 

What would your girl say if she saw you now? Would she even recognize you like this—red-faced, mouth open, eyes glassy, legs shaking every time his tongue gets close to where you want it most?

He circles your clit, never quite touching, just letting the tip of his tongue ghost around the swollen bud. 

Without looking away, he reaches up, grabs your wrist, and drags your hand into his hair. "Hold on," he mutters, voice muffled by your cunt. "Don't let go."

You do, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling just a little when his tongue finally flicks your clit. Once. Sharp, fast. The stud hits the underside of the swollen nub, and that has you gasping, hips jerking up off the table.

He does it again, slower this time, deliberately angling his tongue so the piercing drags across your clit from base to tip. The ruby rolls over the sensitive flesh, firm and unyielding, followed by the soft heat of his tongue. You shudder, thighs squeezing around his head, but he just presses them wider, keeping you open for him.

"Look at you," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. "This what you wanted, sweetheart? Someone to get you messy? Someone to make you forget how to be good?"

He pulls back just enough to spit, sudden and wet, right onto your pussy. Watches the saliva drip down, catching on your clit, sliding down your slit, mixing with your slick until you're shining for him. 

When he dives back in, the piercing glides easier, slick with spit, creating this obscene wet sound every time it clicks against your clit.

"Messy little thing," he mutters, using the flat of his tongue now, letting the stud press firm against your entrance before dragging up. "Bet you never let anyone see you like this, huh? Bet you act so fucking innocent. But look at you now. Dripping. Shaking. Needy."

He leans in again, this time wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, but he keeps his tongue moving—piercing rolling in circles against it, creating this maddening pressure that's both too much and not enough. 

"Keep your eyes open," he says, pulling off with an obscene pop. "I want you to remember exactly who did this to you. Want you to remember what this feels like."

Without warning, his tongue flicks your clit fast, but this time he uses the underside of his tongue where the piercing sits, letting the ruby stud do most of the work—tap, tap, tap against the bundle of nerves. 

Your grip in his hair tightens, nails digging into his scalp, and he grins against you, loving the way you squirm, the way your breath comes in short, desperate bursts.

He pushes two fingers into you—no warning, just shoves them in—and fuck, you're so wet they slide right in. Your cunt grips him immediately, hot and slick, walls fluttering around the intrusion. He pumps them once, twice, feeling how easily you take them, how your body opens for him like it's been waiting.

"Messy," he mutters against you, adding a third finger, stretching you wider. Your cunt takes it easy, greedy for it, and he scissors his fingers just to feel how you grip them. "So fucking messy for me."

He twists his wrist, fingers plunging deeper, letting his tongue do its thing against your clit. 

"Cheating little slut," he growls, and the vibration combined with the piercing makes you sob. "Getting fingered raw while she scrubs plates. This what you do? Spread your legs for anyone who calls you out?"

He curls his fingers hard, right against that spot, and flicks his tongue fast—up and down, the piercing creating this relentless double-sensation that has your whole body locking up.

He feels it when you break—walls clamping down on his fingers so hard it almost hurts, pulsing and fluttering as you cum. 

Slick gushes out around his fingers, coating his palm, dripping onto the table. He keeps working you through it, tongue still moving but slower now, letting the piercing drag lazy circles around your oversensitive clit while you shake and gasp above him.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is soaked, the lower half of his face shining with your slick. The piercing sits heavy on his tongue, warm and wet with you. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands slowly, takes his time looking at what he's done to you.

You're wrecked. Legs spread, panties twisted and soaked, pussy still clenching around nothing. There's a wet spot on the table under your ass, and your thighs are trembling like you might collapse if you tried to stand.

Perfect.

He plants both hands flat on the table behind your thighs, caging you in, leaning over you until his face is inches from yours. The position puts him towering over you, and he can see the way it makes your breath catch.

His eyes drop down briefly, taking in the mess between your legs, then back up to your face. Without breaking eye contact, he palms himself through his jeans, the outline of his cock obvious, straining against the denim.

"Time for the main event, don't you think?" he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You blush furiously, the color spreading from your cheeks down your neck, and you look away, suddenly shy. Like a fucking lamb being led to slaughter.

He tilts his head, studying you. "What?" he asks, thumb still rubbing over his cock through the fabric. "You didn't think you'd get to cum and I wouldn't, right?"

Your eyes dart back to his, wide and uncertain.

"Don't be naive, doll," he continues, leaning closer until his breath ghosts over your lips. "This isn't charity work. You think I'm gonna eat your pussy like that and just... walk away? Leave you satisfied while I go home with blue balls?"

He presses his hips forward slightly, letting you feel the hard length of him against your thigh.

"I'm not that generous," he says, voice dropping to a whisper. "And you're not that lucky."

He glances down, eyes dropping to where his hand is still moving, because fuck, he's hard as a bitch. 

His cock strains against the denim, throbbing under his palm, the outline thick and insistent, begging for more than just this lazy friction—so he presses his own hand against it, imagining how it'd feel without the barrier, how your mouth or your cunt would wrap around him instead.

But then he blinks, shaking off the haze, and looks up because you haven't said a word in too long. Haven't even made a sound. 

And there you are—staring at him with those half-lidded, glassy eyes, like you're drunk on the sight of him. 

Your teeth nibble at your bottom lip, worrying the plump flesh, turning it red and swollen, and it hits him how fucking turned on you look just watching him touch himself.

Pathetic. Hot. Infuriating.

He doesn't think twice. Grabs your hand—the one still trembling at your side—and yanks it forward, pressing it flat against his crotch. Your palm molds to the hard length of him, fingers splaying instinctively over the denim, and he holds you there, grinding into your touch just once, letting you feel every inch.

"If you like it so much," he mutters, voice rough and edged with annoyance, "do it yourself."

Your fingers hesitate for a second, like you're not sure if this is real, if you're actually touching him like this. 

But then they move—slow, tentative strokes over the denim, tracing the rigid length of his cock from base to tip. He feels every inch of it, the pressure building under your palm, the way your hand molds to him, warm and uncertain.

He doesn't let go of your wrist. Not yet. He guides you, pressing your hand harder against him, making you feel the full thickness, the way it pulses under your touch. 

"That's it," he mutters, voice low and gravelly. "Feel how fucking hard you made me? All that staring, all those little looks—like you weren't begging for this the whole night."

You bite down harder on your lip, eyes still half-lidded, glassy and unfocused, but you don't stop. Your strokes get a little bolder, fingers curling to grip him through the fabric, rubbing in slow, deliberate passes that make his hips twitch forward involuntarily. 

He hisses again, sharper this time, because fuck, it's good but not enough. 

“Look at you," he says, eyes narrowing as he watches your face, the way your cheeks flush even deeper, like you're embarrassed by how much you want this. "Acting all shy now. But your hand's not stopping, is it? Bet you'd wrap those fingers around my cock if I let you. Bet you'd stroke it like the desperate little thing you are."

Your breath comes out shaky, a soft whimper slipping past your teeth, and it goes straight to his dick, making it throb harder under your palm. 

He finally releases your wrist, letting you take over, and you do—rubbing him with more confidence now, fingers exploring the shape, pressing down on the underside where he's most sensitive. 

He grinds into your hand once, twice, chasing the pressure, his own hands gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Harder," he demands, voice rough, almost a growl. "Don't fucking tease. You've been doing that all night—those puppy eyes, that guilty stare. Now make it worth it."

You obey, gripping him tighter, stroking faster, your palm sliding up and down the length with a rhythm that's starting to unravel him. 

He can feel the zipper digging into his skin, the confinement making every movement ache, but he doesn't unzip yet. Not yet. He wants you to work for it, wants to see how far you'll go just from this.

His eyes flick back to your face, taking in the way you're watching him now—lips parted, breath coming in quick pants, like touching him is turning you on all over again. 

Slick from before is still drying on your thighs, but he bets if he checked, you'd be wetter now, your pussy clenching just from feeling him throb under your hand.

"Fucking pathetic," he mutters, but there's no real bite to it—more like satisfaction, low and heated. "Look at you, getting off on this. Hand on my cock while your girl's probably stacking plates in there, wondering where you went. Does that make you wet? Knowing you're cheating right under her nose?"

You don't answer, but your strokes falter for a second, like his words hit too close, and he smirks, leaning in closer, his free hand coming up to grip your chin, tilting your face up to force you to meet his eyes. 

“Answer me," he says, thumb pressing into your bottom lip, tugging it down slightly. "Does it? Knowing I'm gonna fuck you stupid on her table—does that make your cunt ache?"

Your nod is small, reluctant, but it's there, and your hand squeezes him harder in response, like the admission fuels you. He groans low in his throat, hips bucking into your touch.

"Good. Keep going. Stroke it like you mean it. Pretend it's inside you already, filling that greedy little hole."

Your fingers fumble at his zipper then, hesitant but curious, and he doesn't stop you. Lets you tug it down halfway, the sound of metal teeth parting loud in the quiet. His cock pushes against the opening, still trapped in his boxers, but the relief is immediate, the pressure easing just enough to make him exhale sharply.

"Go on," he says, voice strained. "Touch it properly. Wrap your hand around my cock and show me how bad you want it."

You do, slipping your fingers inside, past the waistband of his boxers, and finally—finally—skin on skin. 

Your hand wraps around him, warm and soft, stroking the bare length, thumb swiping over the head where precum beads at the tip. He thrusts into your fist, slow and controlled, feeling the vein along the underside pulse under your grip.

"Fuck," he breathes, eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping back to yours. "Just like that. Squeeze it. Yeah—harder. Make me feel how sorry you are for being such a tease."

Your rhythm picks up, hand pumping him steadily, and he watches the way your arm flexes, the way your breaths sync with each stroke. 

It's messy, hurried, your fingers slick and sliding, but it's perfect—just like everything else about this.

He leans down, mouth hovering near your ear, voice a whisper. 

"You're gonna make me cum in your hand if you keep that up. Is that what you want? Or do you want it inside you—fucking you raw until you're leaking me?"

Your hand pauses mid-stroke, fingers still wrapped tight around his cock. Without a word, you bring your palm up to your mouth, lips parting as you spit into it—wet, saliva pooling in the center before you lower it back down.  

He watches, breath catching, as you wrap your hand around him again, the fresh spit mixing with the mess already there, lubing him up in one smooth glide.

Your fingers slide easier now, warmer, coating every inch from the swollen head down to the base, thumb circling the tip where more precum beads out, making the whole thing shiny and slippery.  

"Fuck," he mutters, hips jerking forward into your touch, feeling the lube spread, making everything glide without resistance. "That's it. Get it nice and wet. Like you're prepping it for that greedy cunt of yours."

You don't respond, just keep stroking, eyes locked on his cock like you're mesmerized by the way it swells under your hand, the head flushing darker, slick dripping down over your knuckles.  

He leans back slightly, giving you room, but his voice comes out rough, commanding. "Guide it to where you want it most."

Your breath hitches, a small sound escaping your throat, and you spread your legs wider, thighs parting on the table, exposing your soaked pussy even more. 

Your free hand steadies yourself as you line him up, the spit-slick head of his cock brushing against your entrance, hot and insistent. You push him in—just the tip—sliding it past your folds with a whine, high and needy, your walls clenching around the intrusion immediately, sucking him in like you can't help it.  

The heat of you grips him, wet and tight, and he feels your slick coat him further, the spit mixing with your arousal as you try to take more.  

But he stops you. Grabs your wrist hard, pulling your hand away, and yanks his cock back out with a wet pop, leaving you empty and whining again, hips twitching up in protest.  

"Turn around," he says, voice low and edged with control. "I'm gonna fuck you stupid. But we'll do it my way."

You hesitate for half a second, eyes wide and pleading, but then you move—scrambling to flip over on the table, your tank top twisting around your torso, breasts pressing against the wood as you rest your front down. 

You push your ass up toward him, thighs spread, back arched, the curve of your cheeks on full display, pussy glistening and exposed from behind. He can see your entrance puffy and ready, clenching as you look back over your shoulder at him, eyes wide and desperate, silently begging for it. 

Your ass sways just slightly, hips tilting higher, like you're offering yourself up completely, the red hearts on your twisted panties still bunched to the side.  

He steps closer, cock bobbing heavy between his legs, and he lines himself up again, the head nudging against your entrance, teasing without pushing in yet.

And then, he does. Pushes in slow, one thick inch at a time, feeling the way your walls part for him, gripping every ridge as he sinks deeper. He lets himself go deep—so fucking deep—until his hips press flush against your ass, cock buried to the hilt, balls resting heavy against your clit.

You whine at the depth, your pussy fluttering like it’s trying to adjust to the intrusion. He feels it, and it takes everything in him not to slam back and forth, not to make the table rattle and give you both away.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, the word barely audible as he presses his chest against your back, the heat of his body covering yours completely. 

His hand comes up, gripping your chin hard, fingers digging into your jaw as he covers your mouth, muffling the next whine before it can escape.

"Shut the fuck up," he growls against your ear, lips brushing the shell. "Shut. Up."

You try to nod, but his grip is too tight, holding your head in place as he pulls out halfway—slow, controlled—then pushes back in just as deep, the drag of his cock against your walls making you shudder beneath him. He can feel how wet you are, slick coating him completely, dripping down where you're joined, but he can't move like he wants to. Not yet.

The table would creak. Would bang against the wall. Would announce to your girlfriend exactly what her sweet, faithful partner is doing while she scrubs dishes twenty feet away.

So he holds back, jaw clenched, muscles taut with restraint as he grinds into you instead—deep, circular motions that press his cock against every sensitive spot inside without the telltale slap of skin on skin. 

His free hand grips your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you steady as he rocks forward again, feeling your pussy grip him tighter with each slow thrust.

"Can't even stay quiet, can you?" he mutters against your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin before he bites down—not hard enough to leave a mark she'd see, but enough to make you jolt, your muffled moan vibrating against his palm. "Desperate little thing. Getting your pussy stuffed while she's right there."

He pulls out again, torturously slow, until just the tip remains inside, then slides back in, watching the way your ass pushes back to meet him, trying to take him faster. But he won't let you. Not until—

"The moment that faucet goes on," he whispers, "I'm pounding into you so hard your asscheeks are gonna look redder than those stupid hearts on your panties."

You whimper against his hand, and he feels your walls clench around him, like the threat alone is enough to push you closer to the edge. 

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, using the pain to ground himself, to keep from losing control and fucking you the way he wants to—hard, fast, brutal.

Instead, he keeps the pace maddeningly slow. All so the table doesn't move, doesn't creak—but shit, he can feel the tension in your body, the way you're fighting not to wiggle back against him, not to beg for more through his fingers.

"Look at you," he continues. "Bent over her table like a whore. Pussy dripping all over the wood she'll eat breakfast on tomorrow. Think she'll know her girl got fucked raw right here?"

You shake your head frantically, but your cunt tells a different story—pulsing, sucking him in deeper with every word. 

He grinds against you again, pelvis pressed tight to your ass, cock throbbing inside you, and he can feel his own control slipping, the need to move—really move—burning through his veins.

"Bet you'd cum if I let you," he says, teeth scraping along your shoulder, leaving red marks that'll fade before morning. "Bet you'd cream all over my cock while she's washing your wine glass. But you don't get to. Not until I say."

He pulls out almost completely again, then pushes back in with a maddening thrust that makes your whole body jerk forward, breasts pressing harder against the table. 

Still no sound from the kitchen except the soft clink of dishes.

Come on. Turn the fucking water on.

His hand on your hip slides around to your front, fingers finding your clit, still swollen and sensitive from earlier. He doesn't rub—just presses down, holds it there, feeling the way it throbs under his touch, the way your hips try to grind against his hand for friction.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, cock pulsing inside you, stretching you full. "Feel how deep I am? How your pussy's molding to my cock? This is what you wanted, isn't it? What you've been thinking about every time you kissed her goodnight?"

The shame must hit you because you squeeze your eyes shut, but your cunt clenches harder, wetter, practically begging for him to move faster. He rocks forward again, just enough to drag against your g-spot, and your muffled cry vibrates against his palm.

"Pathetic," he breathes, but his voice cracks on the word. "Can't even lie to yourself anymore. Your body just knows.”

Finally—fucking finally—the faucet turns on. 

The rush of water fills the kitchen, loud enough to mask any sound.

"There we go," he growls, pulling his cock out to the tip. "Now I can fuck you properly."

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. 

He slams back in, hard enough to jostle the table, enough that your hips skid an inch across the sticky wood. His palm stays over your mouth, smothering the long, broken whine that tries to claw its way out of your throat.

His hips snap into yours, each thrust deep and punishing, cock driving into the softest, hottest part of you with wet, obscene sounds that finally don’t have to be swallowed. 

You whimper and buck against his hold, breath coming sharp and frantic against his palm, saliva seeping between your lips and his skin. He grinds forward, leans in, teeth scraping along your shoulder, voice cracking with effort.

“Fucking—ngh—so tight. You hear yourself? Wet little mess, all for me. Knew you’d split open for it. Knew you wanted it this deep.”

You keen, muffled, hips meeting his thrusts now, desperate for every inch, every brutal slam. He hisses, the sound sharp and animal—“fuck—ah—shit,”—little grunts ripped out of him as he pounds into you, pace brutal, control gone.

He lifts his hand from your mouth, just for a second, grabbing your cheeks and squeezing until your lips pucker. He yanks your face back, forces your neck to arch, mouth open and gasping for air. He slides his hips back, never letting his cock slip all the way out, then pushes in again, hard, until your ass bounces against his stomach.

“Open. Wider.” 

You look up at him, eyes glassy, lips parted. He hovers over you, mouth right above yours, and spits—quick, hot, a sharp flick of his tongue and lips, not slow but filthy, needy. His spit lands on your tongue with a wet slap, stringy and slick, pooling in your mouth.

Your eyes go wide, breath stuttering, pink tongue twitching in surprise before you swallow on instinct, cheeks burning. He leans in, presses his forehead to yours, and drags his hips up into you, deep and relentless.

“Good girl,” he croons, filthy and sharp, voice honeyed with cruelty. “Swallow it all. God, you love it, don’t you? Spit in your mouth, cock in your cunt, ass up for me.”

You do, eyes rolling back, mouth open and shining. He lets go, palm slaps back over your mouth to muffle the sound as he hammers into you, using the cover of the faucet to rail you as hard as he wants.

Your cries are so wild behind his hand—whimpering, eager, so fucking earnest it tightens his balls, makes his cock twitch inside you.

“Shit—fuck—you’re gonna make me cum already,” he hisses, hips pistoning faster, so fast the table rattles, the legs skipping half an inch across the floor with every pounce.

He feels it—the way your whole body goes tense, the frantic clench of your pussy around his cock, the desperate, muffled whimper spilling against his palm. Your thighs start to shake, hips stuttering, trying to fuck yourself back onto him, chasing the high that’s about to roll through you.

He knows the signs. He loves them.

Instead of giving you what you want, he slows. Deep, dragging thrusts, grinding against your cunt instead of pounding, holding you right on the edge.

Not enough friction. Nowhere near enough. 

You squeal, high and panicked, fighting his grip, but his hand clamps down harder over your mouth, the other pinning your hips to the table so you can’t wiggle him deeper. 

He tuts, feigning pity. “Uh-uh,” he chuckles, the sound dark and satisfied against your ear. “Not like that. You don’t get to cum a second time. Not after making me wait all night. Not after all those dirty looks. All that pretending.”

He keeps his cock buried in you, hips barely rolling, just enough to tease that swollen spot inside, but no more. Refusing to give you any more speed, any more pressure.

Your orgasm fizzles out, pulses into nothing—waves that almost crest and then die back, heat leaking away to humiliation. 

"Look at you," he murmurs. "Cumming but not really. Bet that hurt, didn't it? All that build-up, all those needy little noises, all for absolutely nothing at all."

Your whole body sags, whining into his skin, hips twitching helplessly and he laughs, low and mean, right against your ear. Not a nice sound. 

“What’s wrong? Thought you were about to cum. You wanted to finish on my cock?” He grinds in one more time, slow and deep, making sure you feel every inch he’s denied you. “Too fucking bad.”

He pulls out, cock wet and shining, and taps the head against your pussy, dragging it up through your puffy folds, gathering every bit of your slick and ruined orgasm on his tip. 

He groans, the sight almost enough to finish him right there.

"Turn your head," he commands, one hand gripping your hair and yanking your face over your shoulder. Your gaze finds him, raw and dazed, lips parted, eyes wide and glassy from the frustration and the need. "Watch me cum all over this pretty ass."

He fists his cock, pumping himself fast, hand twisting at the head, mixing your slick with his own precum. His hips jerk, abs tightening, every muscle tensed with need. He lines the head up with the curve of your ass, stroking faster, wet sounds lewd and sticky in the warm air.

Your lower lip quivers, shame and want fighting for space on your face. 

"Red," he mutters, almost laughing, the sound low and mean. "Your ass looks redder than those fucking panties now. Should thank me for it."

You whimper, trembling, but you can’t look away—not even when he starts slapping the heavy head of his cock against your asscheeks, painting you with precum, making sticky little smacking noises with every tap.

What you do actually is arch to meet every slap, every filthy mark he leaves on your skin.

And that makes him groan, deep and guttural, jerk himself hard and fast, and then—there, finally—he cums, hot and thick, striping across your ass in messy, white spurts. 

It drips down the curve of your cheeks, thick and obscene, while he makes sure to milk every last drop, head thrown back, free hand digging into your flesh to keep you still while he finishes on you.

"Look at the mess you made me make," he rasps, voice barely more than a growl. "Maybe your girl will see that too, if you’re not careful."

The faucet stops, barely covering the last few breathless moans that slip out of both your throats. 

He doesn’t move for a second after—just stands there, breathing hard, watching the mess streak down the curve of your ass. His cum, cooling on your skin, a secret so loud it makes his teeth ache. 

Without water running; the house is too quiet. If you listen close, you can hear your own shame dripping onto the table.

Yoongi drags a hand over his face. He should feel triumphant. He doesn’t. He feels raw. Exposed. Like he’s the one who just got fucked.

You’re still bent over, legs shaking, hair falling in your face. 

You don’t look at him. Smart. He wouldn’t know what to do with your eyes right now.

He exhales, sharp. Zips up with a jerk. 

“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges. “You’re a fucking disaster.”

He grabs a napkin from the table—one of those cheap, floral ones your girlfriend buys, the kind that falls apart if you look at it wrong. He spits on it, wipes his hand, then leans in, brisk and businesslike, to clean you up. He’s not gentle, but he’s not cruel either. Just thorough. Like he’s erasing evidence.

“Lift your hips,” he says, and you do, still obedient, still trembling. 

He wipes the streaks from your skin, careful not to leave any trace. He’s methodical about it, almost bored, but his hands linger a second too long on the soft curve of your ass. 

He hates himself for that.

The napkin’s ruined—smeared, damp, useless. He balls it up, shoves it into his pocket. No evidence. No witnesses.

He glances at your panties, still bunched to the side, and tugs them back into place with a snap. 

“There. Like nothing happened.” His tone is dry, almost mocking. “You can go back to playing house now.”

But before you can move, before you can even catch your breath, he leans down—just once, quick—and presses a kiss to your asscheek. 

Not sweet. Not apologetic. Just a stamp.

He pulls back, face unreadable. “Don’t get cocky,” he mutters, voice low. “That’s not a reward. Just—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “Don’t make a habit of this.”

He helps you off the table, hands steady at your waist, then steps away like he can’t stand to be close anymore. 

His eyes flick to the door, calculating. “You’ve got two minutes before someone comes looking. Fix your hair. Wipe your mouth.”

He tosses you a clean napkin, doesn’t wait to see if you catch it. He’s already moving, already back in his own skin, already building the wall back up.

He pauses at the door, glances over his shoulder. 

“Go be good,” he says, and there’s something almost soft in it, but not enough to matter. “Or at least pretend.”

Then he’s gone, slipping out into the hallway, leaving you to gather yourself—alone, aching, ruined, but clean enough that no one will ever know.

Except him. And you. 

And the kiss he left, hidden under cotton and guilt.

↝ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @yuyu0y11 @wobblewobble822 @candygalx @cravingforbangtan @emixlyn @mar-lo-pap @brokebitch-101 @withluvjinnie @alyssasblogthings @intoxicataeing @hanaohreally @ilikekpop-c @emmie2308 @avawants2havefun @shameless-army @joonwater @jazzluvrr @backseatana @myantcha @preferstyles 

© jungkoode 2025

[mindurbuzznezz]

your clit is just so sensitive, and being the good boyfriend that he is, 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 is willing to help you train it.

“suguuu,” even when you whine at him like a needy brat. all huffy and whimpery as he strokes his index over the curve of the little nub.

“so much complaints from my favourite girl,” he crooned into your ear. you limped back into his lap with a sniffle in his shoulder.

“sensitive. . .” you croaked.

“know it's sensitive baby, that's why we're training it, hmm?”

smack! you hiccuped a sob. your clit throbbed. hot and heady against his calloused palm knuckle that slowly gyrates into it after the jolt.

he grinned into your ear. “theerree we go, at least you didn't cum this time,” he almost sounded proud.

until he heard your sniffle. till he looked down. saw the sticky web between your thighs.

then, he sighed deeply. sighed serenely. shook his head. like a gentle teacher.

“looks like we're doing this the hard way again,” he clicked his tongue. what a gentle teacher indeed.

then pinched your clit between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed on it with a cruelty that was anything but.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @uzmacchiato

[mindurbuzznezz]

KISSES AND RAIN

pairing; ceo!jk x wife!reader

summary; jungkook comes home after a hard day at work to find some love.

warnings; none, pure fluff, jungkook is down bad for his wife and baby girl.

drive safely, love you kook.

jungkook watched again the last message she sent him when he told her he was finally coming back home, he bounced his leg waiting for the red light to change. he had had a rough day at work, too many meetings, too much paperwork, too many things that kept him away from his home. the rain made him company while he waited. he wasn’t a patient person, he was known for making all in a rush, he hated to wait, he hated the feeling that something could go wrong while waiting, so he hated that he was late. he needed to go home.

the traffic light changed to green and he felt like he could breathe again, he was going home. 20 minutes later he was opening the door to the garage, the lights were off except from a soft one on the upper floor, probably the tv on their room. he sighed when he stopped the engine car, he was home. the walk towards the entrance was the longest, his shoulders felt heavy, his body was heavy as if he was dragging a chained rock but when the door opened he felt a little of the tension go away. her signature scent, the clean laundry, the smell of home made food… and baby powder, a scent he never thought would come to love, but in the 4 months since his baby girl was born, he wished it would never go away.

walking to the kitchen island, he looked down at the meal and the stick note.

made you your favorite meal, i know youre tired from work, we are proud of you. xoxo.

smiling at the note, he tucked into his pocket so he could save it with all the other notes she had written to him throughout the years together. he ate dinner while listening to the soft sound of the rain and the smell that came with it that came in through one of the windows that was open to refresh the room. he finished his meal and slowly, he made his was to their room, the soft light of the tv emerging through the open door and the sight in front of him nearly crumbled him to his knees. he watched the two loves of his life laying on the king size bed, his baby girl on top of her body while her hand was on her small back, protecting her, keeping her safe but mostly feeding her with love. 

she looked at him from her spot on the bed, not wanting to wake the baby sleeping on her, she whispered a little hello, while he walked to her side and laid beside her, his hand wrapping the one she had on the back of their daughter, his much bigger than her back.

“how was your day?” she murmured, not wanting to wake the baby.

“hard” sighed “but at the end of the day everything is worth it if that means i can keep you both here and pamper you”

“youre the best, you know that?”

jungkook smiled and kissed her, feeling like he could breathe again. “you make me want to be the best”

“aw jungkook”

he smiled again at her and looked at his daughter sleeping peacefully, her little hands gripping her shirt, chubby cheeks squeezed, long black lashes… he could watch her all day and never get tired of it, and he knew he could die right there, that her little girl could bring him to his knees with just a smile.

all rights reserved to ©ggukgoldensoul. no tranlations allowed. no copy theme. don not copy my work.

[mindurbuzznezz]

MIDNIGHT CRAVINGS ⭒ JJK

in which cravings awaken not only hunger but also jungkook's endless need to nurture, adore and worship his wife, reminding her that she is his entire world.

pairing — dom!jungkook x sub!femreader

genre — established relationship, pregnancy, slice of life, domestic vibes, slight angst, romance, smut, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, emotional vulnerability, hormones and food cravings, mild discipline, confessions and baby talk (he loves and cares for her sm i cried y'all), oral sex (f. receiving), makeout, body worship, praise and dirty talk. hickies and marking, breast play, nipple play, lactation kink, eating out, slight spanking, hair pulling, cunnilingus, clit stimulation, face riding, anal, rimming, lots of teasing, cum swallowing, slight overstimulation, loving aftercare

wc — 4.5k

series m. list | main m. list

──── 🌙 ────

The room was bathed in a soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the curtains.

A few candles were lit that filled the air with their scent.

Also providing an intimacy.

You lay in the king sized bed, your body nestled against the solid warmth of your husband jungkook.

His muscular frame pressed behind you, bare chest against your back.

Radiating heat that enveloped you.

You wore one of his black t-shirts, it stretched over your heavily pregnant belly despite it being oversized.

Beneath it you had on only a pair of black lace panties, a small fabric you’ve put the effort to put on against the discomfort of your swollen body.

You were bare otherwise.

Your sore breasts braless since you felt relaxed that way without the bra suffocating them.

Your legs tangled with jungkook's, his strong thighs pinning you in place.

A silent claim of possession.

jungkook's large tattooed hand rested protectively on your belly, his fingers splayed across the taut skin as if he could feel the life within you.

Even as he sleeps.

Ever since you'd told him you were pregnant, this had been his habit.

Each night he'd hold you close, his hand never staying far from your stomach as if he could communicate his love to the baby through touch alone.

His steady breaths fanned against your neck, causing the little hairs there to stand up and you could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he slept.

On any other night his presence would have lulled you back to slumber.

But tonight you just couldn’t sleep no matter how much you tried.

Your body ached because of pregnancy.

Your lower back pained and your hips were stiff from the pressure of carrying your child.

The baby was increasingly restless tonight as well with tiny kicks against your stomach.

You shifted slightly with a moan trying to find a comfortable position, but the movement barely did anything to dull the ache.

You slowly detangle jungkook's arms from your body, careful to not wake him up and sit up straight, leaning against a pillow.

You sat like that for a few minutes until you felt a gnawing hunger inside you.

Your stomach growled and you pressed a hand to your belly as if trying to soothe both yourself and the baby.

You reached for the large water bottle.

jungkook always kept it on the nightstand, a thoughtful gesture of his since your pregnancy began.

He was attentive about your hydration always ensuring the bottle was filled with fresh water before bed.

You unscrewed the cap and took a long sip.

The cold liquid soothed your dry throat but it did little to quell the craving inside you.

You wanted—no needed—that gooey, extra chocolaty cake from the fine restaurant across town.

The one jungkook had introduced you to early in your marriage.

The rich layer of dark chocolate coated in the moist cake had become your guilty pleasure.

But it was the middle of the night and the restaurant was surely closed.

The thought made you scoff with frustration and in an instant tears welled in your eyes.

Pregnancy hormones had turned you into an emotional wreck, you would cry over anything.

Even the smallest stuff.

Yesterday you cried because jungkook wore a navy blue suit and you disliked that color all of a sudden, until he had to tell you that he’ll never wear that color again.

And a promise that he’ll burn every piece of clothing he owns with that color.

You knew it was stupid.

You couldn’t describe your own emotions yourself.

Now you tried to keep your sobs quiet, pressing a hand to your mouth to muffle the sound.

You didn’t wanna wake jungkook.

He'd spent the entire day at his office attending meetings and sealing deals by intimidating everyone.

When he came home, he'd devoted every moment to you, no matter how tired he was ensuring you had everything you needed.

Cooking dinner for you despite your protests and even massaging your swollen feet for you.

He’d silenced your attempts to help with a single piercing look—his dark eyes narrowing, one brow arched.

It would be enough to make words die in your throat.

jungkook's love for you was fierce and consuming in a way that made you feel adored yet overwhelmed.

He insisted on doing everything himself now that you were carrying his child.

From preparing your meals to folding laundry because to him you were his whole world.

And he'd make sure about it every single day.

You tried to distract yourself by mindlessly scrolling on your phone but the craving didn’t relent.

Neither would the tears.

You curled onto your side facing away from jungkook, your shoulders shaking.

The image of that cake and the way it melted on your tongue taunted you and the impossibility of having it now made you cry harder.

You wanted jungkook too.

Despite him being right there.

You craved his attention, his touch but you felt silly admitting it, especially when he’s supposed to be resting now.

And he already stresses too much over you.

You didn’t wanna seem clingy even though you knew he’d never judge you for it.

Soon your sniffles turned into soft hiccupping cries.

jungkook stirred beside you.

The absence of your warmth against him was enough to pull him from his sleep.

His hand reached out, finding empty space where you should have been and his eyes opened instantly alert.

“Baby?”

His voice rough with sleep and laced with concern, as he propped himself up on one elbow.

He saw you curled away from him, your body trembling and his heart lurched.

“y/n, what’s wrong?”

You froze, biting your lip to silence yourself but it was too late.

jungkook was already moving, his strong arms encircling you as he gently pulled you back against his chest.

His muscles flexing as he held you close with one arm, the other cupping your cheek turning your face toward him.

His dark eyes were wide with panic.

“Are you hurt? is it the baby? talk to me, mama.”

“I’m fine.” you managed.

Your voice shaky as you swiped at your tears.

“It’s just… hormones. I’m okay jungkook, really.”

He didn’t buy it.

Of course he didn’t because he always saw right through your lies.

His brow furrowed, thumb brushing away the tears on your cheeks as he studied your face.

“Don’t lie to me, y/n.” he demanded.

But there was an edge to his tone that made your heart skip.

“You’re crying and I need to know why. Tell me what's going on.”

You shook your head, embarrassed and tucked your face against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne.

Something distinctly him.

“It’s nothing I promise. I just… got emotional. It happens all the time now, you know?”

jungkook's hand slid down your back, rubbing small circles as he leaned down to press a peck to your forehead.

“Baby, you can tell me anything. I don’t care how small it seems.”

His voice gentle now, the kind that made you feel safe and exposed all at once.

But you didn’t speak.

You looked away, avoiding his gaze and jungkook sighed.

“If something’s bothering you, I wanna know. I wouldn’t know if you don’t tell me, right?”

You hesitated, your cheeks flushing as your fingers twisted nervously at his shirt.

Your phone lying on the bed beside you lit up with a food video you'd been watching earlier—a reel of dessert.

It included a pastry that looked suspiciously close to the one you were craving.

jungkook's eyes flicked to the screen and a slow, knowing smile curved in his lips.

“Is that what this is about?”

He asked teasingly but warm.

“You want that chocolate cake you love, don’t you? the one from that restaurant?”

Your eyes widened and you shook your head quickly, mortified that he'd guessed it so easily.

“No, I don’t! i mean… maybe but it's fine, kookie. It’s late and the restaurants are obviously closed and I don’t need it. I’m okay really.”

He chuckled lowly as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze.

Your cheeks were pink, eyes glassy with unshed tears and he swore he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

“Hmm try again baby, but the truth this time.” he murmurs.

His thumb grazed your lower lip.

“I know you better than you know yourself.”

He saw the exact way your eyes lit up the second he mentioned that cake and he’d never miss your small behaviors.

“You want it, don’t you?”

You bit your lip, nodding bashfully.

“I… I do, but it's silly. It’s the middle of the night and I didn’t wanna bother you—”

“None of that.” he cuts you off.

He sat up fully now as he reached for his phone on the nightstand.

“You’re never a bother, y/n. You’re my wife and most importantly, you’re carrying my child.”

He pauses before he looks you straight in the eyes, making sure you are absorbing each of his words.

“If you want something, you tell me no matter what time the excuse.”

Before you could protest further, he was already dialing a number and he walked to the balcony, making sure you didn’t hear him.

Or you'd fuss further or try to stop him.

jungkook's tone shifted from soft to commanding as he spoke to one of his men.

“mark, I need you to get something for me, the chocolate cake from the restaurant on 9th street. Also while you’re at it, grab an extra cheesy pizza and sour gummies.”

He heard a nervous stutter on the other end of the line, mark's voice trembling slightly.

Not knowing how to talk back to his boss.

But he had to state the obvious.

“s—sir, it’s past midnight. The restaurants are probably closed—”

“I don’t care.” jungkook snaps.

His voice dangerous, the kind that made even grown men flinch.

“If my wife wants the cake, she gets it. I don’t care if you have to buy the whole damn restaurant. Make it happen or you’ll regret it.”

You slowly walked towards jungkook, one hand supporting your belly.

You tugged at his arm, whispering.

“jungkook please, it’s okay. I don’t need it.”

His eyes met yours and he shushes you.

“You’re getting that cake, mama. End of discussion.”

He turned back to the phone.

“mark, you have one hour. Don’t disappoint me.”

He hung up without another word before tossing the phone on the bed before pulling you into his arms, picking you up bridal style like you weighed nothing.

You nestled against him as he laid you down in bed and he could feel the tremor in your body.

“You should’ve woken me up.”

He says, almost scolding you.

“You don’t get to hide things from me, y/n. Not when you’re upset, not when you’re hungry, not ever.”

“I didn’t wanna wake you.” you pout.

“You do so much already and I know you’re tired.”

He shook his head, his fingers threading through your hair as he pressed a kiss against your shoulder.

“You’re my priority, always. I don’t care how tired I am or how late it is. If you need something you tell me. Promise me, come on.”

You nodded, your bottom lip quivering, heart racing at how much he loved you.

“Okay.” you whimper.

“I promise.”

“Good girl.” he rasped.

His lips brush your ear and a shiver runs down your spine as his hand slides under the hem of your t-shirt.

His fingers trace the curve of your belly and you exhale at how good his touch feels.

“You’re about to give birth to my child, y/n. You don’t get to skimp on taking care of yourself.”

“If you don’t, I swear I’ll spank that little ass of yours red until you learn.”

You gasp and bury your face against his chest with a squeak, making him laugh hoarsely.

“jungkook!” you whined.

He grinned, wiping away the last of your tears with his thumb.

“Now let’s get back to what we were talking about. What else do you need baby? be honest with me.”

You remained still for a moment.

Thoughts all over your head, you didn’t wanna lie again

You knew it would hurt his feelings if you did.

“I—I missed you.” you admitted.

“I just… I wanted your attention but I didn’t wanna sound clingy.”

His expression softened, the serious look from before fading and he pulled you closer.

Your breasts pressing against his hard chest.

His lips captured yours in a slow, sensual kiss.

His tongue teased your bottom lip, coaxing it open and you melted into him, your hands clutching his shoulders.

The kiss deepened as he tongued your mouth and you let out a needy moan, which he swallowed eagerly.

His hands started roaming your body, careful not to press too hard against your belly.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath hot against your lips.

“You’re never clingy.” he says.

“I love that you need me. I love taking care of you.”

Your lips parted at his words as you licked your lip nervously and his eyes zeroed in on that act alone.

A glare in his face from his restraint and control.

And he shifted, hovering over you, slowly lifting the t-shirt over your head.

Leaving you in just your panties.

His eyes darkened into black pools as he took in the sight of you, his gaze hungry.

“Goddamn, you’re so fucking beautiful.” he husks out.

His hands skimmed your sides with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

You look at him longingly, your legs spreading to accommodate his body between them.

His strong weight a delicious pressure.

Even though he’s constantly mindful about your pregnant body.

Always keeping your well being first, even in a moment of desire.

He started at your collarbone, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of it as if memorizing every inch of you.

His lips followed, pressing soft open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your neck until you shuddered.

“My baby…”

A hushed plea in his voice as his hands slid lower cupping your hips, caressing the swell of your pregnant belly with care.

He looked at how perfect you looked lying there for him, your breasts that have doubled in size since pregnancy rising and falling with your pants.

They were full and heavier now.

“Look at you.” he groaned.

As he cupped them gently, weighing them in his hands, his thumbs brushed over your nipples which were already hard and aching.

You arched into him.

He could see the faint discomfort in your expression.

“Do they hurt?”

“A little.”

You breathed out, your hand fisting the sheets.

“They’ve been sore lately.”

He slowed his movements watching your reactions closely, adjusting his touch in order to not hurt you.

“So sensitive… tell me if it hurts, hm?”

You nodded shakily as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to the swell of one breast, his lips grazing the areola before he took a nipple into his mouth.

His tongue swirled around the peak, sucking lightly until you basically keened.

“Ohh koo… f—feels good.”

The slight ache in your breasts faded under his careful attention, replaced by a pleasure that made your clit throb.

He took that as a positive signal and redoubled his efforts by moving to the other breast, his tongue lapping at the nipple teasing it with quick flicks.

Before sucking again.

His hands kneaded the other breast almost in a massaging motion and you grew dazed from the feeling.

All the pain in your breasts seemed to disappear.

That's when a bead of milk appeared.

He froze, his gaze flicking up to meet yours and a sly wicked smile spread across his face.

“Fuck, baby.” he growls.

His voice rough with need.

“Already being such a good mama and producing milk?”

You huffed at his words, turning your head away, your heart felt like it's gonna burst.

He leaned down and caught the droplet and you whimpered, your hands tangling in his hair as he continued.

Alternating between soft licks and gentle sucks, easing the pressure in your breasts as milk flowed steadily now.

He groaned deeply at the taste, the vibration making you writhe, grasping his hair tighter.

“jungkook, oh my god.”

His teeth grazed your nipple lightly and you let out a quiet cry, but he soothed the pain with his tongue until your breathing evened.

He left your nipple with a wet pop and looked up at you with intensity, a dribble of milk escaping from the corner of his mouth, which he wiped with the back of his hand.

The sight made you moan brokenly.

Your thighs instinctively squeezing together but he doesn’t let you, holding them apart.

He didn’t stop there.

jungkook's lips trailed over the swell of your belly and he settled between your thighs, his strong hands keeping you spread for him.

His eyes locked on the place between your legs, looking at the way the lace was soaked and clinging to your pussy lips.

Lewdly highlighting the shape.

He snarls, his jaw clenching so tight a muscle ticked beneath it.

“you’re driving me crazy mama.”

His voice was almost pained, like he was fighting to hold back.

He leaned in, his nose brushing your inner thigh, inhaling deeply and the low growl that escaped him made your toes curl.

“You smell so fucking good.”

His lips pressed against your pussy over your panty, tongue coming out to lick at you, wetting the fabric further.

“Please.” you beg.

You couldn’t handle the teasing.

Not now.

Because you would fully wail if he held back.

He understood the hint as his hands slid lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties.

He tugged them down slowly, eyes locked on yours and when they were off, he now looked at you in all your bare beauty.

Your folds glistening, he could see your clit pulse and the way your cunt clenched around nothing.

His mouth watered at the sight as he hummed in approval.

He didn’t waste time.

He started slow, his tongue tracing your folds.

You gasped, your hips twitching but his hands held your thighs firmly in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

“Stay still, princess.”

His lips brushed your clit as he spoke, his tongue dipped lower, licking a slow path up your slit.

Savoring every drop of arousal you have to offer him.

“ah yes yes…” you chanted.

He groaned against you and you squirmed at the vibration it provided.

You felt dizzy and you weakly fisted the sheets.

He explored you as if he had all the time in the world.

When his tongue reached your clit, he circled it slowly, teasing the sensitive bud before sucking it into his mouth.

You sobbed, your body arching off the bed as he increased the pace, his tongue alternating between quick circles and long, slow licks that had you squirming.

“nghh, slow down.”

Your voice breaks and he grunts in response.

Each of his noises and movements, pushing you closer to the edge.

“Take it, mama.”

His fingers held your folds apart, exposing your clit completely so he has complete access to it.

He looked at the little nub throbbing shyly under his gaze, but no longer able to hide from him and a smirk curled on his lips.

He sucked on it rhythmically before he went down, his tongue plunging inside you.

You were growing mindless.

He was eating you like he was a starved man.

He pulled back slightly, his lips glistening with you, and his eyes met yours.

“You taste like fucking heaven.”

He lapped at you and moved lower before your mind could catch up to it, and he suddenly circled your rim.

“kookie!”

You gasped, body tensing at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Relax baby, just focus on me.”

He places a soft kiss against your inner thigh.

“Let me make you feel good.”

His tongue teased your rim with slow flicks, the sensation was strange yet intoxicating.

It sent a new sort of pleasure inside you.

You wanted more of it.

You soon calmed, uttering pleased expletives freely now as he alternated between your rim and returning to your pussy.

Coating you with his saliva and all your essence.

The dual stimulation driving you wild.

“You’re so good for me.”

He praised you gruffly.

“Letting me eat this sweet pussy.”

Before you could respond, he spanked your thigh lightly.

The sting making you yelp.

“That’s for keeping things from me.”

He says sternly.

“You don’t hide what you need, understand?”

“Yes I'm sorry.” you whine with a hiccup.

Tears spilled down your cheek as you scratched at his shoulder when he sucked your clit hard.

Almost punishingly.

Sending you spiraling, your legs kicking slightly as you struggled to breathe.

Another light spank against your buttock and you let out a broken moan as he ate you out with a renewed intensity.

While his other hand teased your rim, the tip of his finger circled the tight ring of muscle without pushing inside.

The combination was overwhelming.

You couldn’t help but grind your hips against his face, humping almost and his low rumble allowed you to know that he enjoyed it.

His hands encouraging your hips to move faster, gripping your ass almost bruisingly as his nose hits your clit.

“Mhmm oh god, jungkook jungkook.”

You babbled his name repeatedly, head thrashing from side to side on the pillow.

“Cum for me, princess.” he orders.

“Give it to me.”

His dirty words combined with the relentless assault of his tongue pushed you and you came with a loud scream.

Your body convulsed as you saw stars behind your vision.

Your teeth biting on the sheets, almost tearing them

jungkook didn’t stop, his tongue lapping up every drop of your release.

His hands holding your trembling thighs steady as he lapped at you, prolonging your orgasm.

He licked you clean until you were pushing him away with an overstimulated sob.

You lay there panting and spent, feeling boneless.

Your entire body buzzed as a few more tears escaped.

He crawled up to you, eyes filled with adoration now as he kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You clutched on his back, struggling to keep up with his mouth but you kissed back until he pulled back.

Letting you breathe.

“You okay?”

He brushed a strand of hair from your sweaty face.

You nodded as your chest heaved.

“More than okay.” you whisper.

You looked down as you felt his clothed hardness pressing on your thigh and you immediately felt guilty that you didn’t even notice it.

He needed relief as well.

You reached for him.

Your hand slid down to palm his cock through his sweatpants, feeling him pulse.

His brows furrow at your touch, wanting more of it but he caught your wrist, shaking his head.

“Tonight’s about you.”

“I don’t need anything else when I’ve got you like this.”

He didn’t wanna push you further, he already knew you were hungry and high on emotions.

Making you feel good was enough for him.

Before you could argue, the doorbell rang suddenly, the sound loud in the silence of your aftermath.

jungkook pecked your lips and stood asking you to wait, pulling on a shirt before heading downstairs.

You heard hushed voices downstairs and then he returned with a large box of the cake from the exact place you wanted it from.

A pizza box and a small bag of sour gummies

Your eyes widened and you sat up, clutching the sheet to your chest.

“jungkook, this is too much! I only wanted the cake. Why did you spend so much?”

He set the boxes on the bed, climbed in beside you and pulled you between his legs.

“Because I wanted to.” he mumbled gravelly.

His lips brushing your ear.

“You deserve to be spoiled.”

You opened your mouth to speak because he never listens to you and always spends too much money, but he cut you off.

“Shh, enough talking. Eat now. I don’t want my child starving.”

You shook your head with a giggle, watching as he opened the cake box, revealing the masterpiece.

Your eyes brightened as you salivated at the sight.

He cut a slice and held it to your lips, grinning as you took an eager bite, letting out a drawn out moan at the flavor.

“Oh my, this is soo good.” you signed.

Your lashes flutter as you licked the cream off your lips.

jungkook's hand that was resting on your stomach felt the baby kick enthusiastically.

“Looks like our little one agrees as well.”

You smiled placing your hands on his, intertwining your fingers together while you ate.

Seeing you both happy was all he cared about.

His eyes didn’t leave your face for once as he watched you eat.

His heart full.

You offered him a bite and he took a small bite.

“I’m full just watching you enjoy this.” he whispers.

Wiping a smudge of chocolate from your lip with his thumb.

He licked it off, gaze darkening slightly.

A wave of heat went through you, your breaths quickening.

But he made you focus on eating.

He talked to your belly, voice playful and loving.

“mm... you like the cake, huh? you better not keep your mom up all night with those kicks.”

He pressed a kiss to your stomach, his lips lingering and your eyes welled with new tears at the tenderness in his actions.

You couldn’t help it.

Not when he was like this.

Because your baby will have the best father in the world.

When you were finished eating, full and content, you leaned against his chest as his hands rubbed your back.

“Thank you for this.. I love you.” you whimper.

Feeling vulnerable.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

jungkook's arms tightened around you, a wounded look in his eyes.

“You do more than anything.” he rasped.

Leaving no space for further questions.

“I love you more mama.”

He nuzzled your neck, breathing you in as he held you as close as possible but your big stomach created distance anyways.

Making you both share a hearty laugh, that eased your sadness.

“You’re my everything, y/n. You and our baby.”

At his admission you felt secure and at peace more than you’ve ever felt and the toll of everything soon made your eyes heavy.

Your head rested on his chest as you soon fell asleep.

Your belly press against his hard abs as jungkook watched you sleep, his heart swelling with gratitude and at how precious you looked.

He'd move mountains for you.

Spent millions.

Do whatever it takes to see you smile.

And as he felt the baby kick again, he smiled because in his moment with you in his arms and his child growing inside you.

He had everything he'd ever wanted.

And more.

────

💌 permanent taglist: @chaelvrx @slutology00 @furioustrashlover @kelsyx33 @kooever @svnbangtansworld @xcviis @snuglymalicioussea @nellbyy @minewlove @l4yl44 @captainengineer-trixie @cristy-101 @fangirl-coco-goddess @lachesismoonmist @angelfuzzy2 @levisnumber1 @angelsdecalcomania @magicalnachocreator @hynjamkook @koodollylvr @withmuchluv-tannie @istarag @elmarimochi9513 @wtfanu @kooklv @endlesslysassy @tatamicc @mokaliciouss @armybomb-infires @jiniminisworld @seokjinthescientist @gyeomibearr @xmiaacxio @n0chuprettykook @gizaspicebag @aaclariww @dollytingz

[mindurbuzznezz]

TINY HEARTBEATS ⭒ BTS [M. LIST]

a collection of stories about love, family, from the journey of hope to tiny kicks, raising little ones and every precious moment in between.

pairing — dom!bts x sub!femreader

genre — pregnancy au, established relationship, slice of life, found family, domestic vibes, smut, fluff, angst

a/n — this isn't an interconnected series, just completely different oneshots, all centered around the pregnancy theme. Each story has their own vibe and storyline! <3

taglist — [open]

status — ongoing

main m. list

────୨ৎ────

⤷ midnight cravings

in which cravings awaken not only hunger but also jungkook's endless need to nurture, adore and worship his wife, reminding her that she is his entire world.

⤷ to be released.

⤷ more to come...

[mindurbuzznezz]

MOONLIGHT DESIRES ⭒ JJK

in which your boyfriend tries somnophilia on you for the first ever time.

pairing — dom!jungkook x sub!femreader

genre — established relationship, slice of life, domestic vibes, romance, smut, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, consensual somnophilia, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, cowgirl position, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex (f. receiving), clit stimulation, breast play, nipple play, nipple sucking, fingering, cum swallowing, eating out, face riding, tongue fucking, hair fisting, slight bruising and marking, possessiveness, sleepy sex, love confessions, slight aftercare

wc — 2.1k

a/n — hope y'all enjoy this babes! <3

m. list

────୨ৎ────

The night air was heavy, a ceiling fan spun slowly as in the bed cradled under blankets were you and jungkook, the sheets tangled around your legs.

You were asleep nestled against jungkook's chest.

Your body pressing against his, your baby pink silk nightie, delicate and slightly sheer clung to your curves, the hem riding up to expose the smooth skin of your thighs.

The fabric was light and comfy and beneath it you wore nothing.

Your nipples hardened by the cool night air or maybe the dreams that occurred beneath your closed eyelids.

Twin hard nipples pressed against the silk.

Between your thighs was an ache, your clit throbbing, body betraying the arousal even in sleep.

A slickness that glistened faintly in the dim light.

jungkook stirred, exhaling out a breath as he blinked into the darkness. The clock on the nightstand said 2:40 am.

His arm was draped over your waist, his fingers resting just above the curve of your hip and he could feel the rise and fall of your breathing.

His hard muscular chest was bare, skin warm and he only wore black boxers that hung low on his hips.

Doing little to hide the growing hardness beneath.

Your plush thigh slung over him, pressing against him in a way that sent a jolt of heat straight to him.

His cock twitched, straining against the fabric, his thick length pulsing for you.

He turned his head, intense eyes tracing your sleeping form.

The moonlight made your skin glow and you looked like a dream.

Your lips were parted, a soft sigh escaping every few seconds and lashes rested against your cheeks delicately.

He swallowed hard, throat dry as his gaze fell on your breasts.

The nightie had slipped slightly, one strap falling off your shoulder and the fabric stretched over your pebbled nipples.

Outlining them in a way that made his mouth water.

He was obsessed with your tits.

Had always been.

The way they fit perfectly in his hands, the way they responded to his touch—your nipples hardening under his tongue or fingers.

His hand moved before he could think sliding up your side, his fingers grazing the silk until they reached the swell of your breast.

He cupped it gently, thumb brushing over your nipple over the fabric and even in sleep you reacted.

A soft breathy moan slipped from your lips, body arching ever so slightly into his touch.

The sound ignited something primal in him and his cock pulsed, the tip already leaking precum, damping his underwear.

“Fuck, baby.” he murmurs.

His voice rough with sleep and desire.

“Even in your dreams you’re begging for me.”

He knew you trusted him and knew you'd given him your consent to explore your body and to push boundaries.

To indulge in every fantasy that went through his mind.

Somnophilia had been a curiosity, something he'd mentioned in passing and you'd smiled shyly, your eyes bright with mischief.

“You can do whatever you want to me, I’m yours koo. Always.” you’d whispered.

The memory of your consent, your trust a fire in his veins now urging him forward.

He shifted carefully, not wanting to wake you yet and propped himself on one elbow.

His free hand trailed down your body, caressing the shape of your waist and your hip until it reached the hem of your nightie.

He lifted it slowly exposing the soft mound of your pussy, bare and glistening in the moonlight.

Your folds were swollen and inviting.

He bit his lip stifling a groan as he traced a finger along your slit, gathering your arousal.

You were so warm and wet and the scent of you, musky and sweet, filled his senses making his head spin.

His cock painfully hard now with need and he could feel the heat of it through his boxers.

The tip flushed and sensitive and he shifted, trying to ease the ache.

But it was no use—every brush of your thigh, every whimper you let out was driving him closer to the edge.

He parted your folds with two fingers exposing your clit, a small slick pearl that begged for attention.

He rubbed it gently, circling it with the pad of his thumb and your hips twitched, another moan spilling from your lips—this one louder.

A keening sound that made his heart race.

Your pussy clenched around nothing and he knew what your body wanted without you telling him.

He couldn’t resist.

He slid one finger inside you then two, marveling at how easily you took him, your walls warm and slick.

“Mhmm.”

You writhed fisting the sheets, feeling wanton.

“God doll…” he growls with awe.

“Look at you so wet and squirmy even when you’re sleeping, huh?”

He pumped his fingers, slowly curling them to brush against that sensitive spot inside you and your pants grew more insistent, making uncontrollable noises of whines and shaky whimpers.

Your brows furrowed slightly, lips parted as your body reacted even as your mind remained in the haze of sleep.

He watched entranced as your nipples hardened further, your breasts heaving with each shallow breath.

He leaned down, unable to stop and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently through the silk.

The fabric was thin, almost nonexistent and he could taste your skin and feel the hard bud against his tongue.

He rolled it between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue and you gasped, your back arching, pressing your breast further into his mouth.

He groaned, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine and he switched to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention.

His fingers never slowing their rhythm between your thighs

Your moans were unstoppable now, a mix of “ohs” and sharp "ahs", each one a prove of how your body craved him.

“koo…” you huffed.

The word slurred with sleep and his cock twitched at the sound of his name on your lips, so sleepy and cute.

He was so hard it hurt, his balls tight but he didn’t want to rush this.

He wanted to savor every second, every reaction.

Every sound.

He felt your walls tighten around his fingers, signaling that you were close and he redoubled his efforts.

Thrusting his fingers faster and rubbing your clit quickly, thumb pressing just hard enough to make your hips buck.

Your orgasm hit suddenly, crashing through you and your eyes fluttered open, a soft cry tearing from your throat as your cunt gaped around his fingers.

Soaking them with your release.

“jungkook?”

Voice heavy with sleep, eyes hazy as you blinked up at him.

Confusion on your face but your body was already responding, hips grinding against his hand, chasing the remnants of your climax.

“Shh, baby.”

His voice soothing but laced with hunger.

“Just let me take care of you. You're doing so good.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, slick with your arousal as you yelped at the loss and brought them to his mouth.

Sucking them clean with a low rumble.

The taste of you made his jaw clench and he needed more.

Right fucking now.

He shifted, guiding you onto your back and climbed between your thighs, his hands hooking under your knees to spread you open.

Your nightie was bunched around your waist now, revealing your bare bottom.

He dove in, tongue lapping at your folds, drinking in your arousal like a starved man

You squealed, your hands fisting his hair, head lolling back as he devoured you.

His tongue relentlessly flicked against your clit, dipping into your entrance and then back to your clit, circling it with a precision that made your toes curl.

Your thighs trembled and he gripped them tighter, holding you in place as he feasted.

His own moans vibrating against you.

“koo… oh—oh god.” you choked out.

Your body reacting instinctively as your mind struggled to catch up.

You were still half dreaming, caught in a daze of pleasure and he loved it—loved how pliant you were.

How trusting and utterly his.

His beautiful needy girl.

“Cum for me again.”

He whispers against your pussy, breathing hotly against your skin but you shake your head, sputtering because you were already overstimulated from your last orgasm.

You didn’t know if you could come again.

“I can’t—”

He ignored you sucking your clit into his mouth, using his teeth to bite slightly and you let out a scream as a second orgasm ripped through you before you knew it.

Your vision blurring, sobs loud and raw echoing in the quiet room.

Your body almost lifted off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as you pulled and bunched the sheets around your body.

He drank you in, lapping up every drop until you were letting out incoherent noises and pushed his head away.

Feeling overwhelmed.

He pulled back, lips glistening with your release and climbed up over your body, his boxers discarded somewhere in the haze.

His cock was free now, the tip red and dripping with precum.

He gripped it, stroking himself as he looked down at you.

Your eyes half lidded, your chest rising and falling quickly, nightie a crumpled mess around your waist.

“Ride me, doll.” he rasps roughly.

“Wanna feel that tight cunt around me.”

He didn’t even give you a moment to breathe and manhandled you, guiding you to straddle him, making you gasp.

You lifted yourself and slowly sank down onto his cock.

Inch by inch.

Until he was buried to the hilt, he was too big, thick and it felt like he was stretching you beyond your limits.

He grunts, hands gripping your hips and you let out a long broken moan, your hands braced on his chest as you adjusted to his size.

He was stretching you in a way that was both painful and perfect.

You could feel every vein, every throb of his cock inside you.

“Shitt, always so tight.”

He smirks cockily, eyes dark with lust.

“Move for me, baby. Show me how much you love this yeah?”

You started to move slowly at first, hips rocking in a lazy pace since your body still felt weak from sleeplessness and from orgasming twice.

But he was impatient.

His hands guiding you, urging you faster.

You found your rhythm riding him with abandon, your moans filling the air—high pitched whines and soft cries of his name.

Your breasts bounced under the nightie, nipples achy and coated with his saliva, the silk wet from where his mouth had been.

And he reached up, pinching them making you squeak and clench around him.

“That’s it.” he encouraged.

Squeezing your ass.

“You’re taking me so well. My perfect girl… literally a fucking goddess.”

His praise fueled you more and you rode him harder, your thighs burning, cunt dripping with a mix of your arousal and his.

Wet lewd slapping noises filled the room.

He was so close you could tell—his jaw ticking, nostrils flaring and eyes dilated.

His hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew there’d be bruises tomorrow, that you don’t mind at all.

Loving the fact that he marks you as his.

But he wasn’t done yet.

He sat up, pulling you against his chest and thrust up into you.

Taking control.

“Gonna fill you up.” he snarls.

His lips brushing your ear.

“You want that don’t you, pretty girl? want my cum deep inside you?”

“Ngh mm yess.”

You babbled with a gasp, your head thrown back, nails digging into his chest.

“Please please, I want your cum.”

He pounds you, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every stroke and you come again, a blinding release that leaves you crazily mindless.

Your loud wail muffled against his shoulder as you bite into it.

Your body shaking beyond your control from all the energy spent and how many times he turned you into a mess.

It was too much.

He followed seconds later, hot cum spilling inside you as he groans your name, his hands clutching you like you were his lifeline.

You collapsed onto him, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat and arousal.

He held you close, his hands gentle now, stroking your hair as he murmured soft praises against your skin.

“You’re such a good girl… I love you so much.”

He hums against your cheek and you smile sleepily, feeling sated, your body still trembling with aftershocks.

“Love you too, koo…”

Your voice barely audible as you drifted back toward sleep with a contented purr against his chest, making him chuckle warmly.

He held you to him like you were his little baby, both your legs tangled and you were practically on top of him.

The moonlight bathed you both, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing and small noises as jungkook drew little patterns on your back.

His heart full with adoration for you.

And he knew that there was nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.

────

💌 permanent taglist: @chaelvrx @wintaemoonjen @slutology00 @furioustrashlover @kelsyx33 @kooever @svnbangtansworld @xcviis @snuglymalicioussea @nellbyy @minewlove @l4yl44 @captainengineer-trixie @cristy-101 @fangirl-coco-goddess @lachesismoonmist @angelfuzzy2 @levisnumber1 @angelsdecalcomania @magicalnachocreator @hynjamkook @koodollylvr @withmuchluv-tannie @istarag @elmarimochi9513 @wtfanu @kooklv @endlesslysassy @nanisblogg @tatamicc @mokaliciouss @armybomb-infires @jiniminisworld @seokjinthescientist @gyeomibearr @xmiaacxio @n0chuprettykook @gizaspicebag @aaclariww @dollytingz @pokalunolino @bunnies-only @cuntygguk @whoisbaek15 @lachimochala @tranquilreign @j0cgr0c @ninglyss @cheolew @iheqrtete @skinnystalker @weaslyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @armyforever2772 @uuok @whothefuckisthishoe @aughhhhlena

[mindurbuzznezz]

CRAWLING BACK

you put on lace for him—only for him—just so he can rip it off like it was never yours to wear. you thought you could tease, push, provoke. but he doesn’t play. he owns. and by the time he’s done, you’re bent over every surface he claims you on—marked, used, and right where you belong.

GENRE fluff, smut

WARNING sluty oc, testing jk's patience, jungkook hard dom, seriously hes posessive, obsessive, he spoils oc rotten, his love for oc borders on crazy love and maniac, oc bites jungkook, she's brat, jungkook slaps oc in the face, oops. but oc does like it, they're both madly in love, its crazy, oc's jk cocksleeve, sorry not sorry, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, missionary, doggy, blowjob, eating coochie, making out, jk's big and muscular meanie, jk lowkey has twisted love, possesive-obsessive behaviour

PAIRING bf!dom jk × gf! sluty sub reader

p.s literally rewrote this more times than i refreshed my feed today just to ghost-post it loll. tried a whole new writing style n it kinda felt like my brain got hijacked by some alt timeline me?? highkey unhinged. slay either way. might delete later, idk.

you smooth the lingerie up your thighs slowly, the silk catching on warm skin, soft like a secret. the room is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and some sexy playlist you forgot to turn off earlier. your phone buzzes somewhere near the sink. ignored.

it’s black. lacy. barely-there. and it fits like it was made to be ruined.

you shift a little in the mirror, tug at the hem, then laugh under your breath when it rides right back up. he’s going to lose his mind. probably won’t even make it to the dinner you’ve laid out on the coffee table. knowing him? he’ll see you, blink once, and suddenly you’re flat on your back with your thigh over his shoulder.

you try not to think about it too hard.

he’s not home yet, but he’s close—you always know when he’s near. like how the air gets thicker, or how your heartbeat just knows to misbehave. you glance at the door. nothing. not yet.

still, you lean into the mirror, tilt your head, finger-comb your hair back, and imagine his voice in your ear already, low and smug: “missed me?”

ugh. annoying.

ugh. so hot.

you pull the straps into place, check yourself one last time, then pad barefoot over to the couch and sprawl out like temptation herself.

his wine’s poured. your legs are bare. your smirk is locked and loaded.

he better walk in soon. because this isn’t just dressing up anymore—this is war paint.

and you don’t plan on losing.

you decide to up the stakes.

the leather couch groans when you rise, its creak chasing after your bare thighs like it wants you to stay where it’s safe, warm, waiting. but you’re already moving—padding across the apartment with a purpose that feels more like a confession.

your shared bedroom is quiet. too quiet.

you open the wardrobe and find it instantly: his shirt. the black one. soft and worn and still clinging to the scent of his cologne, like he never really left. like he’s still wrapped around you, even when he’s miles away.

you press it to your face and inhale.

god. you don’t mean to do it. you’re not trying to look like some deranged girlfriend who sniffs her man’s clothes like a fix—but maybe you are. maybe you’ve crossed that line already. because the truth is cold and needy:

you don’t know who you are without him.

he’s in everything—your decisions, your dreams, your voice when you speak. you call him before you even breathe sometimes. you want him in your bloodstream, tangled in every little thought. he keeps you like a pretty little secret wife, tucked away from the world’s wandering eyes, and you… you’ve never felt safer.

you try not to think about the way he looks these days — shirtless gym selfies that make your brain short-circuit, arms thick enough to cage you in and keep you there. god, those arms. wrapped around your neck, voice low and filthy against your ear, hand already sliding lower to—

no. not now.

you’re supposed to be mad at him.

you came here to remind yourself why.

because in the beginning, it wasn’t like this. back then, he kept you tucked away like some kind of secret — something delicate. forbidden. he was older. way older. it made sense. but still. it stung.

and then things changed. or maybe you changed. maybe you let him too far in. now, it’s not just love — it’s need. it’s dependency. you don’t make a decision without him. don’t feel whole when he’s not around. he provides, protects, keeps you shut away from the world like a little wife with too-soft hands and eyes that only ever look at him.

and it’s terrifying how much you like it.

you were supposed to grow slowly. that was the plan. he said he wanted to know you — really know you — piece by piece. and he meant it. those early days, all trembling kisses and awkward fumbling, felt sacred somehow. you weren’t new to love, but you were new to this. to being understood.

he never needed a map to find the places on your body that made you gasp. he just knew. like he’d studied you in a past life.

and the scariest part? he never took more than you could give.

he could destroy you, and you know that.

but he never does.

and maybe that’s what breaks you most of all — the way he holds back. the way he lets you choose him, over and over again.

because the truth is, he knows you — really knows you. better than you know yourself most days. your moods, your silences, your little tells. he knows the way your fear hides behind stubbornness, the way your body leans into touch even when your mind pretends not to need it. and when he looks at you — really looks — it’s with that steady, unreadable gaze that makes your skin flush, like he’s already seen every version of you and still wants more.

he never rushes. never loses control. even when he’s got you pinned to the nearest wall, breath hot at your ear, hands everywhere like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you — even then, he pauses. presses his lips to your temple, your shoulder, the inside of your wrist like a silent vow. mine, without ever saying it. you grip his shirt, dig your fingers into his hair, and he lets you take what you need — but it’s always on his terms. always just enough to leave you aching for more.

lately though, you’ve started to notice it — the way he watches you more carefully. the way his grip tightens slightly when someone else’s name slips too easily off your tongue. he never says much, just files it away, jaw set like stone. you call it teasing. he calls it not funny.

a few nights ago, his friends texted him about going out. you asked if you could come, half-joking, half-needy, not sure which part of you was talking louder. he didn’t answer right away — just looked at you, head tilted slightly like he was trying to read your thoughts again. then he picked up his phone, told them to change the location. somewhere nicer. somewhere you could go too. he didn’t ask if you wanted to come after that — he just said, you’re coming with me.

that night, you tried to stay close without being obvious about it. the bar was warm, dimly lit, the table crowded with noise and conversation. he sat beside you, engaged, charming in that quiet way of his — voice low, measured, never needing to compete. and still, even when his eyes weren’t on you, his hand never left yours. rested on the table, fingers wrapped around your smaller ones like a reminder. thumb tracing the same line on your wrist over and over again — grounding, possessive, like he needed you to know you weren’t going anywhere.

and when one of his friends laughed a little too hard at something you said, leaned in a little too close — you didn’t even catch it. but he did. and the next moment, his hand was at the back of your neck, warm and slow, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of it.

“careful, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice too low for anyone else to hear, “you smile like that at someone else, and i might forget how polite i’m trying to be.”

you laughed, breath catching in your throat — because he wasn’t joking. and god, you didn’t want him to be.

you spent the rest of the evening trying to be good. behaved. polite. like that would somehow help you keep it together — even though the way his body looked tonight made that damn near impossible. tall and broad, his shirt pulling tight over muscle and years of discipline. he always looked good, but something about tonight… something about him in this setting, surrounded by boys pretending to be men, made you ache.

his age wasn’t just a number — it was a presence. a confidence. a danger. and yet, every now and then, he’d let it slip — that little flicker of doubt behind his eyes when the topic came up. when he’d try to brush it off, half-joking that maybe you needed someone your own age. someone who “got you.” someone who could give you the same kind of freedom you gave him.

those were the nights you’d spend hours talking him down, every word soaked in frustration and love. giving him a thousand reasons why that idea — that stupid, insulting idea — didn’t just miss the mark, it broke your heart. as if you’d ever trade him for someone softer, someone safer, someone who wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you even if they tried.

you barely noticed when your hand moved. just the smallest shift, palm grazing over the stiff denim stretched tight across his thigh. your fingertips danced along the seam, up, then down, a slow drag of nail and skin and something shameless. his jeans were already clinging too tight, hugging hips and thighs built from years in the gym, and for a second you imagined what it would take to get them off of him. what it would feel like when he finally snapped.

he didn’t even flinch.

no sharp glance. no warning. just cleared his throat once, low and dry, gave a short apology to the friend across from him, and took a slow sip of beer. the only hint he gave was in the tight grip around the bottle, the way his jaw ticked just once before he murmured something about needing the bathroom and stood up without another word.

you stayed behind for a minute — maybe two — trying to act normal, even though your heart was thundering in your chest. and then your phone buzzed.

come to the back exit.

no emoji. no nickname. no warmth. you knew that tone. and it didn’t mean anything good.

you’d been pulling strings all night. testing him. waiting to see when he’d snap. it wasn’t about punishment — not really — it was about pushing. about trying to break that steel trap of control he wore like armor. he’s going to crack, you thought, he has to.

that was the plan. and now it was working.

you smoothed your dress, whispered some excuse to the table, and stood. legs shaky, breath caught halfway between fear and excitement. because if you were right — if tonight really was the night — then you weren’t walking out that door, you were walking straight into the storm you’d spent weeks calling down.

the evening ends with a lesson — one you didn’t expect, but probably needed. because tonight, jungkook doesn’t just touch you like he wants you — he touches you like he loves you. like he’s trying to show you, without saying it out loud, that he never meant to break you — only keep you.

he kisses you like he’s been starving for days. like he’s been waiting too long to taste you again. his hands are everywhere, greedy and warm, dragging you back against the wall for the second — or maybe third — time tonight. you can barely breathe, barely think, because it’s him, and it’s this, and it’s starting to feel like more than just heat.

he kisses like he’s made of contradictions — gentle, almost reverent one second, and then suddenly wild, almost desperate. there’s tension in his jaw, in his shoulders, in the way he pulls at your waist like he doesn’t know how to stop wanting you.

you wait, breath held, eyes on the door — and then you hear them. the keys. the lock turning.

“baby girl,” comes his voice from the hallway. “i’m home.”

his tone is way too light. too clean. no exhaustion. and that alone makes your heart race, because you planned for this. everything has to go right. so you shift on the couch, stretch your legs out slowly, deliberately. you know he’s going to see.

you hear the soft, heavy steps. he’s still in his work suit. of course he is.

he walks into the room—

and freezes.

your breath catches. your eyes lock. his gaze drags over you like a goddamn wildfire, dark and sharp and way too focused. you know that look. you know he’s already guessed what you’re doing, because you can’t even stay sitting. his stare alone makes you rise to your feet like you have to.

“fuck— baby doll,” he breathes. “is that my shirt?”

and then he’s on you.

he’s in your space, on your skin, wrapping his stupidly large hands around your waist and lower, dragging you up against him like he hasn’t seen you in weeks. he inhales you, nose to your throat, and you swear your knees buckle.

his lips crash into yours, biting, sucking, devouring. he holds your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, mouths you so hungrily your teeth knock together, but you don’t care. you can’t care.

your legs wrap around his waist before you even realize you’ve jumped, and his hands slide up your thighs, over your hips, everywhere, fast. his tongue pushes into your mouth with a low, broken groan like he’s tasting something he missed too long — like every sound you make belongs to him.

you don’t even remember how the air got knocked out of your lungs — only that one second he’s kissing you, and the next he’s got you pinned against the wall like he owns the damn space. and maybe he does. maybe he owns you, too. because right now, with the way his hand’s gripping your jaw, tilting your head so you can’t look anywhere but at him — it’s like you don’t exist outside his world.

“you really thought i wouldn’t notice, huh?” he growls, voice low, ragged. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow, then slips into your mouth like he needs to feel the heat of you. “sitting here looking like a fucking fantasy — wearing my shirt, legs wide open like a present you knew i’d unwrap.”

your breath hitches, but you don’t answer. you can’t.

“look at me when i talk to you.”

you do. and it’s like getting hit.

because his eyes — god, his eyes — they’re dark, stormy, furious. not angry at you, no. something worse. something possessive. obsessive. eyes that say mine in a thousand different languages. eyes that say he’ll burn down the world if you ever give this to anyone else.

“do you even get what you do to me?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours now, breath hot against your lips. “i come home from work, all fucking day thinking of you. your mouth. your skin. that sweet little noise you make when you can’t take it anymore—”

he drags his hand down your body — slow, reverent, like he’s punishing himself just touching you.

“i’m too old for this shit. too old to be this fucking gone over some little brat who can’t even sit still long enough to let me worship her.”

his words hit somewhere low, somewhere dangerous, and you whimper before you can help it — which only makes it worse. better. both.

“yeah,” he breathes, lips brushing yours. “that sound. i dream about it.”

his hand slides beneath the shirt — his shirt — and the growl that escapes his throat is something feral. raw. like your body is a wound and he needs to touch it just to stop the ache in his own chest.

“next time you wear my clothes, you better be ready to explain to me who the fuck you belong to.”

you barely get the words out. “you.”

he kisses you again, but it’s not just a kiss. it’s a warning. a promise. a threat wrapped in devotion.

“damn right it’s me.”

his hands are everywhere. gripping your ass, palming your thighs, slapping and squeezing like he can’t decide if he wants to ruin you or worship you. and maybe it’s both. maybe it has to be both. because every time he touches you, it’s like something in your brain shuts off — and all that’s left is him. his hands, his body, his voice in your ear, low and filthy.

you want to climb him. scratch down his back, wrap your legs around his waist, ride him into whatever twisted little fantasy your mind’s been chewing on since you first saw him. because if he’s walking sex — and fuck, he is — then you’re ready to lie down and let him move you however he wants. bend, break, bite — it doesn’t matter. you’ll take it.

but he doesn't rush. no — he’s slow with you. dangerously slow. still kissing you like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you — but his hands don’t stop. they roam. mapping your body like it’s a goddamn battlefield and he’s staking a claim on every inch. his voice, deep and vulgar, fills your ear with filth. stuff that makes your thighs press together. stuff that makes your heart clench and your stomach drop. and it only makes it worse.

one second you’re pressed against the wall, trying to breathe through the heat — the next, he’s got your leg in one hand and your thigh in the other, lowering you slow onto the couch like you’re breakable porcelain — or something he’s about to snap in half.

and then he stops.

everything goes quiet. like time fucking halts.

his eyes — god, his eyes — they burn down your body like they’ve got teeth. hungry. full of heat so sharp it makes your skin tingle. he settles between your legs, big hands gripping your thighs, forcing them wider, like it’s nothing. like you’re his to open. his fingers press into the soft skin, slow and possessive, and you can’t stop the gasp that leaves your throat.

you bite your lip when he shifts forward, thick, solid, those powerfully built thighs wedging between yours like a warning and a promise all at once.

he leans down, voice dark and unhurried, lips brushing your ear.

“spread wider, baby. i’m not here to play.”

and you will — you do — because when it comes to him, there’s nothing you won’t give. nothing you won’t let him take.

his mouth crashes back to yours — no more softness, no more slow. he’s done pretending. his fingers tangle in your hair, rough and deliberate, yanking just enough to sting, just enough to make you whimper into the kiss.

you moan when he does it, because fuck — he’s never kissed you like this before. so hungry. so fucking dominant. but still in control. he always is. and that’s what makes it worse. better. unbearable.

“that what you wanted, bunny?” he mutters against your lips, breath hot, voice low like smoke in your lungs. “my needy little girl playing innocent, laying here dripping in my shirt like you didn’t plan this from the fucking start?”

his hand slips lower — past your stomach, past the waistband — and finds you.

wet. throbbing. aching for him.

his fingers pause there, like he’s savoring it.

he groans, deep in his chest — a dark, vulgar sound that shoots straight through your spine.

“fuckin’ hell.”

he drags two fingers through your slick and then pulls them back up just to watch the mess. “and this—this is you pretending to be shy? dirty little thing.”

your hips jerk up, chasing his touch, and that’s all it takes — he shoves his hand back between your thighs and stays there this time, teasing your clit with cruel precision, like he knows how to keep you just on the edge.

“yeah. yeah, that’s it. that’s what you wanted, huh?” he growls, mouth at your jaw now, biting hard enough to mark. “fuckin’ soaking for me like a bitch in heat.”

your eyes roll back. he presses harder.

“come on, babygirl. take it. you wanted my hands? you wanted this cock so bad you played dress-up and laid yourself out like a fuckin’ meal?”

you nod. you can't speak. he grins — slow, dangerous, proud.

“good,” he hisses, rubbing tighter, faster. “then shut up and come for me.”

and you do. just like that. because you always do when it’s him.

he doesn’t even give you a chance to recover. not a breath, not a beat. one second you're gasping under his touch, and the next—he’s grabbing your jaw, tilting your face up like you're something breakable he wants to break. not out of cruelty. out of need.

"mine," he growls, mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “say it.”

you nod, but it’s not enough. his hand tightens, not painfully — just enough to make you focus, make you listen. like his voice isn’t already buried in your spine.

“fucking say it, bunny.”

"yours," you whisper, lips trembling. "i'm yours."

he smiles at that — but not soft. it’s the smile of a man right on the edge of insanity, like the confirmation just gave him permission to lose control. you feel it in the way he pushes you down — not hard, but with a strength that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

he settles between your legs again, hands spreading your thighs like he’s opening a book he's read a thousand times and still can’t get enough of.

“gonna have you like this first,” he mutters, low and rough, kissing your stomach, your inner thigh. “just like this. laid out and open. so i can see every fucking twitch you make when i ruin you.”

you reach for him. desperate. shaking. and he groans — that sound he only makes when he’s really gone — grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand, his other gripping your hip like a warning.

“stay,” he snaps. “you don’t get to ride me yet. i get to have you the way i want you first.”

missionary — but nothing about it is soft.

he leans over you, chest heavy against yours, breath uneven, kissing you like he’s trying to pour himself into your mouth. his thrusts are slow, deep, controlled. like he’s deliberately torturing both of you. and every time you arch or cry out, he leans down and bites. your neck. your shoulder. your collarbone.

"you were made for this," he grits out. "for me. this fucking body—" he thrusts harder, lips at your ear, “—this mouth, these hips, these fucking sounds—i own them.”

and then he flips you. sudden. rough. his hand splayed across your lower back, pressing you into the cushions.

“you want it rough?” his voice is lower now, dangerous. almost tender in the way a storm calms right before it destroys everything.

“you get it rough.”

doggy — but it’s not just the angle, it’s the power. the way he grabs your hips, the way he curses under his breath like he’s in pain from how much he wants you. the way he pauses just long enough to run his palm down your back and whisper—

“still my girl, even like this? even when i fuck the thoughts out of your pretty little head?”

you nod again, breathless, but it’s not enough.

“say it.”

"still yours," you breathe, voice broken, wrecked. “always yours.”

he groans like he’s about to fall apart, forehead resting on your shoulder, hands trembling as he grabs your waist and holds you tighter.

“then i’m never letting you go,” he whispers, so raw it hurts. “never. i’ll lose my fucking mind before i watch anyone else touch what’s mine.”

you make the mistake of laughing.

just a little. breathless. high-pitched. bratty.

right after he pulls you back by the hips and shoves deep enough to make your spine curve like a bow — you laugh. and it’s not because you’re not wrecked — you are. it’s because you know he is, too.

"what’s so funny?" his voice drops an octave — like gravel dragging over ice.

you turn your head over your shoulder just enough to flash a smile, all teeth and sin.

“you sound like you missed me or something.”

he stills behind you.

and that silence—

fuck. you feel it.

his hand slides up your back, slow, then to your neck, then to your cheek—

and then he slaps you.

not hard enough to hurt. just hard enough to remind you.

your head snaps to the side and the sting blooms sweet across your skin. your mouth opens — breath caught between a gasp and a moan. he leans in close, chest to your back, palm still warm on your jaw.

"don’t get cute with me, bunny,” he growls, biting your earlobe between his teeth. “you want to act like a little fucking brat, i’ll treat you like one.”

you shiver. not in fear. in something else. something dirtier. your nails dig into the cushions. your teeth clench.

and when he pulls your head back by your hair, baring your throat — you turn just enough to bite his wrist.

hard.

not enough to really hurt him. just enough to test him. because you want it. you want him to snap.

his hand finds your throat again — squeezing, not choking — just enough pressure to make your eyes flutter.

and he does.

his laugh is low. sharp. dangerous.

“that how you want it, baby?” he hisses, dragging you up by your hair until your back’s against his chest. one arm locks around your waist, the other grabs your thigh, forces it open. “you want rough? you want to act like a feral little thing?”

his hand finds your throat again — squeezing, not choking — just enough pressure to make your eyes flutter.

“go ahead. fight me. fucking try.”

and you do.

you squirm. grind. push your hips back like you’re challenging him. and he takes it. loves it.

because even when you try to claw back control, he’s already won. he always does.

he shoves you forward again, flat against the cushions, then spreads your legs wider with his knee.

“don’t fucking move.”

his voice is calm now. terrifyingly calm.

like he’s already decided what he’s going to do with you. to you. and all you can do is take it.

he bends over your back, one hand snaking under your stomach to press you into the couch, the other dragging your face toward him so he can kiss you again — filthy, deep, teeth clashing.

his lips swollen from it. yours already bruised.

“you don’t get to win, baby,” he mutters, thrusting slow and deep, right against that place inside you that makes your whole body twitch. “you want to fight, go ahead. i’ll still fuck you stupid every single time.”

you moan something broken, and he smiles again — meaner this time.

“that’s what i thought.”

and when he leans in again — pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his hand sliding up your body like he’s trying to carve the shape of you into his memory — he whispers it like a secret, like a curse:

“mine. no matter how much you bite. no matter how much you run. you’re mine.”

and you don’t argue.

you never do.

he pulls you back down on top of him like he owns your body — because fuck, at this point, he does.

your thighs straddle his hips, and his eyes rake up your body like he’s staring at his final fucking meal. not one he’s about to eat — one he’s about to devour. he leans back on the couch, broad chest rising slow, and slaps your ass once — sharp and loud.

"since you're so mouthy tonight," he mutters, eyes hooded and dark, “you can fucking ride it.”

you smirk, cocky for half a second.

he lets you. lets you think you’ve got power here.

but the moment you grind down onto him — slow, teasing — his hands shoot to your waist and snap you into place.

“don’t fucking play, baby,” he grits out, voice dangerous and deep. “you wanna act like a brat, you better take this cock like you earned it.”

you do.

you roll your hips, trying to push his buttons. trying to test him. but the way he watches you — like he’s five seconds from dragging you under him again — makes it hard to hold eye contact.

his hands grip your thighs, guiding you. controlling you, even from underneath.

you lean forward, press your palms to his chest, and bite his shoulder — hard enough to leave a mark.

and it’s like lighting a match.

his hand shoots up, grabs your throat, pulls you closer until your lips are inches from his.

"you wanna leave marks?" he growls, breathing heavy. “go ahead. bite. scratch. ruin me.”

his voice drops lower, filthier.

"but after this — you're turning around, and i’m putting you in your fucking place."

and he means it.

you ride him until your legs shake, until your thighs burn and your hands clutch his chest like a lifeline. and the whole time, he talks you through it — slow, commanding, voice dragging along your skin like hot metal.

“look at you. fuckin’ perfect like this. flushed and needy and mine.”

you lean back, give him the full view — his hands flying up to your waist to hold you open, watching the way you move on him like he’s hypnotized.

but he doesn’t stay still for long.

the moment you so much as stutter — hips faltering from overstimulation — he moves.

grabs your hips. lifts you off. flips you without warning.

you’re facing away from him now — knees on either side of his thighs, palms flat on the couch — and his hands are already pulling you down onto him again, slow and deep.

reverse cowgirl. but not gentle.

he’s under you, but somehow still in control.

still setting the rhythm. still slapping your ass when you move too slow. still gripping your thighs, your hips, your waist like he’ll never let go.

"look at you," he grits, voice all gravel and lust. “can’t even keep it together for two minutes.”

he leans up, chest to your back now, mouth at your ear.

“but you’re still taking it. because you love it. you love being mine. being used like this. don’t you?”

you can’t speak. only nod. only cry out.

and he smiles. god, he smiles like you just confessed your sins to him and he’s about to make you pay.

“that’s right, bunny,” he breathes, lips dragging down your neck. “mine. no matter what way i fuck you.”

you’re gone.

limbs shaking, lips swollen, voice hoarse from how many times he’s already pulled you apart and made you beg. and still — he’s not fucking done.

he’s breathing hard, chest slick with sweat, body caging yours like he’s trying to burn you into the couch. he looks down at you like you’re art. like you’re bleeding gold. like he doesn’t know whether to worship you or destroy you.

“look at you,” he mutters, low and guttural. “all fucked out. can’t even move, can you?”

you try to answer. can’t. your mouth opens, but nothing comes.

he smirks — dark and slow — and leans in to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your neck. soft, almost sweet… until he bites.

“too bad,” he breathes against your skin. “’cause i’m still hard for you, baby. still starvin’. and you’re not done until i say you are.”

he moves lower. slides down your body like he owns every inch of it — because he does.

“legs up,” he growls.

you try. they barely lift. he chuckles, deep in his throat — half amused, half fucking feral — and guides them up himself, pushing your thighs to your chest like he’s unfolding his favorite meal.

“that’s it,” he whispers, eyes dragging over the mess between your legs. “look at this pussy. so fucked and sloppy — just how i like it.”

you whimper — overstimulated, brain foggy — but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow down.

he spreads you open with both hands, just stares for a second. moaning under his breath like he’s high on the sight of you.

“look how she leaks for me,” he says, voice rough. “can’t believe this is mine. you’re mine. every fuckin’ inch.”

he dives in like he’s starving.

tongue heavy and slow, licking through your slick like he’s trying to memorize the taste. like he wants to ruin his mouth on you. he groans into you — deep and desperate — and your back arches before you can stop it.

you cry out — thighs trembling, hands flying to his hair — but he doesn’t stop.

he moans against your cunt like he’s in heaven. like he could die between your thighs and thank you for the privilege.

“fuckin’ addicted,” he growls, breath hot. “could eat you all night. you don’t even know how good you taste, do you? sweet little pussy, soaked for me.”

he doesn’t let up — mouth messy, relentless — dragging his tongue over every swollen inch, sucking your clit slow just to hear you sob.

your whole body jolts — spent, overstimmed — but his arms are locked around your thighs, holding you open like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

“one more,” he whispers. “gimme one more, baby. i know you can. be good f’me. let me have it.”

you break.

again.

and he smiles.

pulls back just enough to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes glassy and wild.

his cock’s hard again — already — leaking at the tip and flushed dark. massive against his stomach. way too big for how soft you feel now, how used.

but he doesn’t hesitate.

he lifts you like nothing. like you're weightless. like you’re his little doll — wrecked and trembling in his arms.

“c’mere,” he mutters, voice thick. “ride it slow. nice and deep. let me feel this pretty pussy stretch around me again.”

you don’t even know if you can take it — but he’s not asking.

he guides you down onto him like it’s religion, groaning through clenched teeth as your walls squeeze around him.

“there she is,” he growls, jaw tight. “always fuckin’ takes me. even when she’s crying. even when she’s full. perfect little cocksleeve, aren’t you?”

you gasp, face buried in his neck, legs trembling on either side of his hips.

and still — he holds you close, one hand on your lower back, one wrapped around your throat like he needs to feel your pulse.

“mine,” he breathes. “every fuckin’ inch of you.”

he’s sitting back against the headboard now, legs spread wide like he’s expecting worship — and maybe he is. maybe he always is, when it comes to you.

his cock’s still flushed, hard, slick from how deep he’s been inside you all night. and he’s watching you — glassy-eyed, jaw tight, one hand lazily stroking himself while you kneel between his thighs like you were made for it.

you’re shaking — still wrecked, still ruined — but your eyes don’t leave his.

“go on, baby,” he says, voice low and rough. “show me what that pretty mouth was made for.”

you lean in slow, tongue flicking out to taste him — and his whole body jerks. the groan that rips from his chest is guttural, like it’s been clawing its way out of him all night.

he cups the back of your head, not forcing, just holding — fingers curling into your hair like he owns it.

"just like that. good girl.”

you hollow your cheeks. take him deeper. your spit’s already dripping down your chin, onto your chest — a mess, and he’s loving it.

he watches you through half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide, like you’re the most obscene, most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“fuck, baby,” he growls, hips twitching up against your mouth. “you take it so good. so deep. little throat was made for me.”

you moan around him — can’t help it — and it makes him hiss, head falling back against the wall.

“oh, fucking hell, that noise—” he grits out, his other hand clutching the sheets like he’s about to lose his goddamn mind.

you try to keep going slow, controlled — but he’s done letting you.

his grip tightens.

and suddenly he’s moving his hips — slow at first, then deeper, harder — fucking up into your mouth like he owns your airway, like you don’t even need to breathe, just take.

“look at you,” he snarls. “fuckin’ drooling, tears runnin’ down your face — and still so hungry for it. you love this, huh? love when i use you like this.”

your eyes roll back, the mix of stimulation, the heat of him, the weight, the filth of his words — it’s overwhelming.

but you don’t stop.

your hands are on his thighs now, nails digging into muscle, holding on for dear life as he fucks your mouth with steady, brutal control.

and the whole time — he’s still talking.

“so tiny,” he mutters, staring down at you like he’s in a trance. “so fuckin’ small, and still takin’ it all. you’re my perfect fuckin’ toy, aren’t you?”

you gag once, and he groans — not in pity, not in concern — but in lust.

he pulls you back just enough for you to gasp in air, your lips red and spit-slick, eyes blurry with tears — and he’s cupping your face, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip like you’re the most precious, filthy little thing he’s ever touched.

“you good, baby?”

you nod — dazed, soaked, voice gone.

and he smirks, leaning in close, voice low and reverent.

“good. because i’m nowhere near done with you.”

you’re still in the bed.

messy sheets. ruined pillows. the smell of sweat and sex clinging to the air like a storm that hasn’t passed yet.

he’s over you — not fucking you anymore, just on you. arms around your waist, chest pressed to your back, face buried in your neck like he’s trying to crawl under your skin and live there.

his hand drags up your thigh. slow. lazy. possessive.

you shiver, still so sensitive, and he smiles — kisses the back of your neck, warm and a little smug.

“can’t stop twitchin’, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough and soft all at once. “did i fuck you that good?”

you hum. can’t speak yet. too gone. too warm.

he grins — teeth against your shoulder — and pulls you closer, like that’s even possible. like he hasn’t already fucked himself into your bones.

you don’t know how long it’s been when he finally gets up — but it’s him that moves first. not you.

he leans over the bed, bare chest lit in gold from the city skyline pouring through his windows, and grabs his phone.

you hear him mutter something — low and clipped — and then a moment later, the front door buzzes.

“got you food,” he says, climbing back in beside you like a goddamn jungle cat. “and champagne. the good shit. not that cheap shit you pretend to like when you’re trying to act independent.”

you shoot him a glare.

he laughs — full and filthy — and grabs your jaw, kisses you hard.

“you’re mine,” he murmurs, voice going dark again. “don’t need to act like you’ve got shit handled when i’m right here.”

he kisses you again — slower this time. tongue dragging over yours like he’s savoring it. like he doesn’t care about air, or time, or anything that isn’t your mouth.

his hand’s still on your jaw. the other’s dragging down your side, palming your ass, pulling you closer like he’s trying to remind you exactly where you belong.

“look at you,” he whispers. “fuckin’ flushed. all soft and sweet now. can’t even argue with me when you’ve got my cum still dripping outta you.”

you whine — weakly — and he laughs again, low and dangerous.

but when the food arrives, he goes soft again. but not in the way most people do.

he feeds you — literally. rips off pieces of steak with his fingers and feeds them to you like you’re his spoiled little plaything.

wipes your mouth with a napkin. pours you champagne like it’s water. keeps your legs across his lap the whole time.

when you try to get up, he grabs you by the waist and yanks you back down.

“sit. you’re done. i’m handling you now.”

like always.

when he finally gets you to the shower, you’re all hazy and flushed — barely even awake — and he still looks feral.

still hard.

still wanting.

but he doesn’t touch you. not yet.

he kneels in front of you while the water heats, hands on your hips, forehead pressed to your stomach like he’s grounding himself.

“don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he mutters. “swear to god, baby, i’ve never been this fucking gone over anyone.”

he kisses your stomach. your thighs. your knees.

then he stands — big, broad, dominant — and steps behind you, guiding you under the stream like you’re delicate. like you might break without him.

he soaps you up himself. gentle hands, but still controlling. still his.

he scrubs between your thighs, under your arms, behind your ears — murmuring under his breath the whole time.

“so fuckin’ soft,” he mutters. “look at you. can’t even keep your eyes open. my pretty little thing. i fucked you dumb, huh?”

you nod — brain-melted and glowing.

and he smiles. all teeth and love and filth.

his hand slides between your legs again, not touching — just holding you open while the water runs over your skin.

“you’re mine, baby,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “head to fuckin’ toe.”

and you know he means it.

you press your cheek to his chest. let him wrap his arms around you like a shield. like a wall.

you’re safe here. you’re his.

and he’s still not done loving you — even when he’s quiet.

especially then.

[mindurbuzznezz]

NO ORDINARY LOVE

content you find jungkook in the jacuzzi, steam curling around him like sin, his body loose but his stare anything but. he doesn’t move, doesn’t need to — just lets the silence stretch, his legs spreading under the water, the weight of his gaze pulling you in. it’s quiet, filthy in the way only he makes it, like you already know what he’s asking without a single word

pairing bf!jungkook × gf!reader

warnings mature language, curse words, jungkook's ceo, oc's tries to relax him a bit, jungkook is obsessed with her, raw sex, creampies, hard sex but is also soft, overstimulation, big asf paragraphs bcs i was so fuckin' invested in it fr, oral 'n hand stimulation, teasing, foreplay, alcohol use, fingering

“honey, you home?” the sound rolls out from the bathroom, low and grainy, carrying through the apartment like smoke. it’s jungkook — and his voice is tired in that way it gets when he’s been wrung out completely, but still steady, still commanding enough to make you freeze for a heartbeat in the doorway.

you kick off your heels, the straps slipping loose with a sigh of relief, and drop your bag and keys on the shelf without ceremony. he’s already back. early, apparently. you can tell because the trail of his things — jacket over the couch arm, shirt half-crumpled on the floor — maps out his arrival like a story you weren’t there to watch. he never cares, never lingers on mess. “why bother?” he always mutters, “someone’ll clean it if i call.” he says it like he’s joking, but really it’s just exhaustion, pressed so deep into his bones that tidying up is the last thing you’d ask of him.

you spot him before he even notices you — his head tipped back against the edge of the jacuzzi, damp strands of black hair sticking to his forehead like they’ve given up the fight, chest rising and falling in that slow, heavy rhythm that only comes after he’s worked himself to exhaustion. steam curls around his body, twisting like ribbons in the low light, and his arms are spread wide along the sides of the tub as if he owns every inch of it, every bubble, every drop of heat. there’s something oddly vulnerable about seeing him like this, stripped of his sharp edges, shoulders slack instead of squared. and god, you can’t help it, the sight alone makes you want to slip right into that water, crawl onto him like he’s your personal throne, and remind him that he deserves to be touched softer after burning himself out so hard.

you giggle to yourself as you peel the day off you — shoes gone, bag tossed aside — leaving just the cling of that black mini dress he can never resist. the one that always drags his gaze lower than he intends, makes his jaw tighten like he’s trying not to show it.

the closer you get to the bathroom, the louder the soft churn of water becomes. steam leaks from the gap in the door, and when you push it open, there he is: half-submerged in the jacuzzi, shoulders gleaming, head tipped against the tiled edge. he looks both ruined and untouchable, every muscle taut even in stillness, like he’s carved himself out of stone just to sit there and simmer in it.

“rough day?” you breathe out, voice softer than you meant. he cracks one eye open, then the other, and the look he gives you lands heavy. it steadies you, reassures you, and makes your pulse flutter all at once. he doesn’t bother with words at first — just tilts his chin, a flick of his fingers beckoning you closer. when he finally speaks, it’s more a groan than a sentence, low and rumbling through his chest. “mm. you could say that.”

your hands find the zipper, the dress slipping down as you walk toward him, pooling at your feet like you were planning this all along. his gaze sharpens, and there’s the faintest bristle in him, a little pout tugging at his lips. “looked too good on you,” he murmurs, like he hates watching it go. you smirk, tossing the words back at him without hesitation. “thought you’d want me without it.” that earns a laugh, deep, throaty, his nose scrunching at the edges of his smile, though his eyes stay on you like a hawk.

sliding in, the water kisses your skin instantly, hot and silky, rising up your thighs until you’re knee-deep, then waist-deep, until you’re right there with him. you let out a soft gasp at the heat, half real, half put on for effect, and he chuckles again, eyes half-lidded as they track every movement. his body looks unreal under the waterline, all hard lines blurred into molten shapes by the distortion of bubbles and steam. his body is impossible — even in water, every muscle sits firm and drawn, like tension is his natural state. you settle closer, careful but deliberate, letting your weight press down on him just slightly. his head tips back, throat bared, a groan breaking free when he feels you lean into him.

your hand drifts lower. first a touch at his thigh, then a slow crawl upward, until your palm finds him, thick and hot even under the veil of water. he exhales sharply, a sound between a sigh and a warning, though there’s no real resistance in him. “you don't gotta—” the words curl out of him like smoke, not a challenge, not a plea — just quiet dominance, threaded with certainty.

your lips curve, refusing to let him own the silence. “i know i don't ‘gotta,” you murmur back, letting the repetition sink between you like a secret. your grip adjusts, your fingers curling firmer, stroking slow, deliberate. “but i want to.”

his reaction is subtle but devastating — a hiss pulled through his teeth, his eyes narrowing, the tendons in his neck tightening as he lets you work him under the heat. he doesn’t fight you, doesn’t push, just watches. always watching, like every movement is a test and he’s already decided how it ends.

“how was your day?” you ask, playful but a little breathless now, your hand sliding smoother with the water’s help. the laugh he gives is darker this time, a low scoff, his smirk twisting. “does that matter to you right now?” he bites at his lip piercing, teeth flashing in the steam.

“of course,” you insist, voice thin, almost too sweet, your arm curling tighter around him as if to prove it. his response comes in the grind of his teeth, the sharp sound of restraint. “fuck. don’t mess with me.” the way he says it is not a warning but a vow — the kind that presses into your bones, leaves heat sparking down your spine.

and suddenly you’re the one trembling, legs pressing tight together beneath the water, every nerve in you sparking as you keep your hand steady on him. his husky little groans rise with the bubbles, and you’re dizzy with it, caught between the burn of the jacuzzi and the quiet dominance simmering in the man before you.

your palm slides higher, deliberate now, wrapping around the thick heat of him beneath the water. even through the distortion, even hidden by steam, he feels heavy, pulsing, alive against your touch. he hisses, biting down on his lower lip, eyes snapping shut for just a second as if bracing against the flood of sensation. you work him slow, almost lazy, like the water has seeped into you too, made your movements unhurried and indulgent. his breath stutters out of him, chest heaving, and he tilts his head back again, neck exposed, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. “fuck,” he mutters, broken and low, the word cracking at the edges like he can’t quite get control. and you love it, love watching him unravel in pieces under your hand, love knowing that even when he’s drained, burnt out, completely spent from the day, he still reacts to you like you’re the one thing that can push him past the edge again.

“bastards think they can set boundaries for me.” his voice lands first, low and edged with satisfaction, like he’s already won whatever fight he’s talking about. his head tilts slightly as if the thought itself pleases him, and he doesn’t tense, not a single flicker in his expression. he looks completely at ease, carved in stillness, while under the water your hand bears the full weight of him — thick, swollen, unapologetically hard.

then his own hand comes down, wet skin and inked knuckles slipping against yours, guiding you. “baby, hold it like this.” his tone is steady, quiet but firm, a correction masked as tenderness. he adjusts your grip with lazy confidence, moving your fingers until the stroke feels exactly the way he wants it, until your hand is steady, secure, deliberate. you repeat his rhythm, every slide smoother than the last, your whole body humming from the way he never has to raise his voice to make you follow. he doesn’t push or rush — doesn’t need to. his pleasure is in the fact that you don’t even notice when you’ve already given him what he wants.

the pulse of him thrums against your palm as you guide him upward, the length wide and heavy, and your free hand rises instinctively to press against his chest. when you squeeze, firm but curious, he reacts instantly — a hiss dragged through clenched teeth, head tipping back, throat bare and glistening in the dim light. “mhm… like that,” he mutters, nodding, his voice ragged at the edges, raw enough to sound like it hurts him to hold it back.

“foreign entrepreneurs again?” you ask, the question threading into the thick air as your hand keeps its pace. he groans low, brows furrowing just faintly, but the smirk in his voice bleeds through anyway. “they don’t learn. jerks.” his breath breaks when you toy with his tip, slick and flushed under your thumb, his chest rising sharper now, each inhale tugging at the tattoos inked across his skin. he reacts to every stroke, every flick — his hips shifting almost imperceptibly, his body syncing with yours until you realize he’s letting you lead him, until you feel the tremor of his control slipping.

“what’d you do with them?” your voice slips out softer than you intend, but steadier too, your confidence mounting with every gasp you drag from him. bubbles rise and pop in the silence between his ragged sighs, his groans cutting sharp through the steam-thick air. his eyes open just enough to catch you — wet hair plastered to your cheeks, water glistening against your chest, and he stares like the sight of you alone is enough to ruin him completely.

“told them to fuck off,” he rasps, voice husky, thick with both amusement and exhaustion. his hands move again, slow but purposeful, exploring every line of your body under the water, stopping deliberately where he knows he’ll pull a gasp or a shiver from you. he doesn’t need to press — his touch is casual, but exact, fingers finding every weak spot as if he mapped you long ago.

“creative,” you tease, laughing softly, though your hand never falters on him. it earns a laugh from him in return — deep, husky, chest shaking under your palm, tattoos rippling as his body moves with it. “practical,” he throws back, eyes narrowing at you through the haze, smirk tugging lazily at his lips as if to say he’ll always get the last word.

he’s trying, you can see it plain as day — that iron grip on composure he always wears like armor, fraying thread by thread every time your hand shifts, every time your body leans closer. his jaw flexes, his eyes drag over you with that mix of hunger and restraint, like he’s caught between devouring you and holding his ground. you know he likes the little games you play — the way you tuck your hair back slow, the way your lip catches between your teeth — but what kills him more is that you don’t even need the act. you could walk in bare, unthinking, and still break him open with one look.

his chest rises too fast for how still he’s trying to sit, a knot of nerves and want tightening then loosening all at once. when you press your palm to him under the water, he lets out a sound sharp enough to bite the steam in half. “let’s not—” his voice falters, eyes flicking down, “—talk about work when your hand’s on my dick.” there’s not an ounce of shame in him; if anything, he leans into the line, twisting it with pride, like he wants you to know how easy it is for you to put him under.

you swat at his chest, playful, the splash sending droplets down his skin. his hair clings wet to his face until he wipes it away, and then he’s grinning at you — that wild, edged smile that always makes your pulse trip. his hands find your hips, then lower, palms spreading wide over your ass, squeezing until he’s dragging you against him in one smooth pull. the motion steals your breath, a gasp caught behind your fingers, but he catches that too, prying your hand away and pressing it to your spine, holding it there. “want to hear you, princess,” he murmurs, voice thick and broken, not a request but a demand clothed in velvet.

heat floods you, water or no water, your body moving without permission, hips grinding against the hard line of him. “jungkook,” it slips out, nearly a plea, but you bite it back, remembering what you set out to do — tonight’s about him, about peeling him apart piece by piece until he forgets everything but you. your free hand slides lower, curling around him properly now, the weight of him hot and slick against your palm. his breath rips out of him, rough, and his forehead tips forward like he’s fighting not to lose it too soon.

his grin falters, melts into something harder, his brows pulling as he watches you test his edge. “let me—” you start, but before the words are even out he’s moving, catching your wrists, gathering them both into one of his big hands and pinning them against your back. the water shifts with you, splashing against the tiled edge as he crowds you, caging you where he sat only a second ago. his body is all heat and pressure against yours, and in his eyes, you see it plain — the control he swore he’d keep, slipping for good.

you don’t even realize how completely he’s claimed the space around you until you try to shift, only to find yourself locked beneath him. his shadow falls like a curtain, thick and suffocating, swallowing every inch of light, making it feel as though the air itself bends around his frame. he looms, this immovable shape, somewhere between a mountain and a stormcloud, and the sheer weight of his presence pins you down more than any grip ever could. his eyes catch yours, and it’s over—your makeup is already smudging, streaking, your face shifting into something messy, wrecked, honest.

jungkook watches it happen like it’s art being made for him alone, his cock twitching with nothing more than the innocence in your gaze that is anything but innocent to him. his tongue flicks at the silver in his lip, playing with the piercing like it’s a nervous habit, though the way he murmurs, “can’t miss this opportunity,” drips low and deliberate, that lazy dialect weaving through each syllable like smoke curling at your ears.

his hand trails lower, slow enough to drive you mad, slipping down until it hovers at the waistband of your underwear—already clinging uncomfortably, sticky with heat, the friction unbearable. you feel trapped in your own skin, and he knows it, fingers curling around your wrists just long enough to guide them, push them down until they rest at the small of your back. a command, unspoken but absolute: keep them there. the heat of his palms lingers against your hips, sliding along your waist, drinking you in. he adores this part—the slope of you, the give of your curves, the tiny imperfections you try to hide. stretch marks, uneven dips, the scattered constellations of your skin—he worships them, lets his gaze map you out like you’re some hidden landscape he’s sworn to explore again and again.

his fingertips skim your panties, teasing, and you jolt under his touch, squirming before he even bothers to peel them away, leaving you exposed, raw, stripped down to nothing but your pulse pounding in his hands. your bra follows, tossed aside without ceremony, and you stand naked in the glow of his hunger, his chest rising harder, faster, with the kind of greed that never dulls no matter how many times he’s seen you.

“we’ve got something here,” he hisses, almost a groan, almost a confession, and the sound vibrates against your chest. his fingers slip lower, find the wet heat waiting for him, and the breath he drags in sounds ragged, like it scorches his throat. “fuck—so wet down there, darling,” he drawls, lips curling at the corners, mocking but adoring all at once, like he’s whispering proof of what you already know he’s done to you. he thrives on this, on the pliancy he pulls from you, the way you let him take back the reins. even though you ache for more, even though your own half-started plan burns in the back of your mind, you give it up, because this is what he needs—control as his relief, the power of your surrender as his balm.

his hand spreads across your core, fingers finding your clit and circling, and the groan that rips from him is primal, guttural, like he’s the one being undone. you clutch at him instinctively, water sloshing, your hips jerking forward, chasing pressure. he flicks, presses, the rhythm he knows will send you spiraling, and the sound you let out is raw, loud, a moan that fills the steam-thick air. “s’soaked, baby,” he mutters, breath hitching as his muscles tense, focus etched into every line of his face. when you move your hips faster, exactly how he’s urging you to, he only laughs, soft and dark, “mhm..that’s it, my girl.”

his mouth finds your neck, pushing your hair aside, lips wet and open, tongue chasing droplets the water left behind. every kiss feels deliberate, reverent, as if he’s collecting you piece by piece. you melt into it, body slackening even as his fingers dip lower, sliding down until they press at your entrance. you jolt, whimper, hips bucking helplessly into his grip, and he laughs against your skin, the sound muffled by kisses. “so good,” you mumble, breathless, half thought spilling before you can catch it. he takes it anyway, takes everything you give him, his hand rubbing your hips in tender counterpoint to the ruthless circles he draws at your clit. his whole body is working, muscles flexing, mouth trailing worship, until you feel like he’s rewired you completely, every nerve alive, every inch of you dissolved under his touch.

“yeah? you— you really want more?” his voice drops lower, already husky but now rough around the edges, like he’s got no leash left on himself. the way he asks isn’t even really a question, more like he’s double-checking the chaos he already feels pouring off you. you can see it in his eyes—those heavy lids, darkened, hungry—that he knows you’ve completely undone every boundary he swore he’d keep tonight. that little smirk that tugs on the side of his mouth tells you he’s proud of the way you read him, the way you know his body better than he does. you nod too quickly, greedy, swallowing down the heat in his kiss, the rough drag of his mouth across your skin that feels feverish.

“fuck—fuck…” he stutters, shaking his head at how hard you grind into him, desperate for his length already twitching and straining against you. he curses like it’s the only language left in his brain, fists tugging his shorts down in one rough, careless motion, and his cock is in his hand before you can breathe. his tattoos twitch with every stroke, muscles shifting under damp skin, and you bite down so hard on your lip just watching that he actually growls, low in his throat, pressing himself up against your heat. he taps at your entrance like he’s teasing, like he wants to watch you shake for it, and when you do—arms winding around his neck, fingers sinking into his damp, wavy hair—he almost loses it then and there.

the sound he makes when you cling tighter is somewhere between a growl and a broken laugh, his chest rising faster under your palms. his cock slaps against your pussy and the sharp moan it pulls from you makes your whole body jolt. he drags himself over your folds, back and forth, again and again, slick spilling from you and smeared all over his length with every grind. “shit… baby…” he mutters, pressing his thumb down along his cock so it digs harder into your swollen core, and the hiss he lets out through his teeth tells you he’s as wrecked as you are. you can barely breathe when he keeps at it, grinding steady, smirking through the wreckage of his composure.

“fuck, baby. you’re—” he groans, shakes his head, voice cracked— “you’re a fucking dream.” the words unravel you, especially when his shaft glides perfectly, catching every sweet place until your hips move with him like instinct. he tests your edge, pushing in just barely, then pulling out again to smear his length over your lips, making you whimper and sob for more, your voice almost too thin to hold the sound.

you’re so close you can feel your body pulsing faster than your breath can keep up. your thighs tremble, your chest heaves, and you moan helplessly every time his mouth finds your ear, his teeth scraping it, his tongue dragging down your neck. every lick, every nip is fire, his breath scorching at your skin. “like this?” he hums against you, his accent slipping through when he doesn’t mean to, each syllable sharp, crystalline, unbearably sexy. “like it like this, huh?” and you’re nodding, whispering, “s’much—” as your head falls onto his shoulder, too gone to lift it again. his cock drags across your stomach’s lowest depths without even being inside you, his sheer size pressing in on places you didn’t know could be reached, and you swear your body can’t take it.

then he shifts, pushing his hips forward until yours meet his in a sharp clash, his laugh dark and under his breath when he sees you unravel further. “my girl… so fuckin’ unreal.” his pierced lip catches between his teeth, and his thrusts across your folds get rougher, sloppier, his self-restraint shredded. his mouth finds your throat, his hunger to leave bruised, blooming marks reawakened—he paints you in mottled purples and reds like it’s art he can’t stop making. each kiss deeper, each bite harder, until you’re marked from jaw to collarbone.

he’s starved. all day the world pressed down on him, drained him, and now it’s all turned inside out, the pressure bursting in this feverish rhythm he can’t slow. his hips drive frantic, his voice spilling out in raw groans and shuddering moans. you lose your own restraint, crying out for him, shaking under every push, your voice breaking in his ear until he’s nearly blind with the force of it.

“i can’t—can’t take it, not anymore…” you whine, chest heaving, every nerve lit up raw. the orgasm rips through you like a flashbang, white light eating up your vision, your whole body gone weightless, trembling, twitching, coming apart. his own release follows, ripped out of him with a curse, his hand pumping as thick ropes spill over your folds, messy and hot, smeared across your lips until he tells you exactly how much he’s marked you. your teeth sink into your lip, trembling, almost too hard, almost bleeding, and he still isn’t finished—slamming himself forward again, making your overstimulated body spasm under him, his voice rough and low: “good girl.”

there’s no room to breathe before he’s on you again, mouth crashing down, devouring you like he’s beyond himself. his breath is ragged, his kiss wild, and he swallows every sound you make, every whimper, every broken moan. you melt beneath him, spreading soft and pliant, and he pushes into your mouth like he needs to taste everything you are. he groans into the kiss, drowning in you, until he doesn’t even notice when his cock stiffens again, hard against your swollen heat. his body moves on instinct, desperate, reckless. by the time he realizes he’s hard again, he’s already grinding into you, lost to reason, only one thought beating in his brain: he needs to be inside you, right now, or he’s going to lose what little control he has left.

sliding into his arms feels less like a choice and more like an inevitability—like gravity’s been tugging at you all night until you finally give in, pressed chest-to-chest with him in the water, his heat bleeding into your skin in thick waves. jungkook doesn’t even give you time to think; he’s already on you, lips colliding with yours in that messy, starving kind of kiss that feels more like a demand than a request. his breath is ragged, his mouth insistent, like he’s trying to taste every last part of you he’s been denied. he mutters something against your lips—half curse, half prayer—and you realize he’s unraveling faster than you’ve ever seen, hands already locked on your hips like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

your gasp cracks between his groans as he pushes deeper into the kiss, tongue sliding over yours with a kind of clumsy desperation, like he doesn’t care about finesse, just about consuming you whole. his body crushes yours under the water’s weight, and the steam rising around you makes everything feel more fevered, more urgent. you don’t even register the shift, not fully, until you’re filled—completely, breathtakingly—his cock slipping back inside you like he’d been waiting, needing, aching to claim that space again. your moan breaks in your throat, sharp and high, and his answering groan makes the water tremble around you.

“princess,” he whispers into your mouth, like the word itself keeps him grounded, repeated again and again between frantic kisses until it sounds less like a pet name and more like a mantra. his hips roll, slow at first, just enough to test how easily you take him, and you arch into him, nails raking down his back as if to carve the moment into his skin. he laughs, low and ragged, but the sound dissolves into a curse when you squeeze down around him, pulling him in deeper. “fuck… i forgot how good this feels,” he admits, voice breaking, one hand slipping up to grip your breast, pinching at your hardened nipple until you whimper.

he moves harder now, faster, the slap of water and skin echoing in the small space, obscene and wet and too loud to ignore. you bury your face in his shoulder, moaning without restraint, clinging to him as if the sheer force of his thrusts might tear you away. jungkook holds you there, grounded under his weight, sweat dripping down his temples despite the steam. “please, deeper,” you beg, the plea cracking into a sob as your thighs tremble around him. he answers with a sharp snap of his hips that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, cock battering so deep your womb aches with the stretch.

he’s relentless, lost, voice dropping into that guttural growl that borders on unhinged. “gonna milk my princess,” he threatens, his smirk dangerous even as he pants, chest heaving. the words shoot straight through you, make your walls clutch even tighter, and his stuttering groan nearly makes you come undone on the spot. “gonna fuck you so full you won’t forget me for days,” he hisses, lips dragging down your throat, biting hard enough you know the marks will last.

you’re trembling, shaking, your head rolling back, but his hand clamps to your jaw, forcing your eyes open. “eyes on me,” he demands, and when you do—barely managing it—his stare is nothing short of feral, dark lashes shadowing the burn in his gaze. it’s too much, too good, the way he splits you open, the way your body just gives and bends for him. your moans climb higher, more broken, your nails carving crescents into his shoulders as you beg again, desperate. “i’m close, jungkook, i can’t—please, i need—”

“then give it to me. come on, princess. make me proud.” his tone is mocking and tender at the same time, a cruel sweetness that tips you straight over the edge. your orgasm crashes over you in dizzy waves, your body convulsing around him, and he laughs, dark and breathless, watching you shake and shudder against him. but his laugh cuts off into a strangled groan as he loses his own rhythm, his thrusts erratic now, shallow and brutal, chasing his high.

“tell me where,” he pants against your ear, thumb pressing circles on your clit so merciless you nearly sob. “inside,” you choke out, the word barely audible but enough to undo him. his groan tears from his chest as he slams in deep, and then you feel it—heat flooding you, filling you so completely you can only moan, too full, too wrecked to think. he keeps pumping, desperate, until he finally stills, cock twitching as more spills into you, his body shaking against yours.

you both sit there in the haze, chests heaving, water rippling around you, his forehead pressed to yours. there’s cum leaking out of you even before he pulls free, sticky and hot under the water, and he groans at the sight, eyes dark with a satisfaction that borders on dangerous.

the air is damp and heavy with steam, curling soft spirals along the glass walls, clinging to your skin until every inch of you feels flushed, almost feverish. jungkook is sprawled in the water like he owns it, head tilted back, black hair plastered to his temples, chest heaving with that lazy kind of breath that only comes after he’s wrung himself out to the bone. when you slide in with him, the water laps up your shoulders, and he shifts just enough to make space, that teasing little smirk tugging at his mouth even as his eyes burn tired and tender all at once.

he leans in, his lips dragging hot and languid over your neck, his words spilling against your skin in a low murmur, “that was gorgeous.” his breath tickles, then he’s kissing where he marked you, smug and unhurried. “perfect,” he adds, voice gruff around the edges, like the word itself means something heavier in his mouth. you try to chase his lips, but he’s already tilting your chin with those tattooed fingers, guiding you into a kiss that isn’t sweet so much as it’s consuming—his mouth devours yours, tongue sliding in like he’s starving all over again. the fatigue that once dulled his muscles is nowhere to be found; if anything, you feel his energy ignite, crackling between you like static.

his arms hook around you, pulling you in until your body melts into his, chest to chest, rib to rib, no space left but water rushing around. you swear you feel his heart pounding through you, like you’ve always been tethered this way—mind, flesh, soul—him refusing to imagine a world where you don’t exist. he squeezes tighter, like the thought alone makes him feral, and his lips are back on you, coaxing soft whines out of your throat as his palms knead at your breasts. he’s greedy, insistent, but not careless; he knows every shift of your body, every breath, always asking, always adjusting. he’s asked you before, sometimes sheepishly, sometimes blunt—what you like after, what makes you feel safe, what keeps you tethered to him. it matters to him, and you can feel it now in the way his touch refuses to let you think of anything but how cherished you are.

time blurs in the warmth, the intimacy easy and unbroken until he pulls back with a sly grin, brushing wet strands of hair off your cheek. “wait right here,” he says, voice husky but mischievous, and with a wink, he’s out of the tub, water streaming down his back, towel slung low on his hips. your gaze trails after him, and when he returns, he’s carrying a bottle and two glasses, the faint clink as they knock together making you giggle. “we’ll drink,” he announces, eyeing the label with mock seriousness before lifting it like a trophy. “bacardi. i know you’re more of a gin girl, but—” he gives the bottle a little shake, grin flashing before he lets the towel drop, sliding back into the bubbling water like he belongs nowhere else.

“you tryin’ to get me drunk?” you tease, adjusting your hair with one hand as you take the glass he offers. his body closes the space before you can think, heat rolling off him, his thigh brushing yours under the foam. “to seduce you, maybe. but this works too,” he shrugs with exaggerated nonchalance, filling your glass until the bubbles blur your vision and your head feels light, weightless. “you don’t have to try that hard,” you quip back, raising your glass, eyes catching the wicked glint in his. his smirk shifts—hungry, almost predatory—and it sends a tremor down your spine before the liquor even burns your throat.

“don’t play with me,” he warns, voice sharp but amused, and you know damn well he’s right—you’re poking fire with bare hands. but you like the blaze. you tilt your lashes up at him as you sip, watching the water slide in rivulets over his abs, muscles flexing as he leans back, arms stretched over the sides, cocky and commanding. droplets run down his collarbones, disappearing into the froth, and then he pats his thigh, voice dropping low, “or here, baby.” there’s no hesitation—you’re in his lap, tucked against his chest, listening to the quickened beat of his heart as though it’s syncing to yours.

he takes the glass from your hand with an easy slip of fingers, sets it aside, and replaces it with the warmth of his palms roaming your body. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he growls softly, hands flat against your stomach before sliding higher, worshipping every inch with that reverence you’ve only ever known from him. his cologne lingers faint, mixed with steam, familiar enough to unravel you on the spot. “how was your day, darling?” he hums, but the words come as his hand dips lower, skimming over your heat, fingers circling until you’re twitching, gasping.

“jungkook—this was supposed to be about you,” you manage, breath breaking, even as your body arches into him, even as his cock presses heavy against your back. “don’t wanna hear it,” he tuts, playful slap to your thigh, his teeth grazing your neck with a sharp little nip that pops when he licks over it. “but you're not relaxing.” you insist, your hips roll before you can stop them, and he just smirks, fingers sliding inside you with a practiced ease that makes the water shiver with every thrust. you clutch at his arm, your voice strangled with whines, and he only laughs, lips brushing your ear. “nonsense. makin’ you feel good—that relaxes me better than anything.”

the moment his words sink into your skin, you’re already gone, your body betraying you with every twitch, every clench around his fingers. the water rocks against the sides, waves lapping up, spilling over, but it’s his hand that feels like the real tide, relentless and steady, curling and pumping until your head’s tipping back and you can barely breathe. “fuck, jungkook—” your voice cracks, the sound high, needy, your nails dragging down his arm like you’re begging him not to stop.

he only hums in response, that low little rumble in his chest, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “so good for me,” he murmurs, and then he presses harder, his thumb flattening over your clit in messy circles that make you gasp out his name all broken. “you’re perfect when you come apart in my hands.”

you’re already trembling, thighs shaking in the foamy water, the world shrinking down to his touch, but before the edge crests, he pulls out. you choke on a whine, clutching his shoulder, your body still aching for it. “don’t tease me—” you pant, but he only smirks, shifting his hips beneath you, and then you feel him—hot, thick, heavy—sliding against your slick folds under the bubbling surface.

“shhh, baby. i know what you want.” his voice dips into a growl, his hand guiding your hips until you’re grinding against the blunt head of his cock, your clit dragging over the swell of him. “i’ve got you.”

you don’t even realize you’re pleading until it spills out, shameless and raw: “inside, please, i need you—jungkook, i need it.”

he groans, low and guttural, the sound echoing off the tiles. one broad hand cups your ass, the other steadies your waist, and with one smooth push, he sinks into you. the stretch is sudden, brutal in its fullness, and you both moan—his head falling back, your forehead pressing to his chest, your mouth open on a gasp that borders on a cry.

“fuck, baby, you’re still so tight,” he hisses, thrusting slow, deep, savoring the way you clutch around him like your body’s been waiting all day for this exact moment. his hands tighten, dragging you down onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside you, water sloshing over the edge with each heavy movement.

his voice comes low against your neck, lips hot on damp skin. “how was your day, darling?”

you almost laugh at the absurdity, breathless and trembling, but he slows just enough to make you answer. “jungkook—seriously—” you gasp when he grinds up into you, his thumb sneaking back down to circle your clit. he kisses your jaw, stubborn. “talk to me,” he insists, his teeth grazing your skin, “i wanna know.” you try to hold the thread of thought, words tumbling out broken between moans. “we were—hah—we were out with the girls… had dinner… at that place downtown, the one with the giant windows.”

“mm?” he hums, pushing deeper, his chest shuddering with a laugh at how wrecked you sound. “did you have fun?” you nod frantically, nails biting into his shoulders. “y-yeah… it was nice. but i thought about you the whole time,” you confess, cheeks burning hotter than the steam.

that pulls a groan straight from his throat, his rhythm faltering as he tips his forehead against yours. “fuck, baby—don’t say shit like that when i’m inside you.” his hips snap up sharper, water splashing over the edge, his smirk feral as he swallows your next moan with a kiss.

“faster, please—” your words tumble out breathless, desperate, and he only laughs softly, kissing your damp hair before gripping your hips in both hands.

“my good girl,” he praises, voice thick with pride as he starts to fuck you in earnest, sharp, deliberate strokes that make your whole body jolt against him. his chest gleams with water, muscles flexing under your palms, every thrust precise, practiced, like he’s spent years memorizing exactly how to ruin you. your wet hair clings to your back, your skin sticky with heat, the air heavy with steam and the sound of your moans echoing through the room.

you can feel yourself unraveling too quickly, the tension in your stomach coiling so tight you can barely think. “fuck, jungkook, i’m close,” you cry, your voice hoarse, throat raw from moaning.

“me too, baby, me too,” he groans into your neck, his thrusts turning rougher, more frantic. and then you’re both there—your orgasm crashing into you, your walls clenching around him, pulse after pulse of heat squeezing him until his rhythm stutters. he curses, jaw tight, before spilling inside you, hips pressed flush to yours, cock jerking deep as he fills you.

the water trembles around you, bubbles fizzing against your overheated skin, but neither of you move. his forehead rests against yours, his cock still seated inside, softening but refusing to leave, as though he can’t stand the thought of pulling away yet. his hands wander aimlessly, stroking your sides, your breasts, like he needs to memorize every inch all over again.

you finally manage a giggle, half-drunk on the bacardi and half-drunk on him, tapping his chest with your fingertips. “still think you needed to relax?”

he tilts his head, lips quirking into that boyish grin that undoes you every time. “guess not,” he admits, playful, leaning in to steal another kiss. you splash a handful of water at him, making him laugh until he wipes his face with his palm, his nose scrunching in that way that makes your chest ache.

and right there, with the heat of his body still wrapped around you and the fizz of liquor in your veins, jungkook feels like the happiest man alive. nothing outside this room matters—not work, not time, not anything—because you’re in his arms, and he’s in yours, and that’s all the future he’ll ever need.

[mindurbuzznezz]

Obsession - j.jk

The blinds were half open, city lights flickering in through the window, casting long, broken shadows over his body. His skin glowed under the light, damp with sweat, flushed from heat and alcohol, his hair sticking to his forehead.

His breath was ragged against your ear, his lips parted, swollen from where he had kissed, bitten, devoured you. His arm was locked around your waist, holding you tight against his chest, while his other hand gripped your thigh, keeping you spread open over his lap, completely at his mercy.

His cock was still buried inside you, dragging against your swollen, overstimulated walls with every slow, deep roll of his hips. The couch creaked beneath you both, the wet, filthy sound of him fucking into you over and over filling the room.

He still wasn’t done.

“Shit,” he groaned, his voice slurred from the whiskey, thick with exhaustion and lust. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his fingers digging into your waist, bruising, his body shaking but still desperate for more. “Still so fucking tight.”

Your whole body twitched, completely spent, your legs trembling violently from how many times he had already made you come. Your mind was hazy, floating between pleasure and exhaustion, your breath coming out in ragged gasps as he kept thrusting into you, deep and slow, dragging out every last bit of sensation.

You whimpered, trying to squirm away, but his grip only tightened.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He chuckled breathlessly, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “You wanted this, baby. Remember?”

Another sharp thrust and your back arched, a choked moan escaping your lips.

“You can take more,” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. “You always do.”

His pace was lazy, deep, dragging his cock against your most sensitive spots, sending another violent shudder through you. Your fingers gripped at his thighs, nails sinking into his sweat-damp skin, but he only groaned at the feeling.

“Ah, fuck-” you whimpered, barely able to breathe.

His hand slid between your legs, fingers pressing against your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that made your whole body jolt.

Your legs twitched, your thighs shaking as another orgasm threatening to crash into you, but he didn’t slow down.

Didn’t let up and didn’t care how sensitive you were.

“You’re still dripping,” he muttered, his fingers spreading you open, feeling the mess he had already made inside you. His cock twitched at the sight, another groan leaving his lips.

His hips snapped forward, rough and deep, making your body jolt in his arms. Your nails clawed at his thighs, your breath stuttering, but he only groaned, his grip on your waist unrelenting as he kept fucking into you, slow and devastating.

Your whole body clenched around him, pleasure so intense it was almost painful. You tried to twist away, but he grabbed your jaw, turning your head to the side, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You’re not running from me,” he whispered, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes locked onto yours. His fingers slid down, wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. “I’m not done with you.”

His grip on your waist tightened, and then he lifted you just slightly before slamming you back down onto his cock.

A loud cry tore from your lips as he started fucking up into you, his pace rougher, deeper, desperate now. His hands gripped your thighs, keeping you spread open for him, his body shaking from exhaustion but still moving, still thrusting, still ruining you.

The overstimulation was unbearable. Your legs convulsed, another orgasm building too fast, too intense.

“Shit, i’m gonna cum- ”

“Come,” he ordered, voice rough, breathless. “Come on my cock baby, come on.”

Your whole body snapped, pleasure tearing through you so violently that you saw white, your breath catching in your throat as your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave.

But well, he still didn’t stop.

Even as your body went completely limp against him, even as your thighs twitched uncontrollably, even as your breath came out in broken sobs, he kept fucking into you.

“Too much,” you whimpered, your voice wrecked, barely able to form the words.

He let out a low, breathless chuckle, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You say that every fucking time,” he muttered, his hips still rolling, slow and deep.

His hands slid up your trembling thighs, soothing, teasing, before slipping between your legs again. His fingers found your swollen, overstimulated clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles, dragging out every last bit of pleasure.

Your whole body twitched violently, another broken sob escaping your lips.

“One more,” he whispered, his voice thick with exhaustion and desire. “Just one more, baby.”

And then he fucked into you harder.

His grip on your waist was bruising now, his pace erratic, desperate, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls in slow, deep strokes. His breath was ragged against your skin, his groans growing louder, his whole body trembling against yours.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his grip tightening.

Another deep thrust. Another. Another.

His hips snapped forward one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go, his whole body tensing as he came, filling you up with a deep, guttural groan. His breath hitched, his fingers still pressing against your clit, dragging out the pleasure until your body went completely limp against him.

Then silence. Just the sound of ragged breathing, the hum of the city outside.

His body relaxed against yours, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against his chest, his cock still twitching inside you. His lips brushed against your shoulder, pressing slow, lazy kisses against your damp skin.

But just as you thought he was finally done, just as your body started to sink into exhaustion he shifted beneath you.

His hips rolled and he was still hard.

“Damn, are you still hard?” you groaned, pushing the strands of hair stuck to your forehead back.

He let out a slow, breathless laugh. “Yeah,” he muttered, his fingers tracing light circles over your clit. “You really thought I was done?”

His lips brushed against your ear.

“You can take more.”

And then he started all over again.

[mindurbuzznezz]

off the beam | jjk

— request: jeongguk + closer - rm

— pairing: jk x f. reader

— genre: fluff, angst

— word count: 7.9k

— warnings/tags: idol!jk, college student!oc, mild angst, best friends jk and oc, as usual jk doesnt think through his decisions to do things, oc is in HEAVY denial, probably inaccurate talk about how music shows work (its just a small part though), mentions of sasaeng fans behavior.

— summary: when jeongguk's newest vlog sparks a dating speculation between him and you, he thinks he's gotten too close and might risk exposing his feelings to you. one rash decision later, jeongguk loses his grip as he realizes that he will never be close enough to you.

— author's note: hello... after a year i'm here again, just in time for jeongguk's 28th birthday :] i know this is so late and i keep doing this but i hope you can still enjoy! also i just used the general idea of closer's lyrics.. i hope it does show, though.. alright i'll shut up now

a continuation of opposite of sun, light of the morning and if it's a dream (i'll come around). please read them in that order before reading this!

masterlist

As an artist, Jeongguk takes great care of his craft.

He’s always been involved in every process of creating his music, from writing his own melodies and lyrics, to actually producing a whole song on his own. In the past few years, his involvement has expanded to stage performances and jacket shoots for his albums. He’d think of a concept and discuss it with the company, then together they would decide what would go best with the feeling they’re going for a particular album. Sometimes he’d feel he’s working double jobs, being both the person in the scene and behind, but the results of his hard work is so worth it that he can’t wait to do it again for the next album.

However, there’s one aspect of his life as a singer that he lets his team handle however they see fit: the behind the scene vlogs of everything he does in the spotlight.

At the beginning of his career, the company would have mini meetings with him to review the finished vlogs together, being very careful of the image they represent him by in the vlogs. Very rarely did it go back to the editing team for a snip of the clip, so eventually, Jeongguk just put a stop to the review. He’s the same person on stage and off stage anyway, so there was really nothing to worry about regarding his image.

Although, now, well established into his career, when Jeongguk does questionable things and the editing team just decides to keep the clips in the vlogs, he might need to go back worrying about the image they’re portraying of him in the media.

(He needs to worry, because often, they are too honest.)

It’s been a few weeks since he’s gone back from the US, now doing promotion rounds in his homeland, South Korea. For music show recordings in Korea, Jeongguk has to get up at the ass crack of dawn to get everything done—hair and make up, rehearsals, and then the actual recording. He’d be exhausted, but his fans have to be on standby even earlier than he does, so he can only imagine how tired they feel. All just to get a glimpse of him performing on stage.

But that’s what you do for someone you love, isn’t it? Stay awake late to do two-hour karaoke sessions on lives and be on standby in the freezing early morning air with lightsticks in hand. Jeongguk’s relationship with his fans is reciprocal, and he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

There’s another thing you do with someone you love—you tease them.

“Jeongguk, your TSX stage was so cool!” someone from the audience shouts.

“Was it? Did you enjoy it?” Jeongguk speaks into his mic, a happy glint in his eyes as he sweeps the full audience seats with his stare.

A loud cheer of YES!!! erupts from the audience.

“Oh, that’s a relief,” Jeongguk exhales into the mic. “I was really nervous, but your cheers gave me energy. Thank you.”

“Vlog too! We enjoyed the vlog too!”

“Huh?” Jeongguk’s eyes become even rounder as he tries to lock eyes with one fan in order to understand what they’re saying better. He even takes out both of his in-ear monitors so he can hear better as well. “Log? Blog?”

“Vlog!! US Vlog!! At the cafe!!”

“Ah!” Jeongguk’s expression morphs into one of realization, “Vlog! US vlog, after the performance?”

Another chorus of yes! sounds from his fans.

“Who’s the girl that was with you?”

For a second, Jeongguk hesitates. After all, the first time he accidentally blurted about your existence resulted in less than favorable repercussions for him. He even came up with the nickname just to protect you from anything bad that could possibly happen to you after the incident. Also, it would be a wise choice to separate his public and personal life, right?

Still, Jeongguk is anything but dishonest, so he says the words into his mic like it wouldn’t cause him trouble in the near future: “She’s my best friend.”

The soft smile on his face with which he uttered the words has his fans cooing, some even screaming in teasing. “Are you both together yet?” one of them shouts, making the whole studio go quiet until Jeongguk can hear one of the PD-nim of the music show cough faintly somewhere in the background.

Years of being an entertainer has taught Jeongguk that he shouldn’t answer this question, even with an obvious joke. Not even a twitch of his face muscle. Nothing would be safe from being turned into a provocative headline written by a journalist desperate for clicks. No matter how good the PR and legal teams in his company are, the moment those headlines are live, the damage would’ve been done.

Thankfully, Jeongguk’s manager is also aware of this fact, because the second the time stretches longer than deemed normal to answer a question, break time is declared over and Jeongguk is urged off the stage for some touch up on his makeup.

“You should be careful of what you say in public, Jeongguk-ah,” Namjoon chastises him the moment they’re back in the dressing room. “You know the media is ruthless when it comes to these things.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Jeongguk defends, a hint of a chuckle on his face. “Bun’s my best friend, isn’t she? Is that something I should not say publicly?”

“Not when this is the environment of your reality,” Namjoon sighs. “Sorry Kiddo, I personally don’t have a problem with it, but you and I both know—”

“I know, hyung.” Jeongguk glances at his manager through the mirror, the makeup puff on his cheek preventing him from turning his head completely. “Thanks for looking out for me. I promise I’ll be more careful next time.”

Namjoon throws him a small reassuring smile before going back to his phone, probably informing the PR team about Jeongguk’s shenanigans today and to watch out for weird headlines from the media. The mood in the dressing room turns a bit somber after their interaction, weighing heavy on Jeongguk’s heart so he tries to lift the spirits up.

“So, anyone wants to tell me what the editing team put in the vlog that my fans noticed my best friend so much from the video?”

Jeongguk gets his answer hours later, after the music show recording is over, after he said his goodbyes and thank you's to his fans, after he got back to the company to continue with his schedule for the day. There, displayed in 4K on his gigantic monitor in his personal studio, is twenty-something minutes of his adventure in New York with you, with the least amount of editing Jeongguk has ever seen on his vlog. It’s like the editor watched the full recording in one sitting and went yep, let’s just put captions on that and call it a day.

The more Jeongguk watches, the more he understands why his fans noticed you so much from his vlog. From the moment he walked around aimlessly in New York streets until he sat down in the dessert cafe with your brick ass laptop in his hand, you were always there. Your voice in the background when you were holding the camera. Your hand in frame when you shoved Jeongguk because he teased you. Your faded black cap sitting on the table in the dessert cafe when you took it off. (Bonus: your hands typing maniacally on your laptop to finish your midterm in time.)

But there’s one specific scene that makes Jeongguk feel like the editor is out to get him: the one when he fed you a huge piece of pastry with heaps of cream on it which got stuck on your lip and he used his thumb to wipe it off. And then sucked said thumb into his mouth like it was second nature to do so. Jeongguk didn’t think this scene would’ve made the cut into the actual vlog published on his official channel, but eh, it’s probably his fault for giving free creative reign to his video editing team when it comes to his vlogs.

Now watching from an outsider perspective, Jeongguk just realizes that this scene is a window to his true feelings about you, clear as day through his big bambi eyes. It really doesn’t help his case that the editor did not cut the scene after the whole cream fiasco either, when he was teasing to turn off the camera just to wipe cream off your lips again. Jeongguk wants to scream into a void, yet all he can do is sigh and slump back into his chair.

The vlog ends with him waving to the camera when you had finished your midterm paper and had submitted it to your professor and he had deemed the New York adventure done for the day. He was right to end the vlog there, as any documentation of your activities after that would be too domestic and personal to be shared with the world. (You and him went back to his hotel room, where the both of you ended up slumped on his bed in a sweets-induced coma. “I’m never eating pastry ever again,” you’d said, just to gobble down a croissant when Jeongguk ordered some from room service in random late-night hunger.)

Jeongguk’s finger hovers over his mouse, the cursor on the monitor hovering over the comment section button. He doesn’t usually check the comment section of his vlogs, preferring to go straight to Twitter to see the unhinged genuine reactions his fans might have on the new video. This time, though, something in his mind tells him to go easy, go through the typical “We love you Jeongguk♥️” comments before diving head-first into an analysis thread about who you are and what your relationship with him is.

Jeongguk is so cute

He’s so playful with the camera noona today lol

Reply: I think it’s not his staff, he mentioned his friend or something

I know this cafe! Their fruit pastries are the best

Jeongguk ordering the entire cafe for her uhhuh we love to see it

The way they bicker like a couple is so funny

Reply: Are they not a couple?

OP: No, they’re not

Everyone talking about the bickering but I just want to point out they did tug of war with her laptop. And the editor thinks this scene is necessary to be put into Jeongguk’s vlog. I’m rolling on the floor

Jeongguk snorts. The laptop tug-of-war scene is admittedly a breath of fresh air in the vlog, because it’s the only time he doesn’t have heart eyes while looking at you behind the camera. The glint in his eyes are purely out of joy and playfulness, trying to wrestle the heavy device out of your hold while simultaneously trying not to laugh because of how ridiculous the whole situation is. It feels like a normal interaction between a guy and his best friend instead of a guy and his best friend whom he’s in love with.

He continues scrolling through the comments, skimming over similar ones and chuckling at a few funny ones, but one particular comment makes his heart skip a beat.

Came to watch the whole video because the cream-wiping clip keeps appearing on my timeline. Jeongguk fans, is this his girlfriend? He looks at her like she hangs the stars in the sky. I’m not in the fandom, that’s why I’m asking.

Reply: She’s his best friend, he said so in the music show recording this morning

OP: Ah, well, it looks like he might be in love with his best friend, then

Reply: Half of the fandom thinks so too actually hahaha

What the fuck. Is he that obvious?

A simple Twitter search later tells him that yes, he is that obvious and more. If the comment section on YouTube only scratches the surface, his Twitter timeline is a whole different story. He’s scrolled past at least five tweets that say with confidence that you and him are dating secretly and this video is a soft-launch of your relationship. Another tweet agrees, saying that there is no way you guys are just friends after everything you’ve done in the vlog (they tweet like he kissed you in the vlog—though Jeongguk is not entirely opposed to the idea.)

At one point, Jeongguk’s fingers stop scrolling when he stumbles upon one tweet that the commenter on YouTube might have meant: a slowed-down video of the cream-wiping incident, with his entirely-too-innocent face zoomed in at the end. The video loops over and over again on his computer screen, reminding him that this moment is forever engraved on the internet with no chance of ever erasing it no matter how much Jeongguk wants to.

Against his better judgement, Jeongguk clicks on the tweet to see the replies on it.

The first reply directly under the video says something that paints a bitter smile on Jeongguk’s lips: “bet he wouldve kissed her right there had she not stopped him” — because if he didn’t care about where you were, didn’t care about his status as a famous singer, didn’t think about the repercussions of his actions, he would have. Or maybe not, because his lack of courage keeps stopping him from doing anything that has to do with revealing his feelings for you.

Diving deep into the replies under the kissing tweet drowns Jeongguk in a pool of self-pity, lamenting over the fact that even his fans are this confident about his love life and how they cannot be further from the truth. He’s so deep in the pool of darkness that he fails to see how this whole situation involved another person besides him: you.

The reminder comes in the form of a tweet—a thread, actually. About the first moment Jeongguk accidentally let it slip that he had a girl best friend in one of his livestreams, up to the most recent mention of said best friend in the music show recording this morning. The account even included the three-month period when he did not do any livestreams and speculated that it was his own decision because he wanted to drive away the media attention from his private life. But what struck him the most isn’t that—it’s when somewhere in the thread, the account mentioned his nickname for you. The nickname that’s not supposed to be known to the public, yet it is out there, on an anonymous account’s thread, garnering hundreds of likes as the minutes go by.

It doesn’t matter that the thread-poster used the word ‘apparently’ and ‘unconfirmed’ — all Jeongguk feels is panic as he frantically tries to read the whole thread, checking to see if this thread contains anymore information about you that shouldn’t even be here to begin with. Because if they could find out the private nickname, who’s to say they couldn’t find your real name, or worse, where you study, where you work, and where you live?

After confirming that the thread doesn’t contain anymore such things, Jeongguk reaches for his phone to send you a text. Well—more than one, actually, each one increasing in urgency than the last. When your only response is radio silence, he decides to call you—but even that goes straight to voicemail.

Jeongguk’s mind flashes to a few weeks ago when he was in New York and you did the exact same thing—’ghosted’ him, he’d said—but that was because you had a midterm to do and was flying across the world to get to where he was. Now, your midterms are over (you told him so a few days after you both landed back in Seoul from New York) and it’s not like you know anyone overseas that you had to visit urgently to warrant this kind of silence.

…or maybe you’re at work! Yeah, that must be where you are, considering it’s still—no… you couldn’t be, Jeongguk belatedly realizes. The bakery you work at closes at 9PM, and the clock on his computer screen glares a large 09:54PM, as if mocking him. Apparently his spiraling over the vlog, the comments, and the thread made by his fans took too much time than he thought, hours of his free time spent on the internet instead of on a new song Jeongguk should be working on like he told Namjoon he would when the music show recording ended.

Jeongguk pulls up the agenda Namjoon sent him this morning. There, in orange highlight, says MUSIC CORE RECORDING — 5AM. It’s literally seven hours away. He should be awake at least one hour prior, so that gives him six hours of sleep if he actually goes to bed now. Six hours is enough. It’s plenty, for an idol like him.

Six hours. Jeongguk has six hours.

In the creating music aspect of his career, Jeongguk has always had a say in everything he does. Which song goes into which album. Which song to be promoted as a single. Which demo suits his breathy voice more and which demo needs his powerful chest voice more. Even down to the addition of adlibs, Jeongguk’s opinion has always mattered, even if it’s not the final decision.

However, when it comes to anything else but creating music, Namjoon (or anyone else on his team) has never consulted him for advice because, and Jeongguk quotes: “No offense, Jeongguk, but your personal decison-making skills is shit.” which, wow, Jeongguk takes full offense, but he supposes the older man isn’t entirely wrong when he said that.

With six hours on the clock, instead of going home to sleep and sweep his worries aside until he can revisit them later after his work obligations are completed, he stands in front of your apartment door, proving Namjoon’s words just right.

Jeongguk’s decision-making skills are questionable at best, because he does things before he thinks them through. Blurt out an offer to you to go to New York. Take you strolling around New York instead of the camera noona like he was supposed to. Wipe pastry cream off your lips then lick it off his thumb. Go to your apartment an hour before midnight to ask if your silence has anything to do with the comments on the New York vlog.

Suddenly, the weight of the situation dawns on him. What is he doing? This is not 2012 anymore, when he was still a trainee and used to sneak into your home whenever he got tired of repeating the same songs and choreography prior to his debut. He’s not 15 anymore, with ddeokbokki and kimbab still warm in his hold, knocking on your door with a grin on his face, guilty of the roundness of your cheeks in the morning caused by the midnight snack.

It’s 2023, he’s 26, and he only has the weight of the world in his hold to share with you.

Still, true to his act-then-think nature, Jeongguk raises his hand to press the doorbell to your apartment. He could’ve just let himself in, your door passcode buried somewhere in his notes app, but with nothing but burden in his hands, he thinks bursting through your door unceremoniously would feel like breaching into your home.

When the door opens, your confused face is the first thing he sees. “Jeongguk?” you say, so much question in your tone. “What are you doing here?”

”Uh,” Jeongguk supplies dumbly. He clears his throat, tries to hold eye contact with you, but his nervousness betrays him. “Can I come in?”

Despite the confusion still plastered all over your face, you open the door wider to let him slip inside. No words are exchanged as Jeongguk shucks his shoes and coat off, placing them in their proper places before following you deeper into the apartment. His steps halt in the middle of your living space, standing in a place he’s surely been in in the past, yet it all feels so foreign.

Your bed is on a different position than the last time he was here, and your desk is on the far end of the room instead of being close to the front door. There are more cardboard boxes stacked at the foot of your bed than he remembers, more polaroid photos stuck on the cork board above your desk, more scribbles on the desk calendar that sits next to your opened laptop. The shelf next to your desk now houses a line of all his albums, each one signed with a short message personalized just for you. When he was last here, there were only three mini albums lined up on this very shelf.

Next to the albums, sits something that has always been there ever since Jeongguk could remember, unchanging amongst all the changes your apartment went through: his first music show win trophy, earned after two long years of his debut. After doing its rounds in the company, photographed by almost all of his staff to be posted on the internet, and shown off to his parents via a teary video call, the trophy was entrusted into your care, as a symbol of Jeongguk’s appreciation for your support ever since he was still training to be an idol.

Despite being coated in a thin layer of dust, the small trophy being placed in the same position since its move to your apartment blooms something warm in Jeongguk’s chest. The warmth nearly reaches his cheeks had you not called him back to present time, pulling his soul away from his 17-year-old self and back into his 26-year-old body standing awkwardly in the middle of your apartment.

”Care to explain why you’re here in the middle of the night, in the middle of the week?” you inquire after making sure that Jeongguk’s head is here instead of floating around in the clouds. “Also, please sit down, you look like the delivery guy waiting for tips if you keep hovering over the door like that.”

Jeongguk snickers, your description strangely apt for his posture even though he’d never waited for tips when he worked as a delivery guy for a short time before his debut (he was too scared of even expecting it—and back then, people were actually immune to his big bambi eyes, unlike now.)

”You didn’t reply to my texts, and my call went straight to voicemail,” Jeongguk supplies for your question, slowly sitting down on your bed, behind your figure on your desk chair. “Got me worried.”

”Oh,” you quip, hand reaching for your phone and looking at it like it’s a foreign object you’ve just discovered. “Sorry, had it on DND since my shift, and I had a presentation due tomorrow for a class, so…” you trail off, shrugging. “Plus the group chat is being so loud today, it’s kinda annoying.”

”You didn’t whitelist my number from your DND?” Jeongguk tries hard not to pout, he really does.

”Did you call twice?” You point your phone at him like a weapon, the beginning of a smirk blooming on the corner of your lips. “If you did, the second call would’ve gone through.”

When he speaks, it’s clear that his words are formed around the pout of his lips. “Come on … I was too worried.”

You shake your head, finally turning your body fully towards him, abandoning the blinking cursor on your Google Slides. The arms you cross in front of your chest don’t look the least bit intimidating because they’re covered in the softest sweater paws Jeongguk has ever seen on you—which, upon closer look, might be because you’re wearing his hoodie, an old one he accidentally left here but never got back to reclaim. It’s okay, it looks good on you. Makes you look like you’re his.

”Jeongguk, I’ve known you forever. You don’t come barging into my apartment when you’re just worried. Just tell me what happened,” you sigh. “Did you miss a step in the choreography today? Missed a note? Accidentally yelled at a staff member? Messed up on live?—wait, you didn’t go live today—Started a rumor that gave Namjoon a headache?”

At the last sentence, Jeongguk physically recoils. All the comments and tweets in response to the New York vlog floats in his mind like a broken highlight reel of all the mistakes he’s made in his life.

There’s something that flashes in your eyes that Jeongguk can’t decipher, but it’s gone before he gets the chance to really mull over it. Then your gaze towards him turns softer, reminiscent of the best friend who would comfort him whenever he came bearing worries over the missed step in the choreography and how Jeongguk was afraid of disappointing the people who had believed in him. It completely shatters the ready-to-launch defense on the tip of his tongue, prepared for your sharp and jabbing words instead of your calm and soothing ones.

“Did you accidentally post the same series of emojis again with some female idol from another company?” you chuckle, a hint of disbelief in your tone. “You know, I never get why they make such a big deal out of dating in the entertainment industry. You’re still gonna make music and it’s not like it’s gonna suck once you start dating. Unless your girlfriend is a walking red flag…” Scratching your cheek, your gaze trails off somewhere else, unaware of the internal debate Jeongguk is having with himself.

The reminder of the emoji thing makes him huff out a breath in a humorless chuckle. All he did was post a few pictures on Instagram with a series of emojis and the next thing he knew Namjoon was blowing up his phone asking him if he was dating someone. A thousand denials and a few frantic phone calls to the idol’s agency later, the rumor was successfully kept from being spread and the media quickly turned to prey on some other poor soul.

Jeongguk was lucky then. He’s not sure this time will be the same.

“Have you watched the New York vlog?” he asks at last, prompting your eyes to jump back onto him from staring at the far end of your apartment. The questioning hum you respond him with clearly says you didn’t hear what he said.

“The vlog, in New York. Have you watched it?”

“Oh, New York,” you parrot, seemingly still trying to figure out why this vlog is significant in any way. Then, “ooh, is it the one when I visited you? After the TSX stage?”

Jeongguk nods, toying with his lip piercing while debating whether to just tell you the contents of the vlog and the potential dating rumor it would spark or let you watch the whole thing and decide on your own.

Apparently his brain can’t decide fast enough to catch up with your fingers, which are already typing his official channel name onto the YouTube search bar. “I’ve been slammed with work and classes these days, so I didn’t even know it was out,” you mumble, clicking on the New York vlog that’s still listed at the top of his channel video uploads.

As the video loads, Jeongguk’s mind goes back in time again. Is this how you felt back then, whenever he was too busy with practice that he missed almost all of your achievements at school? Not exactly disappointed, because he knows you both have lives to live outside of each other, but there’s a gnawing feeling in his heart that’s too heavy to think about. You demanded nothing from him all those years ago. The least he can do is give you the same courtesy.

“Huh, did I not hold the camera high enough or am I just short?” you chuckle when the vlog plays, showing his grinning face with the New York streets as the background. Now Jeongguk gets to relive the feelings he felt while watching the vlog, except this time, with stray commentaries from you.

“Wonder why the editor kept the clip where you’re talking to me.”

“Ouu, this shot, bet your fans make gifs of this in different filters and stickers.”

“This laptop fight…heh.”

“Oh I remember the cafe staff was your fan, right?”

“Did you really have to order the entire menu, Jeongguk?”

Jeongguk supplied a chuckle here and there, just to tell you he’s listening, but all the while he was holding his breath while waiting for that part to come on and see your reaction. True to his prediction, all your comments ceased the moment the Jeongguk in the video started feeding video-you desserts from the array of them on the table. Jeongguk feels his pulse spiking seconds leading to the part, sneaking a glance at your face to see your expression. All he can see is your side profile, though, which tells nothing, so he inches his body forward, forward, forward, until he’s able to make out the lines of your lips, but—

THUD.

He face-plants into the floor of your apartment.

You jump in your seat, frozen in place for a few seconds as you’re seemingly processing the fact that your best friend is now lying on the floor, holding his nose while groaning.

“Are you okay?” you finally say, getting down from your desk chair to crouch beside Jeongguk. examining his body with a laugh halfway out your lips. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“Shut up,” Jeongguk hisses. It’s enough to have his nose—potentially—bruised, he doesn’t need his ego to follow suit. Shit, he has that music show recording tomorrow … Namjoon’s gonna have a field day watching the makeup team scold him while trying to cover up the bruise.

Although, now, he has more pressing issues to worry about. How does he explain to you why he fell on the floor without exactly telling you why he fell on the floor? “Haha yeah that cream-wiping clip from the vlog might have started a dating rumor and I just want to see your reaction to the clip”?? No??

“Will you stop being a baby and get up?” You swat at his arm with a chuckle tumbling out your lips, then carefully try to peel his fingers away from his face. The gentle way your fingers are grasping his is actually giving Jeongguk a whiplash, has him fighting off the urge to twist his wrist around and have his fingers grasping yours instead.

“Not a baby,” he grumbles, his eyes still closed, “just trying to estimate how upset the makeup team will be tomorrow when I show up with a bruised nose to the music show taping.” Huh, better than telling you how bad I wanna hold your hand, Jeongguk huffs in his head. He finally opens his eyes and extends his arms to you. “Okay, now help me up.”

“‘Not a baby’ my ass,” you mock as your reach for his hands so you can pull him into a sitting position. Still, your hands are gentle as ever when you brush the tips of your fingers on his nose, now tinged red from its contact with the floor. “It’s not scratched or anything so you should be fine for the taping tomorrow. What time is it?”

“Uh, I have to be on standby at five.”

“In the evening? That’s plenty—”

“In the morning,” Jeongguk corrects, looking at you with a duh expression on his face. “Music shows recordings are always in the morning, Bun.”

There it is again. The gnawing feeling in his heart; ugly, uncomfortable, suffocating. In the corner of his right mind, Jeongguk knows that this kind of things are not public knowledge, so you not knowing it should not be a big deal. But the other side of his mind taunts him with the thought of you not knowing means you don’t care about him anymore, which is ridiculous, because just a second ago you were carressing his nose in search of any injury. Maybe if he ignores the feeling hard enough, he can will it to disappear completely.

“What are you still doing here then?” Okay, ouch? “It’s almost midnight!” So?

Years of friendship has allowed you to learn about his expressions a lot, down to the scrunch of his eyebrows or a slight twitch of his lips, so they are an open book as you once again swat at his arm, harder this time after it’s confirmed that he doesn’t have any injury from his fall. “Jeongguk, you need to go home and rest. It’ll be five AM before you know it.”

“Are you kicking me out?” He raises his eyebrows, challenging.

“Well, yeah?”

Jeongguk heaves a sigh. “You’re kicking me out,” he repeats, “I’m worried about you and you’re kicking me out.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you grumble. “I was just doing my assignment. It’s your fault you went here instead of calling me twice like a sane person.”

“Did you consider the possibility of me worrying about something else other than your lack of response?” Jeongguk crosses his arms, looking you straight in the eyes. “Like, what you think about the New York vlog?”

Your expression morphs into one of confusion, and Jeongguk wonders if you look like this when you can’t wrap your head around the lesson in your college classes. “You came here because you want to know what I think about the New York vlog?” you repeat his words in one sentence, and when you put it like that, it does sound ridiculous. “What, were you seeking another validation for it? For what, walking around New York in the heat and eating ten plates of desserts on your own?”

Jeongguk calls you by your real name this time. He doesn’t mean it to come out so harsh, but the way you jump a little at his tone tells him that it was too much. “You realize that I can worry about you too, right, instead of always thinking about myself?” His tone is softer now. “Yes, I was worried when you didn’t answer my call, but I came here to make sure you’re not feeling uncomfortable over how much you appear in the vlog. If you were, I could talk to my team and we could adjust the video and reupload it.”

“Oh.” You blink, your surprise melting into something more unreadable, but Jeongguk can see the way the tension in your shoulders ebb away after. “Why would I be uncomfortable? The vlog didn’t even show my face at all?”

“Bun,” Jeongguk says, now back to his usual nickname for you, “I’m gonna hold your hand when I say this.” He takes your hands in his, sweater paws and all, and tries not to brush his thumb over your skin. “I’m an idol with fans all over the world who stops at nothing just to get a glimpse of my private life. They could find out where I was just from the background of a picture, find out who I was with from a reflection on a silverware. Heck, they found out I was getting a tattoo sleeve all those years ago from a reflection on a goddamn microwave.” He huffs out a chuckle from his chest. “It’s honestly impressive, but when it’s done at your expense, gets a little scary sometimes.”

“Right…” you trail off, even when Jeongguk knows it hasn’t fully settled in your mind how much of a problem this could be. “But, like, they only do that when it’s you, right? Why would they care to do that to me? I’m a nobody.”

Jeongguk have always believed in his mind that you are way smarter than he is, that’s why between the two of you, you’re the college student and he’s the idol. But in this particular moment, he feels like your intelligence is hiding somewhere in your brain, because no matter how many times he tries to explain without exactly saying the words, you just don’t get it.

“Well, they know you’re my best friend,” he points out, “don’t you think they might get curious? Even by now, they already found out my nickname for you, who’s to say they won’t dig for more?”

“Jeongguk,” you say with emphasis, “you say my nickname a bunch in the vlog. ‘Let me take your laptop, Bun. What do you want to order, Bun? Sure, Bun. Okay, Bun!’, it’s not their fault that they come to know the nickname.”

Yeah. Okay. It still stands true that you’re the smart one between the two of you. Jeongguk is just that much of an idiot.

“Besides, I don’t see any problem with your fans knowing my nickname. Isn’t that why you created it in the first place? So people don’t actually know what my name is? Why are you the one panicking now?” you continue pointing out. “I appreciate you worrying, but you should be worrying about yourself and the damn music show taping you have at five AM.”

“Stop talking about the taping, you’re not Namjoon.” Jeongguk frowns. “So you’re not concerned about my fans knowing your nickname?”

You shrug your shoulders. “Not really, it’s served its purpose of keeping my name private.”

“Not even when that could lead to them knowing about our relationship?” His head is so full of concern that Jeongguk fails to catch his slip-up. 

“What relationship?” OUCH. “That I’m your best friend? Don’t they know that already?”

Jeongguk’s frown deepens. Somehow, the ease you say the sentence with irks him, like this issue is only a big deal for him, when it’s your private life that’s at risk. Can’t you see how dangerous it could be if his fans found out more things about you? What if his sasaeng fans found out about the bakery you work at or the campus you study at and follow you back home like they do to him? What if they did something to you and he couldn’t protect you because he’s 13 timezones away like he often is?

“You don’t get it, Bun,” Jeongguk sighs, “if they think you and I are more than best friends—like you’re dating me, and I’m dating you—they could turn vicious. They’ll dig up for more things about you, find out things from your past. They’ll know you went to the same middle school as me, then they’d start identifying you from our school photos, start searching for any trace of you in my contents. Pictures, vlogs, songs, behind videos, old, new, everything. Then they’ll start following you home and lurk around your apartment on the daily. What if they start approaching you and harassing you? I can’t always be here to protect you, you realize that, right?”

Jeongguk loves his job as an idol. Truly, he does. But those things sometimes weigh on his mind, wear him down. Personally, he has made peace with it, and just sees it as occupational risk. Besides, he has bodyguards nearly 24/7 anywhere he goes, which lessens the chance for him to get hurt. He could also protect himself on his own.

But you?

You’re just a college student who happens to be tied with him in a close friendship. You don’t deserve any of those things if they were to happen to you.

“Yeah, but…” you trail off, teeth chewing on your bottom lip in hesitation, “we’re not … dating, Jeongguk. We’re just best friends, so the things you said most likely won’t happen.” Even when you say that, Jeongguk can see that there’s a cloud of doubt in your eyes, a sliver of fear appearing for a second too quick that he doesn’t have the chance to call you out on it.

“Wait.” You pause, gripping his arm suddenly, your eyes turning into slits. “Is this what you had in mind when I said you came here because you started a rumor that gave Namjoon a headache?” Disbelief is dripping from your tone. And to make matters worse, that disbelief is clearly apparent when you say: “A dating rumor with me?”

“Why do you look so repulsed at the idea of dating me? Am I not boyfriend material enough for you?” Jeongguk crosses his arm again, eyes drifting to a corner of your room, away from your face which is still painted thick with incredulity. The pout on his lips doesn’t seem to be going away. Okay, he’s sulking over a rejection from you even when his confession is still in the hypothesis phase, but your reaction over a possible dating rumor with him hurts!

“I’m not repulsed, just confused,” you laugh, hoodie-covered fingers pawing at Jeongguk’s tattooed arm to get him to untangle the limb. “You came all the way here for a hypothetical dating rumor which could arise from, what, a few seconds of my voice in your vlog? How does that equate to dating? Do people not have friends anymore?”

Friends don’t look at you and think how badly they want to kiss you, Jeongguk laments in his mind.

“Besides, it’s just that, Jeongguk. Hypothetical. There’s no actual dating rumor spreading, right?” you continue, the remnants of a laugh still spilling from your lips, and Jeongguk thinks what blessing it is to be unaware of all the comments and tweets from his fans about the closeness you and him showed in the vlog.

“But if, if—” Jeongguk glares when you roll your eyes, “—there was one, how would you feel about it?”

This is pointless, and they’re talking in circles. He is talking in circles, he knows. But at this point just saying anything seems like the better option than accepting defeat and actually having to go, leaving you and going back to his lonely apartment. Why would he want to do that when he can stay here with you?

“Confused, like I am now?” There’s a hint of exasperation in your tone, your smile dimming to something a little more tentative. “It wouldn’t make sense for a famous idol like you to date an ordinary person like me. I’d just think the whole rumor is a misunderstanding and probably would yap your ear off about not telling me that you’re dating someone.”

Jeongguk hates that you keep reminding him of the gap between you both. So just because he’s an idol and you’re not, he can’t date you? Why are you so stubborn over this?

“If the rumor was really with you,” Jeongguk persists, not taking any alternatives outside the one he wants, “would you stay being my best friend?”

“Of course,” you say in lightning speed, the furrow of your brows telling him you’re getting offended at his question. “Namjoon would probably tell you to stop contacting me for a while until the rumor goes down, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop being your best friend. I’ve stayed for more than ten years, Jeongguk, do you think I’ll leave just because of a dating rumor? Which is still hypothetical, by the way.”

Hypothetical, but it’s on its way to becoming true, he thinks. If the media got wind of the theories his fans are cooking up about him and you, a rumor would surface for sure. The headlines would sound like a shitty clickbait title and Jeongguk would owe an endless supply of aspirin to Namjoon and his PR team to cure their headaches caused by this. There would probably be a livestreaming ban again for him, maybe with the added restriction of no posting on social media for weeks or months.

But as you said, you’ve stayed, right? You stayed when he went on to become a trainee. You stayed through days, sometimes weeks of no contact due to his training. You stayed even when all he had to offer was late-night complaints with snacks on the side. You’ve stayed through all of his ups and downs that it’s hard to remember a time when you weren’t in his life.

Maybe you won’t stay in his life as someone he really wants you to be, but at least, you’ll still be here.

You’re still talking about the impossibility of a dating rumor arising between you and him, going on a tangent of how the New York vlog is not enough to be presented as evidence, but all Jeongguk could think about is how cuddly you look sitting in his hoodie, lips forming a pout like they do whenever you’re passionately talking about something. In another universe, maybe he could lean in and taste the smile hidden behind that pout. In another universe, maybe he would.

“—now could you get up and go home already? You need to rest and I need to finish—”

 In the movies, midnights are often used as a sign of something important. An end of something fun. A start of something new. In real life, it’s just a time people put blame on for the stupid things they do in the late of the night.

Because right now, in this universe, and definitely in real life, Jeongguk could actually taste the lips he only ever dreamed to kiss. They taste sweet—maybe from the hint of blueberry jam of the muffin he knows you love, or the milk bun you like, could even be the chocolate bread you often bring home from the bakery. Or maybe it’s all in his head, because nothing is sweeter than finally kissing the best friend he’s been pining for for years.

Jeongguk’s hand comes up to softly cup your cheek, thumb brushing over the skin of your cheekbone, and he’s about to deepen the kiss as your hands come up to his chest. But instead of holding him in place, those hands are pushing him away. Not harsh, not abrupt, but enough for him to pull away from your lips, the round of his eyes meeting the shocked ones of yours.

Suddenly, it dawns on him that he might have missed a step in all of this, like, actually telling you how he feels.

The words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to roll out in lengthy paragraphs of endless love confession, of how long he has felt this way, of how much he would devote himself to you. His heart is thundering in his ears, and Jeongguk thinks it would leap out of his chest and present itself to you if he stays silent any longer.

“I—”

“I think you should go.”

Your tone is clipped.

“Bun, no, I—”

“Go home and rest, Jeongguk. You have a music show recording in four and a half hours and I still have a presentation to finish.”

You leave no room for argument as you get up from the floor and sit back down on your desk chair, head in your hands. It’s not a strange gesture for you to do, but Jeongguk hates it because this time, he knows he’s the cause of it. Suddenly, the few inches distance between you two feels like miles away, miles that Jeongguk can’t cover no matter how much he trains on his treadmill.

As he closes the door to your apartment behind him, it feels like closing a chapter of his life, the chapter where he doesn’t fuck up the relationship he has with his best friend. He doesn’t even know if he will still have you as his best friend after this. Doesn’t even know if you’ll still talk to him. Doesn’t even know if you’ll stay in his life.

Staring at your apartment door is useless, as any attempt to come back in would be a breach of your trust even more than what he already did. So Jeongguk redirects his sight to his watch, which tells him it’s almost one AM.

Fuck. He only has a little over four hours to forget about the ghost of your lips on his.

(Fuck. He’s never getting it out of his head.)

a/n: you ask, i deliver.. (the kiss, i mean...) hahaha thank you for reading! i dont know if they will get together in the end maybe it depends on the response for this one hahaha

[mindurbuzznezz]

MUSE | JJK

ONESHOT

Who would’ve thought that his girlfriend’s younger sister would become his favorite muse?

pairing: painter!jungkook x reader

warnings: infidelity/cheating, yandere/obsessed jungkook, death, murder (slightly gore), unprotected sex

word count: 5.9k+

‘Shit,’ you cursed quietly when you saw that the light in your house was still on. You definitely fucked up; once again, you were going to get caught coming home late. You were confused as to why your family was still awake. Usually, they were asleep at these hours.

You twisted the doorknob and let yourself in, closing the door carefully so as not to attract their attention. You immediately turned toward the kitchen when you heard laughter. You recognized your family’s voices, but one particular voice was new. It sounded rich and deep.

You walked slowly and tried to take a peek at the scene. There, your parents and your sister were having dinner with an unfamiliar man. Your jaw dropped when you saw his face; no words could describe it. He was too perfect. You watched as he grabbed the wine and poured it into your sister's glass.

You stayed there for a while, your feet refusing to move toward your room. You observed them, seeing how happy and peaceful they looked. You imagined yourself in that exact scene, sitting beside your parents and laughing genuinely while having dinner. Your thoughts were interrupted when your eyes met the unknown man’s.

Your sister noticed him pause, then followed his gaze and found you standing near the wall, clearly hiding. She called out to you, making your parents turn to look over their shoulders.

“Y/N, have dinner with us!” your sister said excitedly. You smiled at her, but your expression immediately dropped when you noticed your parents giving you that familiar disapproving look—the one they always gave you.

“No thanks, I’m full,” you politely refused, immediately trying to leave the awkward scene. But before you could take a step toward the stairs, you heard the unknown man ask your parents,

“Is she the youngest? Shouldn't she be at this dinner too?”

You could not see your parents’ expressions, but you already knew what they looked like because of his question. You heard your mother answer awkwardly,

“Yeah, but she said she’s full. Besides, she’s busy. She has her own little world.”

You hurried upstairs and closed the door to your room. Throwing yourself on the bed, you sank your face into your comfort pillow, feeling it grow damp from your tears. ‘Gosh!’ You didn’t understand yourself. This happened most of the time, so why were you still crying over something like this?

‘Don’t cry, you’re supposed to be used to this.’ You recalled the way your parents had looked at you earlier. The unfamiliar man, who you assumed to be your sister’s boyfriend, probably knew by now that you were the black sheep of the family. You felt embarrassed by how the scene had unfolded. He was probably one of the many people who wondered why you were always left out in this family.

Your phone buzzed, and you hesitantly reached for it. ‘Hey, you up?’ a message from one of your closest friends, Jay. You debated whether to reply, as you were not in the mood to talk. You just wanted to sleep and wake up in a better universe. Before you could respond, another message came.

‘Let’s have a lunch date tomorrow, my treat :)’

You instantly smiled at his text. He always knew how and when to reach you in moments like this. You replied to him and turned off your phone, then got up and grabbed your towel. This was going to be a long, warm shower.

The next morning, your phone buzzed. It was Jay.

Jay: Don’t forget our lunch date, 1 p.m. Don’t make me wait :)

You smiled faintly. Maybe seeing him would take your mind off last night. You needed a normal day, one where your thoughts didn’t feel so heavy.

You wore something simple but nice, Jay always teased you about dressing like you were going to a family reunion. You left the house without saying much to your parents; they barely looked up from what they were doing.

The café where you and Jay planned to meet was quiet, tucked away from the busy streets. You spotted him instantly. He waved you over with that easy grin that always made you feel lighter.

“Right on time,” he said, standing to pull out your chair. “I’m proud.”

You laughed softly and sat down. “I try.”

The two of you talked and ate, the usual mix of teasing and catching up. For a moment, it felt normal—safe. Until the sound of the door opening pulled your attention.

Your sister walked in. And she wasn’t alone. The same man from last night was with her. You froze, the air around you suddenly feeling too tight. Jay glanced between you and the pair, picking up on your reaction.

Your sister spotted you almost immediately and lit up. “Y/N! I didn’t know you were here.” She walked over with him close behind. “I want you to meet someone.”

You could barely look at him, but you felt his gaze settle on you, unblinking.

“This is Jungkook,” your sister said proudly, her hand slipping into his. “My boyfriend.”

The word boyfriend rang in your head, almost mocking you. Jungkook’s lips curved into a faint smile,

“Nice to finally meet you… Y/N.”

The café was warm and filled with the smell of fresh coffee. You sat across from your sister while Jay and Jungkook shared the other side of the table. The sound of clinking cups and low conversations filled the space.

Your sister took a sip of her drink, then looked at everyone with a bright smile.

“You know what we should do?” she said. “We should go to Jungkook’s studio after this.” Jay raised an eyebrow.

“Your art studio?” Jungkook nodded, his fingers lightly tapping the side of his coffee cup. “Yeah. I’ve been working on some new pieces. It’s just a few streets away. You might like them.”

You glanced at him. There was something in his eyes, calm yet curious, as if he was already imagining how the afternoon would go.

“That sounds fun,” Jay said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve never been inside an artist’s studio before.”

Your sister looked at you. “What do you think? It’ll be interesting.”

You hesitated for a second, but you didn’t want to seem like you were overthinking it. “Sure,” you said quietly.

Jungkook’s lips curved into a small smile, one that didn’t fade even when he looked away. You all finished your drinks, chatting about random things, but every now and then you could feel Jungkook’s gaze on you. It wasn’t obvious to the others, but to you, it felt steady and deliberate, like he was already pulling you into his world.

The afternoon air was cooler than you expected when you stepped outside. Your sister walked ahead with Jay, talking about some new restaurant she wanted to try. Jungkook fell into step beside you, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“It’s just around the corner,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You nodded, keeping your eyes forward. You weren't sure why your chest felt tight, maybe it was just the thought of walking into his private space, seeing a side of him similar to yours.

You turned onto a quieter street, away from the noise of the café. The building Jungkook stopped in front of didn’t stand out at first glance. It was made of old brick, with a single black door and a small sign that simply read Studio 17.

He unlocked it and pushed the door open, holding it for you to enter. The moment you stepped inside, the scent of oil paint and wood hit you. The room was wide, with sunlight pouring in from tall windows.

Canvases leaned against the walls, some covered with cloth, others half-finished. A couch and large wooden table sat in the middle, scattered with brushes, jars of paint, and sketchbooks.

“This is… wow,” Jay said, walking toward a wall filled with framed pieces. Your sister followed him. You stayed near the entrance at first, taking it all in. The space felt alive, like every corner was breathing with the weight of his work.

“You can look around,” Jungkook said softly from behind you. You turned to find him watching you again, that same unreadable look in his eyes. You just nodded and followed the two who were busy looking at the canvases.

You were mesmerized, his skills in art were absolutely amazing. The way the paintings looked alive. He's definitely a great artist, and a part of you wished to be like him.

A week later, you were in the living room scrolling through your phone when your sister’s voice called out from upstairs.

“Y/N, can you do me a favor? Jungkook is in his studio and I need to run some errands. Can you keep him company?”

You froze for a moment. “Uh… okay,” you answered. You were confused on why your sister would ask you for such, but you did not bother to ask her. You arrived in front of the building and hesitantly walked inside.

When you pushed the door open, the smell of paint and thinner hit you instantly. Sunlight streamed through the big window, falling across the floor where unfinished canvases leaned against the wall.

Jungkook stood in front of an easel, brush in hand. He looked over his shoulder when he heard you. “Your sister said you’d be coming,” he said, a small smile forming. “Come here.”

You stepped inside, unsure of where to look. There were portraits everywhere—faces you didn’t recognize, scenes that felt too real, almost like photographs.

“You paint?” he asked, setting his brush down.

“A little,” you said. “Mostly sketches though.”

He nodded. “Show me.”

You hesitated, then reached for the small notebook in your bag. You flipped it open and handed it to him. He took his time looking through the pages, his eyes moving slowly over each drawing.

“You have a good eye,” he said finally. “But your lines are hesitant. You think too much before you put them down.”

Before you could respond, he moved behind you and placed a clean canvas on the easel. “Sit,” he said.

You obeyed, feeling his presence close as he pulled a stool next to you. He placed a brush in your hand and adjusted your fingers around it. His hand lingered on yours for a moment too long, warm and steady.

“When you paint,” he said softly, “you have to forget the world. Only you and what you see matter.”

He guided your hand across the canvas, his voice low in your ear. “Don’t be afraid of mistakes. Let the paint move the way it wants.”

Your heart was beating faster, though you didn’t know if it was from his words or how close he was leaning. You could feel his breath against your cheek.

When you glanced at him, his eyes weren’t on the canvas. They were on you.

Jungkook’s gaze stayed on you for a few seconds too long before he finally leaned back. He picked up another brush, dipped it into a deep red paint, and dragged it across the canvas in one smooth line.

“You know,” he said quietly, “it’s hard to paint someone unless you really study them. Every detail, every shadow, every flaw.”

You didn’t know if he was talking about art or something else.

He set the brush down and looked at you again. “You should pose for me.”

You blinked. “Pose?”

“Just for practice,” he replied. “You’d be doing me a favor.” His voice was calm, but there was a pull in it, like saying no wasn’t really an option.

You hesitated, but he was already pulling a chair into the middle of the room. “Sit here,” he said, pointing.

You did as told, feeling the air grow heavier. Jungkook moved around you slowly, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, as if memorizing every line of your body. He didn’t even start painting yet—he just looked.

“Don’t move,” he murmured. “Even breathing changes the way the light touches you.”

You felt your skin prickle under his stare. He finally picked up a brush and began painting, his movements slow and deliberate. You couldn’t see the canvas from where you sat, but the way his eyes kept flicking between you and the painting made you uneasy.

The room was quiet except for the sound of the brush scratching against the canvas.

After what felt like forever, he finally stopped and stepped aside, turning the canvas so you can see it.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“It’s… different,” you said, unsure how to describe the strange mix of beauty and unease.

He stepped closer, his hands still holding the brush and palette. “I could make more. Better ones. But only if you keep coming back here.”

You frowned. “My sister might—”

“She doesn’t need to know.” His voice was low, certain. “Art is private. It’s between the painter and the muse.”

The way he said muse sent a shiver up your spine. He set the palette down and reached for another canvas, this one already covered in faint pencil lines. “Sit again,” he said, but this time his tone wasn’t asking.

You obeyed. The room felt smaller now, his movements slower, more deliberate. He painted without speaking, only glancing up at you every few seconds. When he finally stepped back, he was smiling.

You turned to see the canvas and froze. It was you again. But this time, his version of you was leaning against him, his arm draped around your waist. In the painting, you were smiling at him in a way you had never actually smiled in real life.

“That’s not—” you began.

“It’s how I see you,” he interrupted. “How I will always see you.”

You didn’t know what to say. He picked up a cloth and wiped his hands, walking toward you.

“You’re better in my world than hers,” he said softly, almost like he was speaking to himself. “She doesn’t understand you like I do.”

You stood, trying to find your voice. “I should go.”

Jungkook didn’t stop you, but his eyes followed you to the door. “Tomorrow,” he said, “come back. We’ll make something no one else will ever see.”

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

But the next day, you found yourself standing outside the studio door again. You could hear soft music inside, the smell of oil paint drifting through the small gap.

You knocked lightly.

“It’s open,” Jungkook’s voice called.

When you stepped inside, he was already waiting. A fresh canvas sat on the easel, and beside it was a stool set just for you.

“I thought you might come,” he said.

You hesitated. “My sister—”

“She’s out,” he cut in. “It’s just us.”

He handed you a loose white shirt that looked like something an artist would give a model to wear. “Put this on so the paint doesn’t ruin your clothes.”

You froze for a second, then took it, slipping it over your head. It hung loosely, the hem brushing your thighs.

Jungkook watched silently, his eyes tracing every movement. “Perfect,” he said under his breath.

You sat where he told you to, and the session began. But today felt different. His instructions were softer, almost intimate. He walked behind you to adjust your shoulders, his fingertips brushing lightly against your skin.

“Relax,” he murmured. “You look tense.”

“I am tense,” you admitted.

He chuckled low. “Then trust me.”

Hours passed without you realizing it. He painted as if the world outside didn’t exist, and you felt yourself sinking into the quiet rhythm of his voice and the sound of the brush.

When he finally stopped, he stepped back and let you see. The painting was you again but this time your head was resting on his shoulder. His hand in the painting held yours, your fingers intertwined. The colors were warm, almost romantic, but there was something in your painted eyes that looked… trapped.

You swallowed hard. “People will think—”

“People don’t matter,” he said sharply. Then, softer, “This is ours. Just ours.”

He placed the brush down and walked closer. “You don’t realize how beautiful you are when you’re with me.” Your heart pounded. This was wrong. You knew it. But you didn’t move.

You stayed frozen in your seat, his words still hanging in the air. Jungkook was close enough that you could smell the faint mix of paint and cologne on him. His hand brushed yours, slow and deliberate, leaving behind a heat you tried to ignore.

Before you could say anything, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then turned it face-down on the table.

“It’s her,” he said quietly. “Don’t speak.”

Your chest tightened. You sat perfectly still, listening to his voice soften in a way you had never heard him use with you.

“Yeah, I’m still at the studio… No, I’m just working on something,” he said into the phone. His eyes stayed on you the whole time.

“I’ll see you later.” When he ended the call, there was a faint smirk on his lips.

“She doesn’t suspect a thing.” You stood abruptly, needing space, but he stepped in front of you.

“Y/N,” he said, his tone dropping. “You think this is wrong.”

You met his gaze. “It is wrong.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Then why are you still here?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Jungkook’s eyes darkened, as if your silence gave him an answer. He reached past you and picked up a rag to wipe his hands, though the red paint on his fingers smeared darker across the cloth.

“You’ll be back,” he said simply. “You always come back.”

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made you both freeze. The door handle turned slightly before stopping, then your sister’s voice called from outside, cheerful and unaware.

“Y/N? Are you in there?” Your stomach dropped. Jungkook’s eyes never left yours as he whispered,

“Say nothing.”

The door opened before you could respond. Your sister stepped inside, smiling as if nothing could possibly be wrong.

“There you are,” she said, glancing between the two of you. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook moved first. He stepped away from you and picked up the canvas, turning it so she could see. “I was showing Y/N some painting techniques,” he said easily, his voice smooth. “She’s got a good hand for it.”

Your sister’s eyes lit up. “Really? I didn’t know you painted, Y/N.” You forced a small laugh. “I… don’t. Not much.”

“She could,” Jungkook said, smiling at her but keeping his eyes on you for a fraction longer than necessary. “She just needs the right teacher.”

Your sister walked over to look at the painting. “This is beautiful. You made her look so—” She paused, tilting her head. “Different.”

“Art isn’t about copying reality,” Jungkook replied. “It’s about showing what’s hidden.” Something in his tone made your skin crawl. Your sister, however, only nodded, clearly impressed.

“That’s amazing,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “Come on, let’s head out for dinner.”

She turned to you. “You should join us, Y/N.”

“I’m not really hungry,” you said quickly, stepping outside the studio.

Jungkook’s gaze lingered on you as he followed your sister out. Just before you parted ways with them, he looked at you and mouthed something you almost didn’t catch.

You’ll miss me.

You’re walking down a quiet street. The air smells like rain, and the streetlights make long shadows on the ground.

A car slows beside you. The window rolls down, and you see Jungkook in the driver’s seat. His eyes scan you from head to toe, stopping like he’s been looking for you all this time.

“Get in,” he says, his voice low but firm.

You stop walking. “Why?”

“It’s late,” he says. “You shouldn’t be walking alone.”

The way he says it doesn’t sound like concern. It sounds like a warning.

You get into the passenger seat. The smell of paint and turpentine fills your nose—just like the studio. When you close the door, his hand brushes against yours. It’s a small touch, but it makes your chest tighten.

He drives in silence, but you can feel his eyes on you in the window’s reflection. At a red light, his hand rests on the back of your seat, his fingers close enough to touch your hair.

“You should come to the studio again,” he says. “I didn’t finish teaching you last time.”

He smirks slightly. The car turns, but not toward your house. The street is darker here. Rain starts to fall again, soft and steady.

The car stops in front of his studio. The building is dark except for the light spilling from one window.

You hesitate. “It’s late.”

“I know,” Jungkook says, getting out. “No one will bother us.”

Something in the way he says ‘us’ makes your pulse quicken.

Inside, the air is warm and smells like oil paint. Canvases lean against the walls, some finished, some with strange, shadowy shapes. The floor creaks under your steps.

Jungkook pulls out a clean canvas and sets it on the easel. “I’ll show you something new,” he says, picking up a brush. “Come closer.”

You stand beside him. He dips the brush into paint, then takes your hand, guiding your fingers around it. His touch is steady, but his grip is firm, almost like he doesn’t want you to move away.

“Relax,” he murmurs near your ear. His breath is warm against your skin. “Let me guide you.”

The brush moves slowly across the canvas, his hand over yours. His chest is close to your back, his presence heavy, filling the space around you.

“See how the lines curve?” he whispers, but his lips are so close you feel them graze your skin.

Your breath catches. You feel his other hand settle on your hip, pulling you just slightly closer.

The brush stops moving. The studio is quiet except for the sound of rain outside and your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. His voice is low, but there’s something dangerous under it, like he already knows your answer.

When you nod, his lips find yours. The paintbrush drops, hitting the floor. His kisses grew desperate as he deepened the kiss, his tongue colliding with yours. His hand found your clothed breast, massaging it gently, pulling a soft moan from your lips.

Your lips parted from his, a long string of saliva connecting you both. You panted heavily, cheeks flushed and lips swollen from the intense make out session.

Jungkook’s hand continued to fondle your breast through your top, his thumb circling your hardening nipple. "I want more of you," he murmured huskily, his eyes dark with desire.

He leaned in, kissing along your jawline, down your neck, leaving a trail of fire on your sensitive skin. His hands roamed your body, slipping under your shirt to caress the smooth skin of your stomach.

You gasped at his touch, arching into him. Your hands found their way to his hair, fingers tangling in his silky locks as he continued his exploration on your body.

Jungkook's lips found yours again in a bruising kiss, all tongue and teeth. He pushed you down onto the floor, his muscular body covering yours. His hands tugged at your shirt, lifting it up along with your bra over your head in one swift motion.

He sat back, admiring your now exposed upper body. "You're so beautiful," he breathed, trailing a finger down your chest, between your breasts, and stopping at the waistband of your jeans.

Jungkook leaned down, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth. He sucked and licked at the sensitive bud, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. His free hand continued its exploration, dipping beneath the waistband of your jeans to stroke your heated core through your soaked panties.

You bucked against his hand, moaning loudly. "Jungkook, please," you panted, desperate for more of his touch.

He smirked against your breast, giving it one last lick before sitting back up. "I'm going to make you feel so good," he promised, his voice low and seductive.

His hands went to the button of your jeans, popping it open and slowly dragging the zipper down. He hooked his fingers in the waistband, tugging your jeans and panties down in one go.

Jungkook tossed them to the side, his eyes roaming over your now fully naked body. He licked his lips, a look of pure hunger in his eyes.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he breathed, before diving back down, peppering kisses across your stomach, heading lower and lower until he reached your glistening folds.

He inhaled deeply, taking in your intoxicating scent. "You smell so good," he murmured, before parting your thighs with his hands.

Jungkook leaned in, flicking his tongue against your clit, earning a loud moan from you. He continued his assault, licking and sucking at your sensitive nub, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

One of his hands snaked up your body, cupping your breast and rolling your nipple between his fingers. His other hand went to your entrance, a finger teasing your opening.

"Please," you begged, bucking against his face. "I need more."

Jungkook smirked, giving your clit one last lick before plunging a finger deep inside you. He curled it upwards, hitting that sweet spot inside you as he continued his assault on your clit with his tongue.

You cried out, hands fisting in his hair as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. Your hips bucked wildly against his face, chasing your release.

Jungkook added a second finger, pumping them in and out of you at a rapid pace. His tongue circled your clit, alternating between quick flicks and long, slow licks.

It was too much, and you felt your orgasm building rapidly. "Jungkook, I'm going to come!" you warned, your voice tight with pleasure.

He doubled his efforts, fingers pumping furiously as his tongue worked overtime on your clit. It was only a matter of seconds before you were crying out in ecstasy, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

Jungkook continued his ministrations, drawing out your pleasure until you were a boneless mess beneath him. He slowly pulled his fingers out of you, bringing them up to his mouth and licking them clean.

"You taste so good," he murmured, giving you a wicked grin.

He crawled up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it only served to reignite the desire burning inside you.

"I need you," you whispered against his lips, hands roaming over his clothed body. "I want to feel you inside me."

Jungkook’s eyes darkened at your words, a smirk playing on his lips. "I thought you'd never ask," he said, before capturing your lips in another passionate kiss.

He tugged at the waistband of his jeans. He shimmied out of them, along with his boxers, tossing them aside carelessly.

Jungkook settled himself between your thighs, rubbing his hard cock against yours. "Fuck, you're so wet," he breathed, grinding harder against you.

You moaned at the friction, bucking against him. "Please, I need you inside me," you begged, desperate to feel him stretching you out.

Jungkook lined himself up with your entrance. He pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed inside you.

"Fuck," she groaned, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. "You feel incredible."

He started to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back into you. You cried out at the sudden intrusion, hands grasping at his hips.

Jungkook set a brutal pace, pounding into you with abandon. The sound of skin slapping filled the room.

It was pure bliss, feeling Jungkook moving inside you, stretching you out in the most delicious way. Your hands roamed over his back and ass, digging into his flesh as he brought you closer and closer to another orgasm.

Jungkook leaned down, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth. He sucked hard, grazing it with his teeth before moving to the other one. He repeated the process, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

"Come for me," he growled against your skin, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. "I want to feel you come all over my cock."

His words were the push you needed, and you came with a scream, back arching off the floor as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

Jungkook followed soon after, burying himself deep inside you as he found his own release. He collapsed on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you came down from high.

"Fuck," Jungkook breathed, peppering kisses across your face. "That was incredible."

You could only nod in response, still trying to catch your breath. You both lay there for a few moments, basking in the afterglow of our intense sex.

Finally, Jungkook pulled out of you, rolling off to the side. He pulled you close to his chest, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

"That was amazing," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'm so glad I met you."

You smiled against his chest, snuggling closer to his warmth. "Me too," you whispered back.

With that, you both drifted off to sleep in each other's arms, completely satisfied and content.

It kept happening.

No matter how much you told yourself it was wrong, you still found yourself in his arms, pressed against the walls of his studio, his lips claiming yours like he owned you.

Sometimes it was quick and frantic, other times slow and drawn out until your head spun. Each time, the guilt sank deeper into your chest. You couldn’t look your sister in the eye for too long anymore, afraid she might read the truth in your expression.

At night, lying in bed, the memories replayed—the heat of Jungkook’s hands, the way his voice dropped low when he whispered your name, the hunger in his eyes.

You hated yourself for letting it happen. But you hated how much you wanted it even more.

And the worst part? Jungkook knew.

He could see the hesitation, the way you pulled back just enough to catch your breath, only for him to pull you close again. His smirk always said the same thing,

You’re mine. And I’m not letting you go.

Until you couldn’t do it anymore.

Every kiss, every stolen moment with Jungkook was another dagger in your chest. The guilt was eating you alive, and the only way to breathe again was to end it.

So you went to him.

His studio smelled like paint and turpentine, the afternoon light spilling through the windows. He was at the easel, brush in hand, when you spoke.

“Jungkook… we need to stop.”

The brush froze mid-stroke. His head tilted slowly, too slowly, like a predator hearing prey.

“Stop?” His voice was calm..too calm.

Your throat felt dry. “This… us. It’s wrong. I have to—”

The sound of the brush snapping in his grip made you flinch.

“You think you can walk away from me?” he asked, stepping toward you. Each step echoed. “After everything?”

You swallowed hard. “Jungkook, please, I—”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t scream. He just smiled. And somehow, that was worse.

“You’ll regret saying that,” he whispered.

The apartment was quiet when your sister returned from work. She needed to hurry as she promised to you that both of you will have a sleep over. She dropped her bag on the couch and noticed a faint smell of paint in the air..

A voice echoed from the shadows.

She froze. The figure stepped forward, and the dim light revealed Jungkook. His black shirt was splattered with dried flecks of paint… and something darker. His eyes held that same unsettling calm, but his smile didn’t reach them.

“Oh, I didn't know you're coming.” she said with confusion and surprise.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, walking closer. “You’ve been getting in the way.”

“In the way of what? I don't understand.” she asked, stepping back. “Jungkook, you're scaring me!”

“In the way of me and her,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She belongs to me. But you keep making her feel guilty. You keep trying to take her away from me.”

She reached for her phone on the counter, but he grabbed her wrist before she could touch it. His grip was strong, unshakable.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered, leaning close. “If you’re gone… she’ll have no choice but to stay.”

She tried to scream, but his other hand wrapped around her throat. He pushed her down to the cold kitchen floor. She fought, scratching at his arms, but his hold only got tighter.

When her body grew weaker, Jungkook breathed harder. He let go just for a moment, long enough to pull a small, sharp palette knife from his pocket. The blade caught the light.

Jungkook's eyes gleamed with a manic intensity as he raised the small palette knife, the sharp edge glinting wickedly in the dim light.

The blade bit into her flesh, drawing a thin line of crimson that welled up and trickled down her neck. He pressed harder, the knife sinking deeper until it hit bone.

With a snarl, he began to saw at her throat, back and forth, back and forth. Each stroke ripped through skin and muscle, splattering the walls with gore. Her screams grew weaker, her struggles lessening as life drained from her body.

Blood gushed from the wound, painting her chest and the floor beneath a deep, rich red. Jungkook stepped back to admire his handiwork, his chest heaving as he panted for air.

The body lay still at his feet, the face already growing pale and lifeless. But the throat - oh, what a masterpiece. With a satisfied grin, Jungkook wiped the knife clean on his shirt and slipped it back into his pocket. It was time to leave this place behind.

The rain had been falling for hours. It was cold and heavy, making the streetlights look blurry and soft. You were making tea while you waited for your sister to come home from her apartment.

Then you heard a knock. Three short knocks, clear and firm.

When you opened the door, Jungkook was there. He had no umbrella and no jacket. His hair was wet and sticking to his forehead, water running down his face.

He was holding a large canvas covered by a white sheet.

“I finished it,” he said in a low voice. Without asking, he stepped inside, his wet boots leaving marks on the floor.

You looked toward the hallway. “Where is my sister? She said she was coming home.”

“She is not.” Jungkook said. His voice was calm but there was something strange about it. “She will not be a problem anymore.”

A shiver went through you. Still, you followed him into the living room. The rain outside sounded louder, pressing against the windows.

Jungkook set the canvas down. He took hold of the sheet and pulled it away. Your eyes widened.

It was you.

Painted so perfectly it almost looked real. Your shoulders bare, your eyes turned slightly to the side, your lips open as if you were about to speak. Every detail was exact.

Jungkook stepped closer. His eyes stayed locked on yours. His hand was covered in something dark red, and he gently touched your jaw.

“Now it is just us,” he whispered. “My muse, all mine.”

You looked back at the painting. The shadows seemed to move. Something thick and dark was dripping from the bottom of the frame. It slid down slowly before dropping to the floor with a heavy sound.

The dark liquid began to pool at your feet. For the first time, you wished he had never noticed you.

Taglist: @namtits69 @magicalnachocreator @cdllevantae @gukjhoe-blog @ennvfv @apenasumababyarmy @mar-lo-pap @armyforever2772 @minimoninini @httpjeonlicious @kissyfacekoo @champagnestate

[mindurbuzznezz]

he was so deep into you.

"ngh yea.. yea can ya feel me in yer tummy baby?" he chuckled, grabbing your hand to force it to rest on your stomach. he coo'ed watching you struggle to take him. his eyes were locked onto the bulge that was very prominent inside you.

"hurts.. hurts.." you whined.

he shook his head, a grin appearing on his scared lips. "you can take it."

you and your boyfriend of 9 months were finally having intimacy after you complained that he didn't touch you enough.

"remember, you wanted this."

it was true, you did want this. but you swore his dick wasn't this big in the nudes he'd send you after a gym workout. right now it felt like he was splitting you in half and you could feel him pounding into your lungs.

"pretty baby thought I didn't get horny over her.. hah.." sweat dripped down his forehead, some landing on your chest. "doesn't know I dream about this pussy every night.."

when you first got together, he wanted to take things slow with you simply because you were the first girl he'd truly cared about after his wife passed away. the only thing he knew about women is that they really loved cock, especially his. but he tried so so hard for you, hiding away boners and doing quickies in the bathroom even at the sight on your shoulder.

one of his large veiny hands left your waist to grab a stuffed animal, handing it to you. "hug your stuffie baby.. yeah like that." your arms wrapped around the bear that he gifted you for your one month anniversary , bringing it close to your chest as you sobbed tears of both pain and pleasure into it.

"be quiet ma', dont want the kid to wake up to yer loud moans."

the walls weren't exactly thin but you knew that if you moaned even a bit high, megumi, his five year old son that is now yours as well, would wake up.

a small 'tear' caught the attention of both of you. toji groaned, slipping out of you making you feel empty. "ji.." you whimpered. "shut up." he groaned noticing that the condom broke.

"fuck, knew these weren't my size."

he noticed you desperately trying to buck your hips against his. "you still want it? god, ya fuckin' slut, you want my dick?" you nodded repeatedly.

toji tugged off the protection, slapping the head of his length onto your soaking cunt that seemed to have its own heartbeat by the way it was pulsing.

"... i'm not pulling out."

"so don't." you whispered back, rubbing your tears away from your flushed cheeks. "want a kid with you 'ji"

"fuck don't say that.." his voice was deep, slowly sinking back into you. "yer gonna make me breed this pussy on our first fuck?" he leaned forward to peck your lips gently as he began to move. "want to make ya a mama?.."

you could feel yourself get more wet at the thought and he noticed right away no thanks to the loud squelch that left your folds.

"yeahhhh ill make ya one.." he chuckled darkly before beginning to pick up his pace as it was before, making you arch your back still holding onto the poor teddy bear. "breed the fuck out of you."

[mindurbuzznezz]

Stranger Toji dry humping you in a train filled with people. (Non-con in the beginning, dark content ), was lowkey rubbing myself while writing this SRY. This is a one-shot.

The train doors slammed shut behind you with a metallic finality, and within seconds, you were engulfed by the dense crush of bodies. Heat and warm breath pressed in from all sides, the air thick with the scent of commuters and the faint tang of metal. Both of your palms clung to the cool pole in front of you, knuckles whitening as you struggled to stay upright while the car lurched forward with a sudden jolt.

You hadn’t even noticed the massive presence behind you until the motion of the train forced you backward, slamming you directly into a wall of muscle. A hard chest met your back, broad shoulders brushing against your head, his towering frame making you feel impossibly small in the already claustrophobic space.

You genuinely didn’t think much of it—after all, everyone was crammed together like sardines in a can, limbs tangled and bodies pressed close in the chaos of the rush hour crowd, so it was understandable at your end...until you felt it. Something thick and heavy—undeniably solid, and it was pressing firmly against the backside of your plaid skirt. 

You tensed immediately, and your heart sank a little, a flicker of unease blooming in your chest. You didn’t know what it was—part of you clung to the hope that it was something harmless, maybe a wallet or a phone tucked awkwardly in the man's front pocket. But that fragile assumption dissolved the moment you felt it shift, spontaneously growing thicker and bigger. Panic began to simmer beneath your skin. You tried to inch forward, to put even the slightest space between you, but the wall of bodies left no room to breathe. His presence loomed—crowding you until your back was snug against him.

“…What a cute little thing you are,” his voice rasped suddenly in your ear, low and deep, sending an unwelcome shiver down your spine. You stiffened, every muscle locked tight, slippery hands still clenched around the pole. “Holding on so tight,” he murmured, the heat of his breath fanning against your neck. “You nervous?”

You swallowed hard, throat dry, pulse fluttering. “I—I’m just trying to… to keep my balance,” you stammered, your voice barely audible over the clatter of the train.

“Mm”. His hand slides down and dwarfs over yours on the pole, massive palm swallowing your grip. He leaned in closer and pressed his crotch area against you, the hard ridge of his cock insistently rubbing beneath your skirt, brushing against the curve of your soft, barely-covered butt beneath the thin panties you wore. “Feels to me like you’re steady enough”.

Your breath hitched, delicate thighs instinctively squeezing together as a shiver ran through you. “S-stop… someone will—people will notice—” you stammered, as the heat of him pressed against you, making it impossible to think clearly, every nerve in your body screaming in delicious protest. You didn’t want this. Who the fuck would want a stranger pressing up against them like this? But something about it shamelessly gave a part of you thrills.

“No one’s watching,” he muttered lowly in your ears, followed by him discreetly grinding his hips into you. His cockhead dragged right across your dampened, clothed slit, the friction sharp even through your panties. “And even if they were? Bet they’d just think you’re cute… all helpless and squirming like this,” he added, a rough edge of amusement in his tone as he felt your body tense under him, your warmth pressing back against every movement he made.

You let out a shaky gasp, trying to keep still and calm, but your body rocked with the rhythm of the train. Each jolt shoved you right back onto his cock, and larger body. The pressure making your clit throb in need—your body betraying every attempt at restraint as heat pools and spreads between your thighs.

“Ah—don’t, please—” you whispered in protest, your voice breaking under the strain.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Don’t what? Don’t make you feel good? Don’t grind this fat cock right in your needy little pussy?” His teeth scraped your ear, making you shiver. “Be honest. Your panties are already soaked, aren’t they?”

Your face burned as you shook your head side to side in denial. “N-no, I… I’m not—”

“Liar”. His hips rolled, and the tent in his pants dug in between your soft cheeks. The center of his bulge flushed in you and nudging your pussy lips apart—forcing a soft, helpless moan of guilty pleasure out of you before you could even think to bite it back. His chuckle was low and cruel, vibrating through the press of his chest against you. “Hear that? You sound like a fucking slut already”.

Your grip trembled on the metal pole, fingers straining as your body betrayed you with the slightest arch of your back pressing into him despite your desperate protest. “Please…please, stop”

“Stop?” he mocked with a low chuckle rumbling against you—way too fucking sexy for a man who does shit this twisted. He’s rutting into you harder now, his cock grinding across your puffy clit with every sway. “You’re begging me to stop while you’re rubbing that sweet cunt all over me. Which one is it, sweetheart?”. He purred, his tone dripped with dominance, daring you to argue as your body gave into him, responding eagerly to each merciless press.

“I-I don’t… I can’t—” you gasped, voice breaking as your body suddenly seemed to have a mind of its own, hips tilting to find a better angle, pressing your butt greedily around him despite your silly protest. His bulge was buried deep between your cheeks now, the two of you surged together like you were connected, every movement leaving you achingly aware of him.

The hot, slick friction of him rubbing against your wet slit made your words hollow, your horny pussy clenching around nothing but air and desperation—practically yearning for his cock.

“You can,” he groaned deeply, hips snapping forward with filthy precision and repeatedly boring into your warm cunt. His cock is practically straining in his pants—beads of pre-cum dribbling out his swollen tip and dampening the fabric of his underwear. “You can cum for me, right here in front of everyone. Bet you want it bad”.

Your thighs shook as you panickally looked around your—hoping no one sees or understands what’s happening. Your poor clit throbs against the hard ridge of him that’s denting in, your little moans caught in your throat. You were so close, so wet, every roll of his hips pushing you closer—

—and then he slowed. Barely grinding at all, just enough to keep you desperate but never enough to tip you over. His hand tightened over yours on the pole, keeping you locked in place.

“Not yet,” he muttered darkly, scarred lips curling against your flushed cheek. “You don’t get to cum. Not unless I say so”.

You whimpered, legs trembling in front of him, and if it weren’t for his massive body pressed firmly against you, keeping you upright, you would’ve been struggling to stand up from how bad it ached. “P-please, I—I need—”

“Yeah, I know you do”. His cock gave a few twitches against you from how whiny and pretty you sounded for him. “But good girls wait. You wanna be good, don’t you?”

Tears stung your eyes as you nodded helplessly like a stupid bitch, the ache between your thighs unbearable to the point where you’re horny for a literal stranger who’s assaulting you.

“That’s it,” he cooed, smugly—almost gentle. “Next stop, you’re coming with me. If you’re sweet enough for me there, maybe I’ll let you finish”.

The train screeched into the station. He didn’t move away—his cock still thick against you, his hand pinning yours to the pole—until the doors opened. Then he pulled back just enough, his voice a dark whisper against your ear while his forearm curled around your waist.

“Let’s go, sweet thing”.

You stumbled after him, legs weak and shaky, heart hammering in your chest as the crowd pressed around you, oblivious to the sinful weight of his body guiding yours through the throng.

You tried to protest, whispering, “W-wait, I can’t— I don’t even know you!—” but he didn’t slow. His grip was too strong, his pace too steady, and somehow, you followed.

He led you out of the station, into the night air. The city was loud, headlights streaking by, but he ducked you quickly into a narrow alley between two buildings. Dim light pooled from a flickering lamp overhead, shadows stretching across the brick walls.

Before you could speak again, his big, calloused hand pressed you to the wall, your cheek against the cool brick. His body crowded in close, cock hard and straining against your ass.

“Know me now,” he growled, yanking your skirt up in one rough tug. The cool night air hit your thighs, your panties already damp and clinging to your pussy lips. He palmed your delicate ass, cupping it with lazy squeezes. After some groping, he finally spreads your cheeks apart, his fingers brushing the soaked fabric. “Cute little pussy’s been grinding on me all the way here. Time I get a taste”.

You whined, shaking your head. “N-no, not here— people—”

“No one’s looking”. He tugged your panties aside to cling to one cheek, baring your slick, fluttering pussy to the cold air. The wetness glistens beneath the light, and fuck—it looks so nasty and wet. You gasped, thighs pressing together instinctively, as if that could hide yourself from his perverted gaze. His chuckle was dark and cruel. “Fuck, you’re soaked. So much for telling me to stop”.

Your protest melted into a shaky moan as he pushed his hefty cock between your folds, parting them with deliberate pressure. He rutted his length against you without sliding in yet. The thick head dragged over your clit, teasing and smearing your wetness all over his shaft while mingling it with his pre in the process.

“Please,” you begged, voice breaking into a miserable whine as you wiggled your pillowy butt back at it.

“Please, what?” he taunted, pressing the tip of his cock against your drooling entrance, just hooking the mushroomed head barely inside without giving in to you. “Please stop? Or please fuck you?”

Your nails scraped the brick in agony. This fucker was really fucking with you, and now that you’re giving in—he’s teasing you. “I… I don’t know…”

He bent over you, his chest heavy against your back, his breath hot on your ear. “I know”. With one sharp snap of his hips, he shoved the head of his cock fully inside. You cried out, muffled against your arm, the stretch sudden and overwhelming.

“Ah—ahh!”

“Shh,” he cooed sweetly, shoving in deeper, inch by inch, until you felt split wide around him--until every warm, gummy contour of your pussy clung to the full girth of his mean cock. “You’ll take it. Every fucking inch”.

Your knees buckled slightly, hands braced against the wall for support as his vice-like grip clamped onto your hips to use you, pulling your ass back onto him with calculated force. His cock filled you, heavy and thick, hitting deep in one brutal thrust that left you gasping.

“Fuuuck yeah,” he groaned, rutting into you hard, setting a punishing rhythm. The filthy slap of his pelvis against your bouncy ass echoed in the alley, along with the nasty squelches of your cunt. Your skirt is lazily bunched up around your waist. “This is what you wanted. Bent over like a good little slut, taking cock where anyone could see”.

Your voice came out broken and desperate. “I-I don’t—I can’t—oh fuck”

He snarled low, one palm sliding up to meanly press between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest closer to the wall as he pounded into you from behind. “You can and you will. Feel how tight you’re squeezing me? Your cute cunt’s telling me you love it”.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, not sure if from the sting of the stretch or the dizzying heat building inside you. Your high-pitched moans spilled out, no longer quiet—his cockhead grinding deep into your sweetest spot until you couldn’t hold them back.

“Please—” you sobbed. “I-I’m gonna—”

“Nuh-uh,” he growled, slamming harder—his thrusts driving your poor body deeper into the wall, hips snapping sharply with mean intent. “Not yet. You don’t get to cum ‘til I say so”.

Your legs shook, body trembling under the crushing weight of him, your tiny pussy is stuffed up full and used pathetically against the brick wall. His pace never faltered, ruthless, with every thrust making you see stars.

“Sweet little thing,” he rasped in your ear, teeth dragging into the skin. “Gonna wreck the little pussy and leave you dripping in the street. And you’re gonna thank me for it”.

Three days later, you were trying— desperately trying—to pretend it hadn’t happened. Classes, coffee runs, the constant background hum of your life all felt… muted, like the train and alleyway had stretched itself across your mind and refused to let go. Your legs still remembered the press of him, your body still burned with the ache and want that hadn’t faded.

Then your phone buzzed. A number you didn’t recognize.

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Heart hammering, chest tight, with a shiver running down your spine. Something deep in your gut told you exactly who it was, though you couldn’t have said why.

The message was simple.

“Had fun the other night. You’re… harder to forget than I thought. — T.F”.

Your breath hitched. Your fingers trembled as you scrolled back and forth over the screen. “No… no way,” you whispered to yourself, cheeks heating. Your pulse went from fast to frantic.

Another buzz.

“You gonna play hard to get, or am I coming to find you? Don’t make me wait too long, darling”.

You froze. Part of you wanted to throw your phone across the room, scream, hide—part of you wanted to melt, knees going weak just at the thought of him. Every nerve in your body remembered the grip, the heat, the way he’d made you helpless and dripping in the alleyway.

You couldn’t help it. A slow, shaky inhale, then a whisper you didn’t quite mean to say. “Gosh… he’s insane”.

But the truth was… You knew he wasn’t going anywhere. And deep down, even though every part of you should have been screaming to run, or hell—report him to the fucking police???

You also knew you weren’t going to forget him either.

[mindurbuzznezz]

18+

such a dissonant little thrill it is to watch virgin!sukuna, scourge of mankind, fumble with his cocks like they’re good for nothing but pissing.

which, to his credit, isn’t far from the truth.

the reason behind his abstinence is neither lofty nor divine, as sukuna simply doesn’t see the point of sex. concubines held no more allure than ornamental sweets: a pleasure of aesthetics, as one might linger on the marbling of a macaron before biting straight through. sex? he has always considered it a needless indulgence. why lower himself to the indignity of being seen naked, vulnerable?

yet here he is, hulking between your thighs, one of his abnormally large cocks prodding uselessly at everything but the right place. the fat, bulbous tip glances off your stomach, before dragging itself wetly across—gods help you—your hip bone. the second cock, the one already sunk to the hilt in your ass, keeps rutting shallowly, impatient with its twin.

“hold still,” he snarls, because surely the failure belongs to you, not him. your breasts quiver with the effort of stifling laughter. what’s more absurd than the king of curses betrayed by his own anatomy? crimson eyes flash to yours, and for one ghastly moment you imagine your head exploding into a million bone shards and pulp for your insolence. reduced to a headless doll.

“don’t mock me,” he warns, and then—finally—he’s in.

the blunt stretch of him sears you, bottoming out in one graceless thrust that steals your breath. where he lacks finesse, he compensates in sheer force. claws gouge half-moons into your thighs, as if it might conjure the angle he wants. every thrust drives through you with punishing depth, leaving you unsure whether the tears stinging your eyes come from laughter or the overwhelming fullness tearing you apart.

either way, he’s punishing you from the inside. stuffed on both ends now, your body strains around him, clenching and spasming as if trying to push him back out, but there’s nowhere to go. tight muscles stretched taut, choking on the impossible fullness, every thrust pushing him deeper into places you didn’t think could be reached.

“stop—fuck, stop scowling,” you hiccup, clutching his shoulders between jolts. “you’re actually—hnnh—you’re good at this!”

the offended snarl that rips from him would almost be comical, if not for the way his hips slam forward on the next thrust, bottoming out so savagely that stars burst across your vision.

“good?” he spits, as if the word itself is poison. “i’m the best.”

and then, slippery with your arousal, he squelches free with a wet, humiliating pop. the sudden emptiness leaving you bereft, but the look of startled rage on his face nearly kills you with laughter. this is it. you’re going to die.

he rams back into you with a violence born of wounded pride, hips snapping with vengeance. crimson eyes blazing as though sheer willpower could keep his body from doing what it’s about to do: hot, copious spurts flood both holes at once, dripping out around the girth of him, pooling on your thighs, making a mess of everything. and though both of you know what just happened, neither speaks it into being.

“one word, and i’ll fuck you until my seed leaks out of your mouth. then i’ll slowly slice you up into a thousand pieces.”