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starofthesea7 · 4 months ago

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König~ Carnivore

Very filthy with a little bit of plot xx

You overhear Konig jerking off and decide to investigate

You groan, rolling over and squeezing your eyes shut.

There it was a again.

It was faint, almost indecipherable, and initially you’d ignored it, told yourself it was in your head. The sweltering, desert heat (or ovulation) had gotten to you.

But now you were certain.

A groan, a delicious, thick groan dragging rough like barbed-wire through the thick, hazy air; rasping through makeshift walls and into your room— grating against your eardrums in a brutal taunt. You were feverish.

You’d heard König’s hoarse grunts countless times as he cleaned a fresh, gaping wound or heaved a particularly heavy load onto his colossal shoulders, but this, this was different. Under the cover of night it was different. Imagining what he was doing made it different; made your imagination run wild.

You bury your face into your old pullover, bunched up into a makeshift pillow— pulse beating deafeningly in your ear, yet you cant get the sound of him out of your head. There it was again, a strained, husky grunt. And wetness.

Oh—Fuck. So he was touching himself.

Heat diffuses across your shining cheeks at the sound. Eyes squeeze shut as your heart beat thrums. Ashamed, you strain to listen again. A moan, deep and rough as gravel, the rhythmic sound of his fist against his flesh. You were slick. Fuck.

You’re yolked to another side of yourself that keens away from the righteous path— dragged away by need and deprivation that only months of gruelling, violent work and near solitude can bring. You crave to go to him. To touch him, satisfy him. He’s been stationed here months, surrounded by grim, hardened men, surely he must be frustrated. Surely you would be a welcome sight to his lonely gaze. You ghosted over your clit, clenching at nothing but the hypothetical of him filling you up, stretching you out, pounding the air out of your lungs. Huge hands, rough and hot, groping at you in harsh, touch deprived handfuls.

You slid your finger down the split of your cunt, wetness coating your fingers, your thighs. He had no idea what he did to you — he was always so respectful, so quiet, eyes so focused on whatever work was at hand; but his reservedness only made you crave him more. Of course you desired what was out of reach — the only man who’d never made a move on you, never spat a snide suggestive remark in your direction, or blatantly stared at your ass. Typical. Man has always wanted what he can’t have, lured in by mysterious forces he can’t quite figure out. Our Achilles’ heel. You were pandora, and he was your box you were so tempted to crack open. What could be hiding inside that sibylline man?

You’re ashamed, perverse for thinking about him like this, yet you ached for more. For him. You press a finger inside, with a hot squelch, back arching. Another groan from the soldier. But his would be so much thicker. And longer. And his cock. Fuck. You know he’d stretch you so delectably…

You groan and roll over again. Slap, slap, slap… he is still going, fist to flesh— a soldiers stamina at work.

Studying a crack in the cement ceiling, you consider your options. You could lay here, and get off by yourself. Resort to imagining feeling his hand on your throat, cock in your cunt, groans in your ear… Or you could knock… with a slim, glimmer of a chance of him desiring you too, of him judging your ready cunt as a more desireable fit than his usual fist.

An unseen force dragged out of your cot, limbs heavy with nerves. Perhaps lust, adrenaline, or a mixture of the two. Spurred on by delirium from the heat, the late hour or clenching of your cunt you can’t be sure, but you somehow open the door and step out into the hallway. The moon is bright and you stare at your feet for a moment, feel them sticking to the rough wooden floorboards in the summer heat. Your heart hammers, each beat deafening. A humid waft tickles the baby hairs at the nape of your neck. Before you had a moment to mull over your decision, perhaps jot down a pros and cons list, you had knocked, knuckle and rough wood cracking dull against the silence of the empty hallway.

A deafening stillness. You flex your hand in apprehension. Then a rustle. Another pause. You hear him clear his throat, the creak of floorboards as he gets up from his cot, aged floor straining to support his immense frame. The blood drains from your face as your fantasy now condenses into the very real, colossal mass that is König. The door creaks open, you hold your breath. And oh, you bite the inside of your cheek as you look up at him, he looks so good.

He truly is a paradox. So enormous, yet reserved. So immense yet quiet, gentle. A man of very few words. A wave waiting to crash, or a volcano waiting to erupt. His hair is tousled from bed, curing around his damp brow, cheeks burning from what you know to be arousal. You’d only seen glimpses of his face. His features are still shrouded in shadow, but you can make out a vague picture. He’s younger than you’d imagined— and better looking. Each one of his features somehow exudes an enticing, rough crudeness, emanating true masculinity.

A large, strong nose, slightly crooked as if its been broken one too many times. Lips split, bitten and red. Inviting. A glint of teeth, an angled jaw and the whisper of stubble. A large scar slices up his prominent cheekbone towards his eyes. In contrast, soft, deep-set eyes framed with thick lashes. Effervescent, pale olive green— heavy with fatigue, they widen in surprise at the sight of you.

“Hey.” You look up at him through long lashes, chest rising with shallow breaths. You were suddenly aware of your nipples poking through a threadbare tanktop, and sleep shorts two sizes too small. You felt exposed, like meat on display before a hungry animal. There was nothing more you wanted than him to take you, but there was something holding him back from lunging.

You knew he would disregard his hunger, till starvation, until you give him assent.

He clears his throat. “Hi.” His voice is rough and deep—accent thick, but his eyes don’t meet yours. He looks sheepish, like a teenage boy caught with his uncles playboy. Like hes dirty before you— if only he knew the fantasies you conjure about him at night, awake and in dreams.

“Um, I thought I heard something… coming from this direction and I just wanted to make sure you were ok… in here.” Your voice sounds as small as you feel next to him. He was larger than life, a tower of solid muscle that could break you like a toothpick. It sounded stupid, now that it had come out of your mouth, but you reminded yourself you had the upper hand — you’d ambushed him.

A weighted pause.

“Oh, um… ja Im all good in here.” He rubbed the back of his neck— rippling arm bulging with the movement. You don’t miss the hem of his shirt rising above the waistband of his boxers. A trail of hair ghosting across taught muscle, leading down to… You quickly tore your eyes away before your imagination strayed too far, looking back up at his face. You swallowed, a click in your throat, and crossed your arms.

His eyes flickered, so fast you could’ve imagined it, to your chest, as your breasts bulge above your arms, the top you were wearing leaving little to his imagination. A welcome aid stabilizing your wavering confidence. Your heart pounded in your ears as you lean toward him slightly.

You smiled up at his nervous face, and his eyes finally yielded in meeting yours. “Sorry if I woke you, just cant sleep.”

The door gave way, just a little as he stepped away from you, as if he couldn’t let you get too close to him— or he’d be unable to keep things civil, your magnetic field too strong to resist.

You glanced at his bed: a threadbare mattress covered with tangled sheets, a book… and something… pink? It stood out harshly against the greyness of his room. You registered. Your stomach clenched. The incongruent lace among his muted bed things — your thong. You were lightheaded, thighs squeezing together. He’d been jerking off to your fucking panties.

It was dirty. Salacious. So fucking hot.

Your knees were weak as you ran your fingers through your hair. You feel his eyes studying your face, trying to make out your intention. A wave of confidence swells in your chest, playful smirk toying at the corner of your lips. “I got more if you want to start a collection.” Your fingers find the band of your sleep shorts, pausing as your pretend to pull them down.

He stutters, eyes dropping to your waist, “W-What?”

You nod towards his bed. He turns and his eyes widen, face growing hot with humiliation. “Scheisse, I am so sorry. They must have mixed up your laundry with mine—“ He grabs it from the bed, scarred fist swallowing it whole, the delicate lace almost amusingly mismatched in his cloddish grasp.

He holds them out to you, eyes glassy with shame. You don’t move.

He trails off as his gaze involuntarily falling to your hips, then to your thighs, back up to your hands still toying at the waistband of your tiny shorts. His tongue, blood red peeks between pink lips. A glint of a canine. So he is a carnivore. He cleared his throat, eyes meeting yours, holding your gaze vehemently.

He’s nervous, as if your are his alluring genie he rubbed into fruition, and one wrong step could ruin whatever shimmering wish you might be in the mood to grant him. He was waiting for you to lead— cautious.

He can’t read you. He shifts, studying your face.

The air is thick, and molten— time slow, coagulating around you, forcing you towards each other. The mood has changed and you both feel it, dizzy with desire yet waiting for the other to test the water first. You gazed up at him wanton through your lashes— you decided to dip your toe in. “Want them?” —your voice is sickly sweet syrup which he eagerly swallows. His adams apple bobbing in his throat, and your eyes blaze a trail along a thick pink scar, decorating the ivory column. You want to run your tongue up it.

He simply nods dumbly, a lock of dark hair falling across his heavy brow, wide chest rising with shallow breaths.

You ache for him, stepping inside as he closes the door, and you suddenly feel minuscule next to this behemoth of a man, the room far too cramped. You’d never been this close to him, or spoken more than a few words to him, he always kept his distance. His hands are brawny fists at his sides, still clenching your thong, as if he was unsure what to do with them. Veins and scars litter his knuckles. You wanted them on your neck.

You bite your lip, dying to feel his hands on you. In you.

He groans softly, as if you taunt him, merely by standing in front of him. You lick your lips, you want him to touch you: “Take them off then.”

He steps into you, hands rising to your waist, gripping you there, dwarfing your frame. The knowledge that he could bend you like a reed made you faint with desire. His fingers dig into the flesh at your ribs, blunt nails leaving crescent moons in their wake. You moan as he presses himself into you, thick cock straining against his boxers.

“You tease me.” His voice is cracked, as if your mere existence was unfair torment.

Your fingers trail up his abdomen, lightly over hard muscle, up his neck and into his hair. You ground your pelvis into his as your fingers fist his loose curls, tugging gently.

Your voice comes out a whisper. “I could hear you through the wall, König.” He grunts, blood rushing to his cheeks and his cock in both embarrassment and arousal, fingers inadvertently squeezing you tighter. Finding the swells of your ass, and he pulls the cheeks apart. You groan into him, the feeling of him splitting you open in such an unsatisfying way drives you wild. Your cunt is slick, clenching around nothing. His hips involuntarily buck softly into you and you can feel him, painfully hard. How long had he been edging. To you. Poor boy. You rise to your tip toes, open mouth kissing the ragged scar on his neck as you imagine what his cock looks like, thick and aching.

A crackled, “Please..” He trails off— its all he can muster. Unsure of what to ask for, unsure of what he wants you to do — of what he wants to do to you.

“Were you thinking about me while you touched yourself?” Your voice is an airy taunt. He looked away with a ragged breath, then back down at you, eyes searching your face, tongue wetting his lips. Then he nodded. Your stomach clenched. He smelled of smoke and musk, and you wanted to crawl inside his shirt and be skin to skin, consumed in him forever.

You rise up on your tip toes, fingers gripping his shirt to keep yourself grounded in him, and he leans down. A hair of buzzing space between your lips. Breaths raspy. His hand finds the base of your head and he pulls you towards him. Lips searing. He’s gentle, firm. You run your tongue along his lips and he opens his mouth to you. He tastes like mint and cigarettes. Intoxicating.

Your hands run over his bare stomach, muscles clenching under your light, fervent touch. Your hands find the hem of his shirt and hes pulling it off, muscles rippling below searing, scarred flesh, formed through constant use and necessity — through years of arduous work.

Your hands fall to his lower stomach and his hips buck forward. You snap the waistline of his pants and he grunts. You couldn’t get enough of his paradox. So terrifying yet gentle. Sensitive. More dangerous yet safer than any other man two heads shorter.

You find his cock, palming it through fabric, thick and aching. He raises his arm to stabilize himself against the wall behind you, as if he can barely stand. You want to make him feel good so fucking bad your mouth waters. You kneel down, and his eyes widen slightly. “You dont have—“

“Lemme make you feel good, König.” You gaze up at him lustfully, a behemoth of a man, bending at your touch. He lets out a raspy breath of air as you slide his boxers down, his hard cock slapping up against his stomach. Eager and painfully hard, he’s engorged a dark red, precum leaking from the slit, tricking down the underside, along a vein. Your cunt clenches. Fuck— hes thicker than you’ve seen before.

You lick a stripe up his length, along the vein bulging on the underside, soft skin. He bites his fist. Wrapping your lips around his mushroom head, a briny bitterness bites at you and you instinctively want to shove down your throat. It goes right to your head.

You take him deeper, hands gripping his thighs, solid and hot. Deeper, bobbing your head. A small whimper from above as his head drops forward; you can tell hes doing his best to keep from bucking into you, shoving himself down your throat, pale fingers digging into his palm. You looked up at him and he grunts— youre a vision gazing up at him, lashes clumped together with glistening tears.

His hand finds the back of your head, hand so large it palms your crown, swallowing you whole. Fingers softly intertwine with strands of hair. The sounds of you choking on him pornographic against the quiet of night, your cunt clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs, onto your heels for want of attention. All you wanted to do was take him deeper, bob harder, choke louder. His hand reflexively pushes your head down onto him, bobbing you faster. Faster, deeper. His caution gave way to brainless need— and you loved it. You sputter, gagging as he hits the back of your throat, jaw aching to accommodate him.

Hes grunting—“Im f-fuck, sorry—” His eyes were glassy, brows knitted with pleasure. Your cunt clenched as you looked up at him. One of your tits was bouncing out from the neckline of your top and his eyes flicked down to it, fingers tightening sharply at your hair, then back up to your shining, drool covered face. You an his angel, his nymph. The answer to a desperate, agonizing prayer.

He suddenly groans, pulling you harshly off his cock to keep from spilling down your throat. His heavy cock twitches above your face— a spurt of precum landing on your rosy cheek. He lets out a strangled sound, pornographic, he has to tear his eyes away, embarrassed, as you smile up at him. All you want to do was submit. Let him use you how ever he wanted, bend you like a reed in any which way he wanted. Stretch you to your limit, ruin you for any other man.

Hes breathing heavily as he smears it off with his thumb. You clutched his brawny hand, bringing it to your mouth. You suck the cum off his thumb and his cock jerks again at the sight of your delicate lips sucking his tanned, scarred finger.

Your voice is hoarse, throat raw, “I want you to use me Konig— however you want.” He looks down at you, expression pained and needy. “Can you do that for me.” He lowered his chin in a fucked out, decisive nod. You rose, and blushing as he tugs your shirt down reflexively, your other tit bobbing out. His eyes are glued to your chest, calloused hands dwarfing you as he gropes at them. Yyou whine as he squeezes them tight, his strength has you teetering deliciously on the precipice from pleasure to pain. You love it.

You tug your shorts down and he groans at the sight of you bare before him, at your smeared, puffy cunt. His hand instinctively drops to your slit. He drags a rough forefinger up and down it, watching in admiration as you buck when he catches on the split of your clit. Your head falls back against the wall, shallow moans in the quiet air.

His voice is quiet, “So wet. So wet for me.” Half question half statement. As if he is unsure whether this was simply a dream. Two of his fingers suddenly split you open and you keel into him, moaning at the divine stretch. Hell, two of his were four of yours.

He made no move to wait for you to adjust. Not because he was cruel but because he didn’t understand the extent of his size, didn’t realize how he stretched you. So thick, larger than life, gummy walls spasming as they attempt to take all of him in, be good for him.

“Fuck, so big, König.” His eyes were fixed on your face, as he slowly thrusts in and out, the obscene squelch making you dizzy. Your hands find his broad shoulders, nails gripping onto him to steady yourself— he hisses at the sharpness. He reaches in further, past the knuckle, pumping in and out. You angle your hips instinctively towards him and he brushes that spongey spot deep inside you. He smiled crookedly at a loud, airy moan, your fingers digging into his shoulders. His mouth fell open, mirroring your slack jaw.

Suddenly, another finger. Hes three fingers in and you would’ve died at the sounds you were making if you weren’t so fucked out. His name a chant on your lips.

He grunts at your clench around him, imagining it around his cock. “Schleib— so tight… and h-hot inside.” Heavy lidded eyes study yours, brows furrowed as he hits that spot, deep inside you. His rough, calloused thumb finds your clit and you jerked away in over stimulation, breasts press against his hard chest, hard nipples grazing his chest hairs. His other hand gropes your ass, pulling the cheeks apart as he works your puffy, sensitive cunt. Your embarrassingly wet, leaking down his wrist.

Your moans increase, “Have to be quiet Liebling,” his tone serious. You ignore him, mouth agape, sounds uncontrollable. Every rut of his fingers, every bounce of your chest forced the air out of your lungs.

You whine. Salty, cum stained fabric is shoved in your mouth. Your eyes widen.

Your thong. So he’d cum to you already, into your panties. It was disgusting, perverse. There is jest in his expression, eyes shining with a tease that has you clenching down on his fingers.

Your name, soft, tugs you back towards earth, your glassy vacant stare struggles to focus on him. You must’ve looked a mess. Hair mussed, tits hanging out from your top, thong stuffed into your mouth, but he looks down at you with a furrowed, ardent need. Below him you feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. You were his. His pupils were blown wide, drinking your glowing vision in like a man parched.

His voice comes out strained and hoarse, adams apply bobbing against his thick, scarred neck. “Please…” he trailed off. He wanted to take you, fill you, fuck you. His cock stood tall and waiting eagerly. But he didn’t know how to ask. His brows furrowed, breath ragged, “Please… let me.” His hands tighten painfully at your waist, as if clutching you making sure you stayed here, with him.

You wanted to hear him say it. You furrowed your brows in question, his makeshift gag keeping you from speaking. You brushed his cock, painfully hard with your hand. He bucked forward, the touch pushed him over the edge— “Let me have you.” His voice was rough, strained, as if there was a chance you’d say no. You shivered at his choice of words. Let me have you. Give yourself to me.

Gladly.

You nod up at him, eyes sparkling. You could have easily taken the thong out of your mouth but you hated to admit it turned you on— his attempt at dominance, calling instead of forcing your submission. He tugged your shirt over your head. He leans back, staring with glassy eyes, pupils blown wide, his gaze trailing down over your figure. His mouth parts as he if he is literally drinking you in. Normally you’d feel insecure at being so bare infront of a man but his expression is pure adoration, it makes you want to further expose yourself to him. Your insides crave his stare, his touch, his consumation.

Huge, hard, rippling muscle looms over you. His hardness exaggerates your softness. His immensity making you feel small, although you weren’t particularily so. And yet he feels safe. A shield from all outside forces lurking, waiting to pounce on you. His broad shoulders blocking out danger, bullets, peering eyes— the rest of the world. Here it was only him and you.

He gripped your waist, and lowered you to the bed. You were a rag doll in his iron grasp, pliable clay. Your only desire was to do his will. Make him feel good, let him revert to carnal impulse.

A halo of hair encircles your face on the hard mattress, cheeks glowing, eyes shining with desire. You are a vision. His vision. Splayed bare before him. You trust him fully, a killer to all but you. He suddenly feels as if you didn’t belong here. In his room, surrounded by cement, and rusty metal and dirty roughness. He wants to protect you, take you away, devour you whole.

Your thighs part instinctually, pussy bare and sopping for him. Your hand falls to your cunt, parting your lips for him in a V. His eyes are glued to your hole, drinking in your display. He tears his eyes away, as if to keep from orgasming right there, at sight of you, spread open for only him.

He guides his cock, painfully hard, to your aching hole, gently pressing it against the split. You moan with needy anticipation. He slides the mushroom head up, precum smearing across your lips. He groans incoherent german, “I’ve waiting so long for you Schatz… wanted you so bad… think about you all the time.” Your heart jolted at his words— his head caught on your clit and you groaned around your gag. His eyes were glued to your pretty little cunt, and he pressed into you, your thighs instinctively moved together at the feeling, his massive torso forced you open.

He grunts, forcing his way in. Hes big, bigger than you’d ever taken. And the stretch, the sharpness of the pain made the pleasure all that much better. Another inch. Another. You squirm, fingers clutching at the sheets. An airy moan, your torso keens upward. Another inch, you spasm around him— when he finally pressed himself all the way in, the air was knocked out of you. The hair at the base of his cock tickled your clit, you clench hard around him— he jolts with a barbed grunt.

Stuffed so full, stretched so deliciously— you feel wild.

He stayed there for a moment as you spasm around him, muscles straining to accommodate him— his hair fell over his forhead, mouth agape, breaths rough— desperate to ravage you, pound into you, put your furrowed brows and brimming tears hold him back. He stares at the connection. The way your skin stretches tight around him, taking him so well.

He pulls out slightly, your cunt clutching at him, unwilling to let him go. He begins rocking back and forth.

“So tight maus—Scheiße, so hot inside.” His gaze still on your little cunt, stretched so wide for him, straining to suck him back in. His eyes flicked to your breasts, watching them bounce lightly with each gentle thrust. Desperate for more, his pace quickens. He grunts at the bounce of your breasts.

Harder, faster.

His hard pelvis ruts into you. The wet slap is obscene, hips recoiling with each thrust. Your nails scratch as his back, mimicking the sting of your stretched cunt, straining to take him.

Deep grunts join your airy moans, and your head is light. No thoughts plague your mind, just pleasure, stretch, fullness. His pace was getting rougher, more needy.

You feel your orgasm building deep in your stomach, an iron hot clench waiting to uncoil. He presses your knees down, folding you in half, totally helpless against his bludgeoning into you. You are a ragdoll to his whims, a hole for his use. He’s gotten a taste and now he can’t seem to stop.

Your legs rise, knees bending against his chest— spreading you open embarrassingly wide. Your drooling. He’s impossibly deep— you feel him behind your ribcage, forcefully bludgeoning at your sternum. His hand falls to your lower stomach and he lets out a strangled sound at the feeling of his cock pressing up into his hand.

He’s repulsed at the roughness with which he pounds you, but he can’t seem to stop. “I’m so sorry, you’re so good for me liebling, i’m hurting you, i’m - ah!- so sorry.” His breaths become airier, more pathetic as his release nears.

You clench, pulling him down into you with grasping hands.

Closer. Deeper. More.

The sound of skin slapping together was wet, obscene. Disgusting. You’re close, hurtling towards a precipice. He grunts loudly.

From you, a muffled string of incoherent “Gonna come,”— it sounded distant, far away.

He pounds into you rasping a shamble of german and english, how you’re so small, so tight, stretched so wide, stuffed so full. He’s fucking drooling.

He’s hitting that spongey spot over and over again. Bludgeoning pleasure into you so forcefully you can’t help but take it. Engorged head pushing relentlessly towards the entrance of your cervix, so deep youd never felt anyone there before—cunt stretched so wide he’s splitting you in half with every thrust, breasts bouncing painfully with every rut.

It crashes over you like a wave, cunt spasming irregularly around him, breathy whines— impossibly tight. You writhe beneath him, pushing him away instinctively at the pleasure, but he barely feels it, his arms caging you beneath him as you ride out your orgasm.

You are a ragdoll, limbs spread, nails scratching blindly, a hole as he ruts into you, faster, jerkier, more erratic, still shaking with your orgasm, his colossal frame curling around you. He grunts, at the feeling of you tightening around him. You feel him twitch inside you. His breaths become airier, more pathetic as his release nears. Your wetness coats his pale lower stomach and rippling thighs. Brawny arms wrap around your body, holding you so fucking tight.

“So, -ah, so close- scheiße.” He lets out a pitiful groan as he stuffs himself into you with a final thrust, holding your pelvises flush as his cock lurches, mushroom head notching deep inside you. Your walls stutter around him, “C- cumming.” His voice cracks, cock jumping, spurting inside of you pitifully, impossibly deep— so deep you feel it in your guts, so deep it would be dribbling out for days. Hot sticky ropes pump into you, his hips stuttering against yours. Hes grunting into your neck, brows furrowed, eyes brimming with the tears of pleasure that mix with sweat. You fall limp, stuffed, belly full and warm with him, you sob at the delicious pressure.

He stills, shuddering slightly as your cunt clenches, the squelch making you blush. Its quiet, breaths against stillness.

Hes relaxed above you, your body still bent in half, cunt pressed up against his pelvis still agape, sucking him in. He rises, eyes soft and fucked out fall to your mouth, still stuffed with your panties. He groans at the look you give him, and pulls the panties out of your mouth.

He slowly fucks into you, a crackled groan at the feeling of shoving his cum back into you as you squirm— cunt clenching, spasming around him, always so willing, so good for him. His brows furrow as he pulls out, as if it pains him leave you. Your hole is gaping at the loss of him. Cum oozes from your red, abused slit, down towards the split of your ass. He stares, watching his cum spill out of you, committing the picture to memory, in case this is a one time thing. His face is flushed and sweaty, lips parted in focus. The image making him lightheaded.

He looks back up at your face, eyes heavy with pleasure. Fucked out, spread a mess before him, you look more beautiful than you ever had. You bring your legs together, more cum spilling out with a squelch.

Your voice was a hoarse whisper. “You can keep my thong.”

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c0llisiion · 7 months ago

Text

★ smut , chan x reader , degradation , overstimulation

★ w/c: 523

Chan was very cocky about pulling countless orgasms out of you. Too cocky. He would boast about how every time you came, be it using his mouth, fingers, or his colossal cock, his ego would get inflated.

And you couldn’t handle hearing that anymore since it hurt your ego. And so you decided to teach him a lesson. One that would crumble his high and mighty ego by faking your orgasm. It was the most perfect plan to make him finally shut up.

Or so you would think.

Chan looked at you confused. His thrusts halting and his grip on your waist tightening.

You let out the fakest moan not even a few minutes in, and Chan caught onto that easily.

That wasn’t the way you moaned at all. That wasn’t even the way your body reacted when he pulled an orgasm out of you.

“Did you just-?” He asked, slightly offended. You pretend to catch your breath and mirror his confusion.

“Did I what?” You play coy.

Chan huffed and shook his head. “Dont play dumb with me y/n.” He pulled his cock out, earning a small whine from you. He leaned over your body, one of his hand next to your head, making sure he doesn’t fall on you.

“Im not ch-“ Before you could reply, you felt 2 thick fingers plunge into your hole, making you groan loudly.

His fingers started fucking in and out of you fast. Rough thumb drew circles on your poor clit. “Wanna fake your orgasm? I'm going to pull a hundred out of you.” He growled against your ear.

He moaned and gripped his wrist. “C-chan.. ffffuckkk…” His fingers penetrated your gushy walls. Your pussy was getting so wet, to the point it was audible.

“If you wanna fake it, make it believable.” His fingers curled into your g-spot. Your stomach caved in, and it felt like air got sucked out of your body.

“Dumb whore.” At his vile words, you couldn’t help but find your first release. Your pussy spasmed and clenched around his fingers as milky white liquid gushed out of your hole.

Chan smirked against your shoulder. “Just like that. You’re such a dumb slut. You really think you can fool me?” He presses his thumb against your clit, making you moan out pornographically.

You stared into his eyes with your glassy ones as he pulled another orgasm out of you. His fingers continuing their relentless assault on your sensitive pussy.

You shook your head and whimpered. You were already tired from the two orgasms, but Chan wasn’t going to stop. If he wanted to pull a hundred orgasms out of you? He would.

“What? too much? Too much for your little stupid brain to handle? Too much for your fucking pussy? Thought you didn’t like me fucking you? Isn't that why you faked it?” He asks tauntingly.

You shake your head vigorously and mumble out soft ‘no’s’ and ‘please’. Your eyes brimming with tears and your thighs quivering.

“I'm not gonna stop until I say. So I want you to be a good little girl and keep cumming for me. Understood?”

A/N: js a little Drabble to start off the last month :3 hope you like it! Send in your rqs! (Rlly need ideas huhu)

#stray kids smut #౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ yun’s silly fics #straykids smut #stray kids #straykids bang chan #stray kids bang chan #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader #skz smut #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz x reader #bang chan x you #bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #divider by @/cafekitsune

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nightingale-prompts · 2 months ago

Text

Worship Me- DCxDP prompt

Yes, it's slightly horny. Sue me!

Was there anyone in this family that didn't attract crazy? Tim would like to say that it was some more than others but the track record is horrendous for each of them.

Don't ask him how he got here. It was a blur. Mission. Altar. Cursed Mirror.

But all that doesn't matter anymore because currently in what could only be described as an obsidian palace.

The palace floats in the void like a jagged crown. Its structure defies logic—spires twist and spiral in impossible geometries, as though grown rather than built. Every surface is carved from seamless black obsidian that drinks in the light of distant stars, causing the palace to shimmer with eerie inner reflections, like shadows trapped beneath glass.

The entrance is a colossal gate shaped like an open eye, rimmed with glowing runes that pulse with alien intent. Inside, the vast halls echo with silence too deep to be natural. The floors gleam with a mirror-sheen, reflecting not just one's image, but fragments of memories, glimpses of alternate selves, or ghostly figures passing just out of reach.

Chambers are suspended in open vacuum, tethered by bridges of crystalline light or magnetic arcs. Gravity bends strangely; a single step can carry you across entire rooms or into hidden dimensions nested within the architecture.

Tim had memorized every detail of this place in the days since he arrived. Most of the time he was allowed to go about his day staying and learning about this place. He wasn't imprisoned, he had to wait for the portal to open again in a few weeks. But Tim had caught the interest of the ruler of the palace.

Now Tim sat on the edge of the floating bed. It's heaped with a sea of plush pillows in shades of midnight blue, silver, and deep violet, each embroidered with celestial patterns.

How he got to this point—he may have...had a few conversations with who he assumed was the prince. The person who he thought was the king was actually his guardian. Tim just...flirted a little to get a bit of information on this place. Danny—the prince—had been more than receptive.

It might have gone too far but here we are.

Now he was in the bedroom of who he still assumed was the crown prince with said prince currently on his lap with his lips on Tim's neck. Tim is unable to move because he believes that if they get caught Tim might end up beheaded for putting his Richard where it does not belong. Hell, they probably already know with the all-seeing eyes everywhere and the fact that the beings in this dimension phase through walls so using the door was just a polite formality.

"Stop thinking. I can practically hear your thoughts." Danny growled nipping at Tim's neck between kisses.

"Then you can te—ll, haa. Fuck! Your hand. Too fast." Tim gasped.

Danny pulled away as he grabbed Tim by the chin and made him look into his eyes. Those hypnotizing green eyes.

"Do you want this?" Danny asked his eyes narrowed.

"...Yes," Tim couldn't lie.

"What do you want?" Danny smiled his sharp elongated incisors showing.

Tim remained silent his hand pressed against the small of the princes back.

"Good, you don't have to say a word. Focus on me. Think of me. Nothing else." His hand wrapped around Tim's throat. "Worship me as your new god."

Prince—king—these words where actually meaningless titles for Danny. He was not these petty and lowly things. He was a god and he craved worship. Even if it came in the form of a single human devoted to him. How incredibly lucky that a suitable human came here. Clockwork says it was best to let the human go back to his dimension and hopefully share his experience so that others will worship Danny. He had no interest in letting his new priest go so easily, not without a parting gift.

"I wonder how it must feel to bed your new master."

#lock me up #dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #danny fenton #dp x dc prompt #tim drake #deadtired #brain dead

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luveline · 5 months ago

Note

hiiii was hoping you could write reader tries makeup for the first time and is a bit self-conscious about it with poly! Just something sweet and fluffy. Thank you, love your other fics btw.

The article you read said that this sort of stuff is best to attempt in small amounts. If you aren’t used to foundation, try a liquid concealer and a skin tint —that way you can spread it as thin as you like. It says foundation, skin tints, or any kind of face makeup tends to look ‘cakey’ at first because you aren’t used to it and neither is your skin, but makeup doesn’t have to look perfect up close. Honestly, it’s a friendly, assuring article, and it actually gives you the confidence to buy a skin tint, a concealer, a mascara, and a lip gloss. There’s even a cherry-scented finishing spray that promises to melt everything together.

You figure you’ll try it all while the boys are out. That way, if it looks too cakey or bad or just plain silly, you can wipe it away and hide the evidence.

You wet your little sponge as the magazine says. You’ve moisturised and waited for it to dry down. With a breath, you smooth the skin tint into the back of your hand and start to dot it into your face gently, a little all over. Acting fast, you pick up your sponge and dab it across your cheeks.

It’s nerve-wracking, though it’s not like you can’t fix it if it goes wrong. You feel embarrassingly out of your depth, and you would prefer this goes well.

The first issue is your nose. It looks a little cakey at the nostrils, the skin tint, so you wipe it with your finger and make it worse. Eyes wide, you dab it again with your sponge and relax when it spreads out.

Neck, you think. The magazine said don’t forget to smooth it down your neck, or you’ll get a ‘tarty’ line. You dab it down and assess in the mirror.

… it doesn’t look too bad.

Smiling gently, you press a little of the lip gloss onto the back of your hand and debate the next tip. It’s a sheer one, and it can give a ‘pop’ of colour to your cheeks if you’re careful. Why not, you think eventually, tapping a little of it into the bell of your cheeks.

Things are definitely going too well. You look odd, maybe, but the sponge is great. Everything smooths out.

Mascara is much harder than the skin stuff. Your eyes water as the wand approaches. It takes ages to actually touch the mascara to your eyelashes, and then it looks sort of clumpy, spider-webby, but the article said you can wipe it off and try again. The second time you almost blind yourself, teeth gritted as you realise there’s mascara all under your eye. You take it off with a wet-wipe and dap the skin around your eyes with your sponge to fix the mess. It looks darker, still, but eventually you get the mascara on and your eyelashes look longer and…

You smile at yourself in the mirror.

You look really cute.

You turn your face one way and then another, smile growing wider. Your skin looks even, your eyes look bigger, and— the gloss! You pick it up and squeeze some onto your lips, rubbing them together, cleaning the corners with your pinky finger.

The door slams open downstairs with a colossal bang, and you jump so hard you send the mirror careening across and off of the bed. With the open door comes a wave of noise, laughter loud and ringing.

“What have you boys done now?” you murmur to yourself.

You leave your makeup on the bed. For a second, you debate hiding it back in the pink drugstore bag and wiping the makeup off before heading downstairs. You look cute, but what if they don’t like it? None of them have ever told you to wear it before. Sirius wears it more often than you. He might have a laugh when he sees it.

“Baby!” one of them yells, laughing hard enough to disguise their voice. “You have to come down here!”

You fret. That’s Sirius calling, his giggling sweet enough to make you wish you were sitting in his lap, but suddenly you’re overthinking things. Just because you think the makeup looks alright doesn’t mean it really does, and the boys are already laughing. You don’t wanna give them another reason.

“Are you up there?” Sirius calls again. “Sweetheart?”

“I’m coming!” you call back.

“I was getting worried you weren’t here! Come on, you have to see this!”

You go without thinking. At the bottom of the stairs, James and Sirius are crowded together, their laughter beyond reason —there are tears streaming down James’ face from laughing so hard, and Sirius is clutching him as though worried he’s gonna fall over.

Remus is laughing too, but he’s not so obscene about it. “Hey, Y/N,” he says nicely, “you okay?”

“What’s so funny?”

Sirius unfolds a newspaper you hadn’t noticed clutched in his arm. “Every time I look I’m sure I’ll piss myself.”

You all look down at the newspaper. Immediately, James is whining and laughing so hard you reach out to steady him, laughing yourself as he falls into your shoulder. “Christ,” he squeezes out. “Life is so– so perfect.“

On the front page of the local Daily Argus is a full-colour photo of Lucius Malfoy being arrested, two police officers behind him, his wrists cuffed and his face wane of colour.

DON'T THINK HIS FATHER WILL BE HEARING ABOUT THIS ONE —Lucius Malfoy, 26, business owner and young entrepreneur arrested for fraud and conspiracy yesterday night at his offices in the Sacred Families building. Malfoy, when asked to give a statement, said his father will be hearing about this, whatever that means.

“But what’s–”

Sirius points at Lucius’ crotch, pointing out that his trousers are slipping down his thighs, and he’s wearing boxers with his girlfriend Narcissa’s face on them. Narcissa, as in, Sirius’ older cousin.

“What the fuck,” you say with a giggle of your own. You hate Sirius’ family and anyone related to them, so seeing Lucius down for the count is especially satisfying. “You can see his–”

“I know!” Sirius almost screams, his laugh increasingly high-pitched.

You giggle and begin wiping the tears off of James’ cheek. “You guys are too much,” you murmur.

“We came right back to show you,” Sirius says.

“I’m thrilled.” You tip James’ head up to finish cleaning off his cheeks. “That’s so funny, you’re terrible,” you say, beaming as James finally tears his gaze from the paper. The mirth in his expression settles, but his smile does this strange wobble before he’s holding you by the back of the neck gently.

“Fucking hell,” he says.

“Don’t–”

“Fucking– You’re lovely,” he blurts out, tipping your head back, all the manner of someone who’s just struck gold. “What have you done?”

“It’s just makeup.”

This piques the interest of the other two, Sirius’ laughter finally petering out, and Remus stepping into the light to have a look. “Aw,” Remus says, “you look–”

“Fucking amazing,” Sirius interrupts, his head tipping to the side, his vengeful glee transformed into what can only be described as adoration, “you look fucking amazing, shit–”

“Her cheeks,” James says, which should make you laugh, especially when Sirius and Remus both hum simultaneous agreement, like there really is something special about them.

“It’s just– I’ve never– it looks silly,” you get out.

“It does not.” James rubs a hand down your shoulder, as though cleaning you up to better show you off. “Now this is front page material. When did you even learn to do this?”

“I– today,” you say, heat emanating from your chest to the very tips of your ears.

“It looks great!” James says, cupping your cheek.

“Well don’t mess it up, Prongs!” Sirius says.

“It’s okay, it’s not like it’s for anything,” you say.

“It’s for my camera,” Sirius says, attempting to slip past James to get upstairs.

Thankfully, Remus prevents him. “Stop,” Remus says.

“Please,” you second.

“I need to remember!”

“I’ll do it again,” you promise.

Three boys melting. “You will?” James asks softly.

You tip your face forward. “Sure, especially if I look better–”

“Hey, hey, who said that?” Remus asks.

“Don’t be silly,” James says.

“I really should have a picture,” Sirius says. “We can blow it up like a poster girl. We’ll have it in the bedroom.”

“That is not funny,” Remus says.

“Perfectly chaste!” Sirius denies. “Though how I’m expected to think chaste thoughts when she looks like that is another thing. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s practically obscene.”

“Sirius.”

Sirius gives you a smile, “I’m just teasing,” he says, though there’s a little bit of something in his dark eyes that says otherwise, just enough to make you shiver, pleased.

James goes back to holding your cheek, and it’s much too warm now —you break away from the lot of them and make your way to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Remus asks, to your surprised delight.

“I need a drink,” you say.

“Well, I’ll get you one,” Sirius says.

“That’s okay, I think I can do it myself.”

“But should you have to?”

From behind you, you hear the subtle jab of an elbow and the less subtle screech of pain. “Fuck off, Prongs, you know she looks insane.”

A boyish giggle echoes. “Front page for sure.”

A more relaxed hum. “And now she’ll never wear it again, ‘cos of all the fuss.”

You wouldn’t necessarily agree. It’s not like they don’t make you feel beautiful, Sirius stood in the doorway clutching his heart the day before yesterday when you got out of the shower citing a sudden shock from how “otherworldly” you looked while your hair was wet, James calls you beautiful more than he uses your name, and you catch Remus looking at you all pleased and flushed multiple times a week, but it’s still different to have had them all at the same time. So yeah, you’ll wear makeup again. You might even reapply the lip gloss you’ve nibbled off. Just to see what they think.

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bigwishes · 2 months ago

Text

Jabari's Expansion

Jabari was a total muscle slut, he had spend years toning his body to be the perfect online magnet for men to click on and feed money into his accounts. He spent 20 minutes a day filming himself posing in tight underwear, angling himself perfectly to show off the goods.

Jabari finished uploading his latest series of pictures and instantly turned off notifications and put his phone on silent. Whilst he loved the attention and even got off on the flood of likes and comments he hated getting messages from guys begging for more.

Everyone was beneath him in his mind, they were only worth the money they'd pay to his only fans.

Jabari loaded up his Trindr and began swiping looking for his hook up for the night. It was almost an hour of him denying man after man, nobody was hot enough in his mind, no where near as hot as him. They were too skinny, or fat, too short, or too much of a princess. He was almost tempted to accept some just to message them to get their act together if they wanted to even exist in his feed.

An ad appeared in his feed "Better yourself today!". Jabari instantly swiped it away, laughing at himself that you couldn't improve perfection. After the ad a guy popped up that almost had Jabari drooling and chewing on his own lip.

The man was a huge black bodybuilder named Amir and his profile was him posing in a tiny pair of stage trunks that showed off his manhood perfectly. Jabari accepted him and "MATCH" flashed up on the screen. He instantly opened the messages.

"Hey there Amir, you look so damn fine in your profile"

"Cheers bro, you look stunning in yours, love your body handsome"

Jabari licked his lips, knowing he had this guy in the bag just like every other man that came before him, soon he'd have his own muscled beast to wait on him hand on foot. He snapped a photo of his bicep and sent it to Amir.

"Well if you love it so much why don't you come over and worship it"

Amir quickly sent back an image of himself flexing, his giant bicep taking up most of the photo, almost the size of his head.

"You might be a lil small for that baby, why dont you come feel what real muscle feels like"

Jabari's blood boiled as he quickly unmatched himself with Amir. He had never been so embarrassed, men would kiss the ground he walked on for a chance to go on a date with him, he hand thousands of guys begging from him to do anything to them, but to have some meat head say he should worship him had crossed a line.

Swiping away a warning flashed up on his screen "no more potential matches in your area". Jabari rolled his eyes and tried to reload the app. The ad "Better Yourself Today" appeared again, he tried to swipe it away but he accidentally pressed it instead.

Redirected to a page it had his profile photo already uploaded. A quick loading circle appeared and Jabari's profile picture disappeared, replaced with a hyper realistic 3D render of Jabari himself. Shrugging it off and just assuming it was some of that new generative AI crap. A small text box appeared on screen, "Request Your Improvements: Limits remaining: 1"

Jabari smirked thinking about how hot it'd be to be bigger than Amir and crush his head to the ground with his foot, forcing all the power of a colossal tree trunk leg, pressing down on a lesser man until he begs to be let back up.

He typed into the grey text box

"Make me the biggest colossal bodybuilder, a giant amongst men, and Olympian god of strength and muscle mass. Every man would be forced to look up at me, they'd be swallowed by my massive shadow, I'd get attention from everyone around me, I'd never be unseen or unnoticed, hell men would have to submit and listen to my booming voice"

A loading circle appearing on the app in front of the 3D model of Jabari, "in progress" was posted under it. Jabari waited for a monent, until 2 minutes had passed by and he lost interest, he rolled his eyes and closed the website, instead opting to open his social media apps to see the flood of comments from guys asking, wishing and begging to be with him.

Jabari's hand found its way to his dick as he began stroking and pleasuring himself just to the idea of men begging to be with him, he was a god amongst men and they'd be lucky if he ever even looked in their direction.

a few hours had passed by of him enjoying his own company and he had passed out in his bed. He dreamed of being bigger, taking out a giant of a man like Amir only for him to look like a twink next to him, he dreamed of trapping him in a headlock, listing to him beg to be let free, hearing him admit that Jabari was bigger than him, hotter than him, more of a man than he could ever hope to be.

he let out a deep moan in his sleep, completely unaware of his bed creaking as it adjusted to new weight. He stretched completely unconscious, curling his toes as his spine got longer each second he extended himself. His shoulders got wider as meat packed itself onto his entire frame, at least 40 pounds of muscle all over. He let out another moan as his dick grew as he got hard.

Jabari was startled awake by his 7am alarm, he had never felt so deeply entrenched in sleep it was almost like he forgot he'd have to wake up at all. Reaching up to rub his face he noticed the size of his bicep, some how it had almost tripled over night, he quickly sat up and flexed both his arms, admiring the new strength. Looking down at his chest he bounced his pecs seeing how much thicker they had grown, below he noticed his thighs, thick and solid but the main attraction was in between. He was always blessed in the bedroom but this was new. His dick was soft and still almost made it to his knee. Jabari almost started drooling over the thought of playing with his new toy, but he stopped himself, remembering the hour long skin care routine he had to do to keep his perfect complexion for his fans, and the preparation he had to put together for the photos he'd take later on at night.

Whilst excited about the new size he had packed on a twinge of worry entered his mind.

"how the fuck did this happen, how'd I get so...big?"

He suddenly remembered the ad from last night and opened up his browser pages hoping it was saved as a window when he closed it. He saw the title of the page "Better Yourself Today!". He opened it and smirked seeing the 3D model of himself but today it was bigger, showing him as he was this morning, but the grey loading circle was still on the screen and the word "processing" was still beneath

He clicked on the grey request box and a pop up appeared "unable to request changes when changes are in progress"

"HOLY FUCK" Jabari smirked and laughed "I thought this was just a shitty AI art thing fuck, I could be a literal god with this"

His dick started to fill with blood and he hard over the thought of men begging for him to change them, forcing them to worship him for a chance to change themselves.

He snapped a photo of himself sitting on the end of his bed, remembering he had requested to become a bodybuilder and realised he probably wasn't done.

He cringed a little at the thought, yes he wanted to sleep with Amir, and liked the idea of being big enough to dominate and crush him but he had never wanted to be one of those Roided stage pigs, he even thought that most guys that got themselves to be professional bodybuilders who competed looked fucking disgusting but he shrugged it off, knowing he'd probably only be like that for a few hours and then he'd change however he wished when the processing was done. He gave his arm another flex and thought about requesting to stay this size once it was all over.

Jabari stood up and instantly felt his underwear sitting snug around his ass, he looked back and saw it too was bigger, thick and fat with muscle, his already perfect bubble butt was now almost twice as big, it was always something his fans loved photos of and he laughed thinking about how much attention it was gonna get now it looked like this.

a few hours had passed and Jabari was preparing to go to the gym, only to find he was struggling to get ready without running out of breath, looking down he could see his feet had gotten bigger, both in length, width and thickness, grow to handle his new size. He noticed when he first started getting ready he had grown to at least 6.4ft but now he was starting to doubt it, thinking he was probably 6.6 or maybe he had grown even taller in the few hours he'd been awake.

As he walked he felt his thighs rubbing together, slamming into each other the muscles bouncing and grinding. He took a moment to examine himself in the mirror. He had definitely gotten bigger and was now getting bigger than he ever wanted to be, he frowned and let out a scowl.

"fuck, hope this shit ends soon any bigger and Im gonna start to look like one of those gross freaks in the gym"

Even though he was started to get disgusted by his size he still couldn't help but reach into his pants and play with his fattening dick.

"wouldn't mind this staying though, fuck guys would probably scream if I got to really use this haha" he joked and he stroked him semi.

"fuck, cant show the goods on camera tonight, I look too different, probably just gotta get some footage of my pits in the gym, maybe some feet pics for the freaks tonight probably some ab stuff too" Jabari thought.

He was starting to get nervous about how much longer this was going to continue, he opened up the web page and still saw it was processing his request. He looked at the 3D model of his body and even spun it around.

"fuck, yeah, I'm getting way too big"

Jabari continued to get ready but ran into his next problem. He didn't mind his workout shirt not making it to his waist, he often showed off his abs in the gym, but he struggled to get his shorts up over his ass. He stood side on to the mirror letting out subtle moans of complaint as he bounced himself up and down pulling it up by the waist band, he felt it as it strained tight against his ass and bulge before in finally slipped over. He felt the fabric struggling over his magnificent bubble ass and saw his thick tree trunk man hood predominantly hugging along his thigh and waist in the mirror.

"damn...gotta be careful. move too fast and I think ill split em"

Jabari struggled his entire car ride to the gym, he had to pull over multiple times to readjust his seat, if he didn't know any better he could have sworn he was growing the entire way there. When he finally got there he struggled to pull himself out of his car when all of a sudden a loud tearing noise. He lifted up his left arm to see his shirt had split down his rips, showing off his massive lat and juicy pec, he reached over with the opposite hand to assess the damage when another massive ripping noise rip out and he felt the fabric rip across his back. Barely able to lift it off himself he was simply forced to tear off the fabric and walk into the gym shirtless.

Walking into the gym he instantly felt the warmer air on his skin, outside was cold as fuck due to it being the middle of winter and whilst the gym was air conditioned it was still warmer that the 10 degrees outside. Jabari's body naturally relaxed, no longer staying tense trying to keep warm, whilst he was enjoying the controlled temperature he didn't notice the beads of sweat starting to form on his back and shoulders.

"Hey, shirts on or no entry!"

The gym manager called out from across the desk,

"Oh umm, sorry dude wardrobe malfunction..haha"

"Doesn't matter man, grab a shirt or go home"

Jabari was furious on the inside, wanting to put him in his place, he could only think about how poor the bastard probably was, how he didn't deserve to even speak to him...but he also didn't want any more attention, a few people were already looking at him and he was embarrassed by how big he had gotten, so he grabbed a tank top from the merch rack and bought it before going into the gym.

Feeling that he had gotten heavier, noticing how much he had to breath just to keep this big body moving the first stop was the changing room to check the damage. Standing in front of the changing room mirror he was shocked to see he had almost doubled in size since he had left the house.

but that wasn't all, other things were starting to change. His toes were starting to curl in his shoes as they pressed against the edge, his pits normally always shaven were now starting to get pitch back hair grow in a tangled formation. His beard was getting thicker and sweat was now starting to run down his massive muscular arms.

He wanted to go home so nobody could see him in this disgusting body but when he pulled out his phone to check the website he still saw the same grey spinning circle and the same words "processing" then it hit him, he requested to become a bodybuilder so maybe if he acted like one the process would be complete...

Jabari took the blue tank he had just bought and put it own, it was a struggle he could barely get his arms above his head and manoeuvring this monstrosity of a body into a shirt proved to be a challenge, when he finally got it on he instantly felt the fabric vacuum and stick to his back, the sweat acting like an adhesive. Dark circles started to form under his pits and wing shaped lats as the sweat dripped down, anyone would think he had already been working out for hours.

Jabari set out onto the gym floor and did a handful of exercises but decided to finish he workout off with a bang to really convince the app he had become a bodybuilder. He waddled over to the bench press area, they were all taken but two guys were just chatting and leaning on the equipment,

"Hey ladz, you two done with the bench?" Jabari asked

The two didn't hear him, too interested in their own conversation to even notice anyone else, Jabari went to ask again but this time louder but as he opened his mouth his stomach groaned and he seemed to automatically cock his mouth open and to the side...

BUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRPPPPPPP!!!!

The two men finally looked up and saw the gigantic 300lsb black man letting out a disgustingly loud booming belch in their direction, they stared at him waiting for him to say something...

"You, two, **HIC** you ladz *UUURP* done with the bench?

"damn, all yours bro" One guy replied

The other guy covered his nose and screwed up his face, struggling to breath the stench that was now radiating from Jabari. The two men grabbed their things and walked past him with screwed up faces not hiding their disgust.

Jabari sat down, instantly feeling the sweat on his ass seep through his shorts almost sticking him to the bench, he opened his mouth to say thanks to the men for giving him their spot, but once again he cocked open his mouth automatically letting out another booming belch.

People turned to look at the man who was making all the noise and Jabari lowered his cap,

"fuck...what is going on with me" he whispered to himself.

Finishing up at the gym he made his way to the exist, his shoes so coated with sweat they squelched with each step. walking through the lobby people turned their heads to see where the horrible man odour was coming from. Two trainers were having a conversation in the office behind a glass window, Jabari didn't even notice them but he suddenly felt weighed down as his stomach loudly groaned and he cocked open his mouth

BWOOOOORRRRPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!

unable to stop it he let out another belch, so deep and loud is practically rattled the class, but it was loud enough for the two trainers to hear and stop their conversation and stare at the freak in the middle of the lobby.

whether he realised it or not Jabari only felt compelled to keep moving forward once everyone was staring at him. He continued out to his car, the cold air was even more harsh as it hit against his sweat soaked skin.

Standing next to his car he was fumbling with his keys when he felt his curled toes press even harder against the front of his sneakers when suddenly his watched one big toe tear through, then the other. His shoes felt tighter and tighter by the second. He finally unlocked the car door and struggled to force himself inside, finally thumping down into the seat he watched his feet sitting in the peddle bay as they grew, and grew, tearing out of his shoes. not just a little but completely tearing them apart, his toes broke out of the front, the sides of his feet split the shoes and tore the fabric at the top apart. Even his ankles swells splitting the heel support. Jabari's eyes started to water, he had gotten used to the slow release of his stench in the gym but his feet were so ripe it made the air sour and he was forced to roll the window down.

Getting back home Jabari practically fell out of his car when he opened the door, all that mass forcefully compacted in such a tight space for 20 minutes he had an imprint of the pattern on the door and the handle pressed into his bicep. Jabari laid there on his hands and knees in his driveway, feeling the weight as he had once again gotten even bigger. After a few minutes of enjoying the ice cold breeze cool his over heating body, he forced himself back up and waddled into his house.

Once again he pulled out his phone to check the website and was greeted with the same disappointing sight of the grey circle and the word processing.

"fuck...when will it end, when will I be big enough"

Jabari moaned as he felt his skin stretch, becoming even tighter and more stretch marks appearing across his body as he got even bigger. Sweat ran down his back and was so dense it was dripping off his face, he hadn't even been inside for 5 minutes and already the smell was starting to become too much for him. He slowly stomped through the house, so big he was only able to take one step every 10 seconds. He opened his glass sliding door and walked into his back yard.

Taking deep breaths his chest heaved up and down as his gigantic lungs filled with fresh air. Jabari was blissfully unaware of his neighbours in their own yards, but they'd soon be aware of him.

Jabari's stomach let out a loud gurgling noise and he winced in pain. Looking down he could barely see past his pecs but watched as his abs were slowing growing forward. The skin on his lats and stomach was stretching so tight strech marks spontaneously formed on his lats and pelvis.

"aaaa...AAAAHHH FUCK" Jabari cried out in pain

"W-WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO MEE AAAAAHHH!!" he placed his hands on his gut, hoping itd do something but all he could feel was his extremely defined abs become less defined as they were forcefully stretched out

His stomach loudly gurgled, and he felt a strange glugging sensation, the pain was almost unbearable and tears formed in the corner of his eyes. His muscles were so big, his stomach so bloated he couldnt eve touch his fingertips together when resting it on his abs.

BUUUUUUUUURRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPP!!

uuuuurrppppp

BURP!!

BWOOOOOOOOOPPPP!!!!!!

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRPPPPPPP!!!

Jabari couldn't stop, 5 minutes went by of him belching and burping only interrupted by the occasional moan of pain until finally he was interrupted by one of his neighbours calling him out from over the fence

"BRO TAKE SOME FUCKING PEPTO OR SOMETHING YOU PIG"

Flooded with embarrassment and shame Jabari quickly waddled back into his house moaning in discomfort. As soon as he shut the glass door and nobody could hear him his stomach began to feel normal, the bloating seemed to slow...

BUUUUUuuuuuuUUUUUuuuuuuUURRRrrrrrRRRRRrrrrrrRRRRPPPPPP!!!!

Jabari grimaced at the sound of the most disgusting belch he had ever heard, especially leaving his own mouth but his stomach had at least deflated so he wasn't in pain anymore.

His phone vibrated and he opened it to the wonderful sight of the website finally saying "TRANSFORMATION LOADED!" Jabari let out a sigh of relief and clicked on the grey box

"shrink me down back to my original size"

the grey loading circle appeared for half a second and a pop up appeared on screen "Transformation requests remaining: 0 cannot complete"

Jabari started to panic as he manically typed it every way he could think of but each time he got the same answer, even after completely reloading the website and uploading an old image of himself the 3D model simply changed to resemble him as he was now and it always said the same thing "Transformation requests remaining: 0 cannot complete"

Jabari looked at the 3D model of himself, over grown, sweating, bloated. He looked up from his phone screen at his lounge room mirror. Disgusted by his reflection...realising he was stuck like this..

So big it was difficult to move, Sweating so bad everyone noticed his presence enter a room, Cursed to bloat and belch until everyone around was staring at him in disgust,

Jabari was stuck like this, A disgusting fucking bodybuilder.....

#male transformation #muscle #muscle transformation #male tf #tf story #transformation #gay transformation #reality change #musk #muscle morph

402 notes · View notes

gldrushh · 3 months ago

Text

GUILTY AS SIN? | JK | PART 𝐈𝐈

"Jungkook remembered how to make his feet stay put and you learned that some things are worth the mess, that love sometimes comes too late, but longing never does."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, smut, fluff

→W.C 17.10k

→ Warnings oc is going through it, Jungkook is a flirty menace, ceo jk, lovesick jk, simp jk, possessive Jungkook, jealous Jungkook, rich people lunch time!!, mentions of blood and injury, mentions of drinking, yoongi makes an appearance, he has no lines, namjin, yearning?, bathroom escapdes, silly banter, sexual tension kissing, making out, explicit sexual content, fingering, an almost handjob, penetrative sex, dirty talking, soft Dom jk, praising, creampie, bathroom sex, fluff (you don't even wanna know my definition of fluff), hoseok is a victim, minho is haunting the narrative as he should, angst (sorry girls It’s my brand 😝), doomed siblings

→ Playlist dress by Taylor swift, I can't be more in love by the 1975, in the woods somewhere by hozier, I can see you by Taylor swift, last words of a shooting star by mitski

→A/N Hii! Hello!! First things first: THANK YOU. Like, thank you in all caps lock. The love you all poured into Guilty as Sin honestly made me giggle to myself more than once. Every comment, message, share, and heart, It meant the absolute world to me. You’ve made this messy little story so much more than just words. You made it matter. And it was just so disrespectful of me to keep you waiting so long for a part 2 that wasn't really in my plans but yeah. Life got a little too unbearable, the plot bunnies misbehaved (you know how they are). But I really hope it’s worth the wait and not me just reheating my own nachos 😅😅 This is also most probably the last thing I'm gonna write for this story, at least for a long while. Thank you for reading. Thank you for being patient and most importantly,thank you for being kind. I love you and please do let me know your thoughts. Message me. Tell your plants. I'm all ears.

| PART 1 | PART 2 |

Mellow is the companion of church. Some would conclude that the church is composed for the quiet even.

They'd argue that it's different from sitting in the silence.

Silence is one thing and quiet is another. silence is an absence, they'd say. Quiet is presence, they'd add. Here more precisely, it's heavy and arcadian and holy.

There was something about the air inside here. Perhaps the solemn, how it was colossal, drenched in allegiance that made the world outside feel far-flung. It could be the height of the towering arches, the glow of candlelight flickering against stained glass, the low murmur of prayers threading through the smother.

The light is softer here too, filtered through the glass. Deadwood of crimson and gold painting benches and pressed shoulders. Candle flames sway slightly, flickering like they know secrets. Maybe they remember everyone who ever sat here in search of something they couldn't name.

You tell yourself this stillness is what you needed. That this space; sacred and slow would help clear your head. But the truth is, the quiet here doesn’t comfort. It exposes. Peels you open from the inside out.

You hear too much in it. Feel too much in it.

Even on days when you could still hear easy synchronicity. Hands clasped, laughter spilling into the cool air. Especially on days like these.

Or maybe you're mixing that up with something else. Something that has been coloring your days blue for a while now.

Something that doesn't pauses for holidays, doesn't make exceptions for birthdays, doesn't even bother to step aside for just one evening and let one breathe.Does not give way to leaded glass windows or the allay of a congregation. No, it lingers, seeps into places meant for worship, curls around the edges of pews and prayers alike. Certainly doesn’t soften on afternoons like these. Even though the flowers hadn’t wilted.

You hadn’t given it much thought.

Or rather, you had avoided thinking about it altogether.

Perhaps that is why, sitting here now—hands folded neatly in your lap, shoulders drawn tight—yet you feel it, heavy as ever.

Your mother-in-law had insisted you come, refusing to leave you alone, her soft-spoken request leaving little room for refusal. Mira had chimed in too, linked her arm through yours with a smile that tried to coax you back into the land of the living, or like she was letting you in on some joke only the two of you shared.

And so, here you were.

Church had never been a place you frequented, even when Minho was alive—he hadn't been particularly devout, preferring to spend bargaining his way through the sunday market and believing in the way the sky could shift from blue to violet in the span of a single evening—though you both had come when his mother had asked you to, of course, had sat beside him in these very pews, but never like this.

Not without him whispering some irreverent joke about heaven’s waiting list, about how maybe angels got bored too.

But now, you found yourself here more often.

If only because there was no reason not to because what waited you was a quiet apartment, a neatly made bed you hardly slept in and a day untouched by plans, by purpose, by anything remotely significant.

Also because you thought he wouldn’t be here.

Your mother-in-law had told you he wouldn’t be able to make it, had mentioned something about work, something about how he's not big on religion, much like his brother and oh, how you’d clung to those words. Let them blanket your nerves in fragile relief. One more hour. One more day of—knowing you wouldn’t have to see him today, that you could go on one more moment pretending you weren't aware of the inevitable, that you weren't unraveling at the seams every time you so much as thought about him.

That, that's why you had been skirting around him.

Maybe not consciously. At least, that’s what it looked like (You knew. Deep down, you knew.) But ever since that night—God, you really don't want to think about that or him in front of.. God without feeling like you're going to burst in flames. But its not exactly easy.

Not here, where the quiet literally wangles you into the deepest darkest of your thoughts. Thoughts that you're sure would.

Because the quiet here curls around your memories like smoke, drawing them out from where you’d hidden them. It coaxes them up your throat and behind your ribs until they’re a dull, burning pressure you can’t shake off.

You shift slightly in the bench. Mira breathes beside you, soft and steady. You press your palms flat against your lap, grounding yourself.

It hardly works. Especially not when he arrives. That strange, electric knowing. Like the air knows him. The space is an old convenient accquitance and adjusts around him.

The low creak of a door, the faintest hush falling over those nearest the back.

Late, quiet, slipping into the back like a ghost who had learned how to walk among the living, embodying every bit of the word 'handsome' in the most tailored of ways. Hair laid out in perfect symmetry. A ironed, muted blue suit hugging every bit of his perfect posture. Eyes so probing, so demanding of attention that you wonder why you ever got confused when everyday a new number of girls would approach you at school, especially at university for his number.

Then he had just been your doe eyed friend who you wanted to spare from heartbreaks. Not aware of the term-"heartbreaker" that had been given to him. Ironic, really.

Now you feel like you understand. You feel like you sense him before you see him. Sense every bit of his presence that you maybe had overlooked before. A shift in the air, the faintest murmur of acknowledgment rippling through the congregation.

Both Mrs Jeon and Mira are turned towards the figure, thier expression brightening in recognition, waving small hands at the figure that is approaching your way, pulse quickening with the footsteps.

No.

He said he doesn't do church.

He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t sit—

The soft creak of the seat behind you made your breath hitch.

The older woman only smiled, a pleasant suprise. For her, atleast. "Jungkook-ah! You came! Oh, how lovely!"

She's sure the reason is that he is finally letting divinity in, you're sure you're losing yours.

You don’t turn but Mira does as she shifts beside you, knees bumping against yours to smile in greeting. Saying something about how her husband should learn a thing or two from him and give this a try, accompany her once in a while. A deep, warm chuckle in reply hits you square in the back of your head and your shoulders tense.

Low, rich, like warm amber poured over ice.

It lands like a bruise.

Pulses through, that gives away just how real and impossible and close it is.

You swallow hard, keeping your eyes downcast, determined not to react any more. You fix your gaze on the marble altar, on the golden flicker of votive candles.He’s behind you. Of course he is.

Because where else would he be, if not the one place you prayed he wouldn't?

Even as the sermon continued, voices rising in unison for prayer, you could barely hear them, could barely not feel your dirtiest secret behind you, close enough that if you leaned back even slightly, you might brush against him.

The service moves forward, and you try to focus. You try to listen. Tried to will your ears to listen, to stay anchored in psalms and promises and the choir’s distant swell. Just get through this.It couldn’t possibly be so difficult. No one knows. No one suspects a thing. The polished congregation kneels and stands with pedriocity and faith, unaware that your spine was stiff with a secret, that your breath refused to calm. Only you knew. Only he does. And that truth grips your tounge so hard there’s no way it’s ever slipping past your mouth.

But then a touch happens. As if maneuvering. A whisper of movement behind you, so faint it could just be the atoms you are made of shifting, a trick of your mind.

Light. Fleeting. Not direct. Not quite.

Just the faintest brush of fingertips against the ends of your hair that spilled over your shoulders, the softest, most cursory pull. Just a teasing pass, like he’s testing the silk of it between thumb and forefinger. There’s a pause, then the strand is gently looped once, slow and idle, as though he’s turning it over in thought.

Then released.

You freeze because what even is happening?

The answer to that is that it happens again. A lazy twirl of a strand, a slow release of the said strand.

Not enough for anyone to notice. Not enough to draw attention. But enough for you to feel it. Enough to make your skin prickle, your heartbeat stutter. He's been doing a lot of that recently.

You shift in your seat, pressing your hands tighter into your lap, back rod-straight, lungs stuck in a breath that wouldn’t come. The sensation was too distinct now, too exact to mistake.

It doesn’t stop. Another strand. A drag of fingertips. A near-caress.

What the fuck is he doing?

You don’t turn. You don’t react when you should have thrown him a warning glance—but that would mean acknowledging him. That would mean facing him.

And you didn’t know how to look him in the eye and not think about it.

His mouth. His devouring, worshipping mouth. The dammable sound of your name said like orison and profanity.

Didn’t know how to hear his voice and not remember the way how his lips shaped against your skin. Venal. Hungry.

Didn't know how not to follow the tattoos that ran through his sleeve and pretend that you haven't took your time exploring them. Aversly. Teasingly.

Didn’t know how to feel the weight of everything you weren’t supposed to want pressing down on you like a second heartbeat.

The way he had tugged your shirt up with reverence and bitten down like he wanted to leave a mark not even salvation could scrub away.

Do not react.

Do not move.

But he kept going. And the sermon blurred.

Gods, you were going to burn. You were going to hell. And he'd be there already, waiting with his hands in your hair.

When the sermon concludes, you stand too quickly, push your hair forward and Mira shoots you a look, her fingers grazing your wrist in question. You shake your head, offering her a quick, brittle smile before stepping toward the exit. You walked. Out of the stall. Out of the building. Out of your goddamn mind.

To your relief—you were still a perfectly coordinated bundle of cells when you were out. The sun hit you outside, sharp and sudden, dragging long shadows over the stone steps. You sucked in fresh air like someone who had been underwater too long.

The relief lasted long enough until Jungkook spoke under the sun casting long shadows against the stone steps. “I’ll drive.” Voice cutting through the polite chatter.

“Oh, that would be great, dear. Y/N, Mira, come on.” Your mother-in-law, oblivious, beamed, completely unaware that you had just spent forty-five minutes debating if setting yourself on fire in the house of God would be less painful than what had just happened.

The car ride should be easy.

It should be nothing. A short drive. A forgettable stretch of road between church and the Jeon family estate.

Should be.

But as you are pressed against the window, your coat bunched beneath you like a failed barrier, you want to either open the window for air or bolt from the moving car, with every inch of your skin crawling with awareness, tight and buzzing and flushed in ways that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The cabin is too quiet. Too warm. The low hum of the engine does nothing to drown out the sound of your heart, which feels like it’s beating directly into your throat.

And then there’s that scent again.

The scent of leather and something distinctly Jungkook curling in the closed space. A mix of his cologne—something dark and woodsy—and the faintest trace of laundry detergent, clinging to his shirt like it had no intention of leaving. It shouldn’t be so familiar, but it is. And that’s the problem.

“That sermon was lovely, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Jeon’s voice is light, warm, like freshly baked bread. The kind of voice that belongs in a home, not a car filled with tension so thick it could choke you.

Mira hums in agreement beside you. “It was.”

You blink, only now realizing how little of the service you actually absorbed.

“Of course,” Mrs Jeon continues, turning slightly in her seat, eyes alight with something rebuke, “not everyone was paying attention.”

You tense, breath catching, even when the accusation isn’t aimed at you. You feel it anyway.

“What?” He finally speaks, voice even. A little hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. Like his vocal cords were dry from silence and prohibition.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know, Jungkook-ah." his mother huffs, shaking her head. “You join for the first time ever in a while, sit in the back, and then spend half the time looking like you didn’t even knew where you were." she finishes with a scolding tone.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, hand tightening against the steering wheel. He doesn't argue.

Because It did seem so.

Mira, ever the enabler, bites her lip to stifle a laugh, glancing at you with barely concealed amusement.

You do not look at Jungkook.

You absolutely do not.

Mrs. Jeon, unbothered by the quiet tension thickening in the car, continues, “You know who else was praying a little too hard?”

Silence. No one answers with whatever self preservation they have.

Not because they don’t want to. But because they know better.

Because when Mrs. Jeon starts on church gossip, there’s no stopping her because apparently it's what it's best for.

She leans in, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal something sacred. “Mrs. Kang.”

Mira gasps dramatically. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” A firm nod. “She was crying, dear. Again. Right in the middle of the third hymn.”

You blink. “Why?”

The older woman tsks, as if the answer should be obvious. “That husband of hers. You know how he is.”

You makes a thoughtful noise, tilting your head. “Didn’t he… move to Seoul?”

“Yes, but does distance stop a man from causing stress? I don’t think so.” You didn't think so too.

Jungkook exhales, long-suffering. “Why do you know all of this, eomma?”

His mother waves a hand dismissively. “Please, son. I hear things.”

Mira leans in. “Did she cry last week too?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jeon replies. “But last week was because he didn’t call her for three days. This week, I believe he’s dating someone half his age.”

Mira sighs. “Men.”

You let out an involuntary snicker before you can help it. You don’t even know if it’s a real sound or something your soul exhaled out of disbelief.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing toward the front.

Because Jungkook’s eyes are on you.

Not on the road.

Not on his mother, who is still detailing the tragic love life of a woman you barely know.Not at the red light blinking in the distance.

His eyes are dark and unreadable, barely hooded, like he’s watching you and also thinking about the last time you were under him, gasping. Like maybe he’s remembering the way your nails looked against his neck. Or the way you said his name like a prayer, far more pledged than anything the pastor could conjure.

And every so often, you caught him.

The first time, you looked away immediately. The second time, you stared out the window so hard you gave yourself a headache. The third time, you stared back, even as something molten and dangerous simmers in the quiet between you.

His gaze held yours for a beat longer than necessary before shifting back to the road.

Every part of you was aware of him.

Of the way he adjusted his grip on the wheel. Of the way the veins along his forearm flexed when he turned. Of the way he never looked away fast enough.

Mira nudged you gently. “You okay?”

You nodded through the lie. "Fine."

Your mother-in-law again turned in her seat, smiling warmly. “I hope you’ll stay for lunch, Mira. We have invited the kims too. It’s been long overdue." The word ‘lunch’ doesn’t quite capture what’s waiting at the Jeon house.

Because it isn’t just lunch.

It’s crystal glassware, centerpieces too elaborate for a midday meal, and courses that require cutlery you don’t know how to use properly. It's a show that barely masks the subtle flex in it. A performance even, if you will, wrapped in linen napkins and wine pairings. And if you had to guess, this lunch isn’t just a friendly catch-up.

It’s Mrs. Jeon doing what she does best—playing politics with a smile. Maybe it’s her way of returning the favor after that party the Kims threw. Maybe she’s angling for something else entirely. But it’s definitely not casual.

She then adds as an afterthought. “We thought it would be nice to host something a little more intimate after such a wonderful service.”

“Oh, I’d love to.” Mira grins, relaxing against the seat. “Y/N, you up for it?”

You forced a small smile. “Uh-yeah. Yeah, of course!”

It’s automatic. Reflexive.

Because you can't say what you really want.

Which is to get out of the car.

To breathe. To clear the fog from your chest that smells like leather, and cologne, and fire.

From then, from the backseat, you had counted the moments until you could step into open air again and feel the crisp edge of early spring, the scent of freshly turned earth and blooming jasmine lacing through the quiet garden. The table was set beneath the sprawling branches of the old oak, where dappled sunlight filtered through on the delicate porcelain plates, silverware so polished it reflected the light, dishes, conversations lively and layered with subtext in the way rich families knew how to be.

You, too used to know the dance.

Used to let the brezzy hum of conversation wrap around you, used to nod along at the right moments, used to catch the way Minho would kick Jungkook under the table just to make him crack a smile.You remembered that.

Now, Mira sat beside you, her elbow jolting against yours as she reached for a serving spoon, her plate already filled to the edges.“Try this one,” she whispered, already loading her plate still like she hadn’t eaten in days. And then there was Yoongi—her husband—sitting with a plate he barely touched, scrolling through something on his phone until Mira shot him a look. He cleared his throat and slid it away.

Across from you, your mother-in-law delicately dabbed her lips with a napkin before resuming conversation about Mrs kang with a woman- namjoon's mother- who had grayer streaks in her hair that only painted the greater picture of elegance, her voice carrying that effortless ease of someone used to commanding a room. Someone who had enough money to command at all

Then there's Jungkook who sits two chair away from you, separated by separated only by a stretch of linen and eating irons. Jungkook who could barely catch up to Namjoon's enthusiasm about his dad dying, something about the shifting board members, something that should require Jungkook’s full attention."And now that my father’s out, the balance is shifting," Namjoon said. “We’ve got a chance to pull things clean, finally. The new proposal’s solid.”

Especially when his father speaks. "You’ve seen the numbers, Jungkook," His deep voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. “The deal’s been in discussion for months now. The board expects your response by next week.”

“I’ll look it over.” He acknowledged it with a slow nod.

"Not look over, son." His father’s tone was measured, but firm—the kind of voice that had always left little room for negotiation. "Confirm."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, setting his wine down. "I won’t confirm anything without making sure it’s solid first."

He pauses. A glance. His father’s sharp gaze flickered over him, assessing. Not questioning—no, never questioning. Because Jungkook had earned his place, had spent years proving himself, had molded himself into the kind of son his father could rely on, because Minho never did.

Not that Minho ever needed to. Not that he ever wanted to.

Jungkook had understood that early on. That Minho had been different. That Minho’s place had always been elsewhere—with paint on his fingers and art in his head, with you curled into his side, laughing in a language he had willed himself to forget. And so it had fallen to him.

And Jungkook—Jungkook hadn’t minded. Not really.

Not when he could see the relief in Minho’s eyes every time their father skipped over him in business conversations, every time he looked at him liked he had birthed a catastrophe. Ambition morphed into inheritance and starry eyes jaundiced. Jungkook realized that this was what he was born for. That his older brother was a fool for denying everything that had been laid on a silver platter for him.

And because it had been easier than actually admitting that maybe he wasn't a fool at all. That maybe it wasn't the legacy he was born for.

Because every waking moment he finds himself tangled in the thoughts about what was right in front of him.

It had been days, yet it remained, stitched into him like something permanent—like the ink on his skin, like the weight of his own name.

It wasn’t just the memory of it. Not just the way you had felt beneath him, the way his name had left your lips in shuddering breaths. It was everything else—the before, the after. The way you had looked at him, wide-eyed and hesitant in the dim light of that unfamiliar room, as if realizing for the first time that he was capable of something like this. That he had spent years knowing, wanting.

Jungkook, who had spent years perfecting restraint, found himself breaking under the weight of it at only the sight of you that brought the memory of the night where he pretended you were his, like fever rushing through.

Because you would not look at him.

Because your eyes had skimmed past him all afternoon, slipping over him like he was nothing, like he hadn’t once been pressed against you, groaning into your skin.

And fuck if it didn’t drive him insane.

His fingers curled around the stem of his glass, his knuckles white as he brought the wine to his lips, stealing glances of you reaching for a pitcher of water at the same time as Mira, your fingers brushing, the smallest of startled laughs escaping you.

Soft. Effortless. Rivaling the intoxicity of the drink in his hand. He couldn't remember when it was the last time he heard it, only the withdrawals that came with it.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, setting down his glass before he did something reckless—before he let himself stare too long, let his thoughts slip into something visible, something impossible to ignore.

And then, as if the universe were intent on pushing him closer to the edge—you left, something he used to be best at.

You pushed back your chair, the scrape of wood against stone barely registering above the conversation which started with Mrs Kim going- “I should probably head home soon,” she said. "Joon's father probably running the househelp ragged by now.”

Namjoon huffed a laugh beside Jungkook, reaching for the hand resting on his thigh. “Let him. Maybe they’ll finally get him to stop redecorating the library every three months.”

Seokjin, seated beside him, shrugged. “Or maybe he’ll burn the place down and finally have an excuse to build that ‘modern masterpiece’ he’s been threatening to commission.”

Mrs. Kim sighed, exasperated but fond. “I wouldn't put it past him. He’s been threatening that ‘modern masterpiece’ since 2003.”

Mrs. Jeon clapped her hands together. “Oh, nonsense. Stay for tea at least. Mr Kim will be fine. Yoongi, you’ll take another pour, won’t you? Y/N, dear, why don’t you grab the set from the kitchen?”

"Of course. I'll be right back." you murmured, barely loud enough for anyone to catch, save for the ones listening too closely. Save for him.

Jungkook watched as you stepped away, disappearing through the doors of the house, something tightening in his chest.

The moment his hand closed around the stem of his glass again, Jungkook knew what he was about to do.

Would it be too obvious? Too stupid?

He doubted it.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. But as his grip tightened and the glass stem cracked beneath his palm, sending shards of glass and a sharp jolt of pain through his hand, he felt something darkly satisfying settle in his chest.

The table fell silent.

And all eyes fell on him. "I-I'm sorry. I didn’t realize." He cleared his throat and started to rise up from his seat.

Namjoon, the closest to him, attempted to reach for his hand and he instantly flinched. Just because the wound was intentional, didn’t mean it didn't hurt.

"What the hell, Kook? Are you okay?"

“Its nothing,” he muttered, jaw clenched as he pressed his uninjured hand to his palm, watching the thin trickle of crimson bead against his skin.

“Jungkook?” His mother’s voice came next to break through the quiet, sharp and immediate, her chair scraping against the stone as she pushed back. “Oh my god—what were you thinking? Do you need me to—”

“No,” he cut in, firm but even, already standing. “I’ve got it.”

Seokjin, looked up from beside his boyfriend, a just as suprised and bewildered expression taking over his face. The same one that mimicked every other person's that sat around the table, with Mira looking like she was going to choke on her food as she met his eyes before her husband smoothed a hand down her back.

"Are you sure? You don’t need any hel—"

"I'm okay, hyung. I said I got it." He said it with perhaps too much irration shimmering beneath his words and the table fell silent again.

Jungkook ignored them all.

He was already moving.

Already following.

Through the hallway, past familiar frames on the wall.

He finds himself checking his reflection in one, taking note of his hair that seem tousled and runs a smooth hand over them.

He finds you in the kitchen.

The afternoon light streamed through the windows, casting golden lines across the marble counters, across the soft fabric of your dress. You stood with your back to him, your hands grasping something—kettle, tray? Don't know.

You just know that you feel him before you hear him like you always do, the weight of his presence shifting the air, settling around you like something impending. You pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re too preoccupied with the cups in your hands, as if arranging over the same sets of cups for the fourth time will make it any more legible. It’s pointless, really—You had always known Jungkook, even in silence.

“Gonna keep avoiding me?"

It’s not exactly a question.

Not accusing, but certain. Because yes, you have. Not because you’re angry, not because you regret it, but because it scares you how little you do.

You swallowed. Still not looking. “I’ve been busy.”

He drawls out. “Have you?"

That makes you look up.

By this time you should have realized that it's always a mistake when you do that.

Because he’s leaning against the counter, a hand tucked casually in his pockets, sleeves still rolled up, collar slightly undone. And he’s watching you.

Not like at the table, where his expression had been smooth, unreadable or like that one time where you had been exactly where you are now and he was exactly where he was. Just then, it had been the same illegible look.

Here, in this quiet, his eyes are darker. He looks at you like he knows.

Its in the way his gaze dips, taking you in and how the amber light fluidly danced across your hair that framed your guilty face. So fucking adorable. "So busy you won't even look at me."

You hated how your breath hitched. Hated how you had no answer that didn’t sound like a lie.

You forced a slow breath and placed the napkins in the space left in the tray. "I've had a lot to do."

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"No you didn't, Y/N."

You force yourself to move, to wrap your hands around the tray, to act as if this conversation isn’t happening. “What do you want me to say?”

Instead, he pushed himself off the wall and came closer, close enough that the warmth of him touched your spine, close enought that you could see everything—the way his jaw tightens, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way his fingers twitch at his sides and when he finally spoke, it was low, just for you.

"Tell me you don't hate me. I can't go on like that." Has no idea how he has done that for years and has no intention to relive that ever again. He's a buisness man now. Buisness men learn from their losses and never give up profit.

Heat curled in your stomach.

Minutes passed. Too many, too few.

And he waits. He’s patient like that. He always has been.

But your eyes were drawn to something else entirely.

His hand.

The sharp contrast of crimson against his skin, fresh and glistening, pooling at the edge of his palm before dripping onto the tiled floor in slow, schemed drops.

You inhaled sharply, setting the tray down with a quiet clatter, your pulse kicking up. “What the—Jungkook, what happened?”

He didn’t answer right away, didn’t even glance at the wound. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on you, dark and unreadable, watching the way you reached for his arm, fingers curling around his wrist, your touch careful and instinctive. Maybe it wasn't that bad of an idea, he thinks.

You turned his palm over, assessing the damage. A deep cut, but nothing catastrophic. "You're bleeding."

His voice was slow, aforethought. “I noticed.”

Your head snapped up, irritation flickering behind your concern. “What do you mean, you noticed? Why didn’t you say anything? You should’ve—”

Your breath catches, shifting your weight, as he steps closer, the space between you dwindling.

You try to ignore it. Try to recoil from it. Try to do anything but this. Because you recognized it now. This wasn’t about his hand.

Not really.

Not when his gaze flickered down to your lips in that moment.

Not when his fingers twitched at his side, like he was waiting.

Not when the air between you suddenly felt too thick, too warm, too charged. Too much like that one hallway.

You swallowed, cursed under your breath and forced your eyes away from his wound to take hold of the abandoned tray. You didn’t trust yourself enough with his. With him.

He seemed to revel in that fact.

His fingers brushed against your wrist in protest, dwadling, intentional. His head leaned in, lips grazing the curve of your jaw, just the lightest touch, just enough to rattle the glasses on the tray, just enough to summon a maelstrom of sensations.

Your hand flexed beneath his grip, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, quieter, like the world outside of it ceased to exist.

No. No. You reminded yourself of the straight stuff.

“Jungkook, let go. Everyone's ou—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Jungkook’s breath ghosts over your cheek, his nose brushing against yours, the scent of him—sylvan cologne, something faintly sweet—pulling you under, drowning you in it.

He turns you, presses you back against the counter. His eyes are dark, searching of the surroundings for a moment before they are back on you. Then, so is the unrelenting heat of his mouth, catching your lips with his, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world to corrade you.

His lips moved against yours, insistent, beguiling you to open up, to give him what he wanted. Because it had been days. Days since he had his first taste. Days since you have deprived him off it.

And so you did.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling against the handle of trays, gripping, steadying yourself. He groaned at the way you responded, at the way you always responded, despite every calmour, despite every attempt to put distance between you.

You didn’t know who reached first, who needed more, who ached better—only that neither of you pulled away.

The kiss deepened, his uninjured hand slipping beneath the curve of your jaw, his thumb dragging against your cheek, his teeth grazing against your bottom lip. The wounded one curled around your waist. You gasped at the contact—at the warmth of his blood seeping through the fabric of your dress, staining the pale church blue with sin. You felt it against your ribs, hot and sticky. You didn’t care. You whimpered into his mouth, heat pooling low in your stomach, and that was all it took to prouduce a low, guttural noise in his chest, his fingers flexing against your waist, gripping, needing, wanting

And suddenly, the counter is the only thing keeping you upright. Your mind is spinning, lost in him, lost in this, in the fact that this is happening—

Here.

Now.

Where anyone could walk in.

“Y/N?”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook froze.

Your mother-in-law’s voice was distant but getting closer.

Your breath hitched, panic flaring in your chest, but before you could pull away, Jungkook caught you again.

Pressed his lips to yours, stealing another kiss, this one shorter, sharper, like a punishment, like he was branding you with it as if he hadn’t already stained you with his blood, making sure you’d feel it long after he let go.

But he didn’t.

“Please” he breathed against your mouth, he kisses you deeper, hungrier. He drinks you in like he’s been starving, like he wants to ruin you.

Like he already has.

His tongue brushed against yours, hot and sure, and your stomach twisted, heat

licking at your spine. “Tell me you don't."

A voice—your mother-in-law’s, calling your name grows closer and semblance slams into you like a freight train.

Yet Jungkook stands untouched, refusing to let go, refusing to understand what's he doing, how it could end.

"Jungkook, stop—mhmm—Mom's coming!"

Your resolve is slipping.

Falling.

Gone.

And then, when you finally find your voice—

You don’t tell him to stop.

You whisper—breathless, aching, a confession and a surrender all at once.

“I don’t.”

Jungkook groans a curse and he's swift in the way he pulls away because it's only in a second away that another figure breezes into the space.

Your mother-in-law stands in the doorway, looking between you and Jungkook , her brows pinching in mild confusion.

“What was taking so long, dear?”

Jungkook is the first to move, straightening, rolling his shoulders back like nothing happened. Like his tounge wasn't down your throat.

You, though, find it hard to hide the compact it had on you. You're sure everyone in the room can hear how your heartbeats, can hear how it wants to get out of your constructing chest. Your wide blown pupils gaze roams everywhere and stops at the tray in your hands.

Yeah, right.

You start to speak. “I was just—”

But before you can finish with whatever you come up with, her eyes land on his still-bleeding hand that's making a mess on the once polished clean floors.

“Why haven’t you cleaned that up yet, Jungkook-ah?” she scolds, sighing. “You’re going to get an infection.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, and swips his tounge over his kiss bruised lips. “I was going to."

“I’ll help him, mom. Why don't you take this?” you blurt out, too quick, too loud.

Your mother-in-law’s eyes flicker to you. Something unreadable passes through them.

Then, after a long beat, she nods, smiling. “Youre a sweetheart, Y/N. I'll take this.”

She steps forward, plucks the tray from your hands, and turns toward the dining room without another word.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the weight of everything crashes into you.

Your pulse was still erratic, your lips tingling from his kiss, your hands shaking as you turned to him.

You whirled on Jungkook, eyes blazing at his audacity.

"What were you thinking?"

You wanted to kill him.

Your fingers curl into a fist before you can stop them, and you swat his chest, your palm colliding against solid muscle.

He catches your wrist before you can pull away.

And before you could yank off, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Your breath stutters.

His eyes flicker down to meet yours, dark and knowing. His expression pleased. Deliciously so. Almost resembling the look that crossed over his face after he had made you come on his mouth for the second time, saying something along the lines of how he could stay buried—

Oh, shit. Uh, scratch that.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” you heave out.

His lips quirk. “Likewise.”

You inhale sharply, snatching your hand from his grip, grabbing his unsullied wrist instead.

“Shut up and come here.” you mutter, tugging him toward the hall.

Jungkook lets you drag him to the bathroom, silent, unresisting. He thinks if it's you he has to follow, he will, even to the ends of the world. Wherever you want.

For now it's the bathroom that was silent, except for the soft drip of the faucet and the sound of your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. The space was impossibly small with him in it, the air thick with something that hadn’t dissipated even after your mother-in-law had nearly caught you both in the kitchen.

And the moment the door closes behind you.

You realize two things.

One: His hand is still shaking, still bleeding, still a mess of raw skin and recklessness.

And two: You really don’t trust yourself to be alone with him.

Yet you always found yourself in closed rooms. Closed bathrooms, for this instant. Only places you can afford being this close.

You turned the tap, watching as the water rushed down, steam curling into the air. Jungkook stood behind you, leaning against the sink, his injured hand still cradled in his other. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms, tendons shifting beneath inked skin as he flexed his fingers experimentally.

The sight shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it did.

“You’re a idiot." you muttered again, reaching for the first aid kit tucked behind the mirror cabinet.

Jungkook hummed, the sound deep, amused. "So, I've been told."

You turned, finally looking at him, and immediately regretted it. Because he was watching you. Again. Not passively, not carelessly—but like he was memorizing something, like he was still thinking about the way you had whispered I don’t against his lips only minutes ago.

Your throat tightened. You gestured toward the sink. “Hand. Under the water.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, his head tilted slightly, a slow smirk ghosting at the edges of his lips. “That an order, angel?”

You exhaled sharply, grabbing his wrist before he could make another smart remark, forcing his injured hand under the warm stream. He hissed at the contact, fingers twitching, but otherwise didn’t complain. Blood swirled in the sink, a diluted pink that spiraled down the drain.

You repeated, biting the inside of your cheek. “What were you even thinking?”

Jungkook’s voice was ceaseless, unfaltering. “That I wanted you alone.”

Your hands stilled, fingertips just barely brushing against his palm. His words lingered between you, weaving into the steam, settling into your bones.

Slowly, carefully, you lifted his hand out of the water, watching as droplets slid down his fingers, over the sharp lines of his knuckles. The cuts were shallow but jagged, the skin angry and raw, small flecks of glass still embedded in his palm.

Your chest ached.

You reached for a towel and dabbed carefully around the wounds.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. But he was also In pain and a part of you has never liked him In pain. It reminded you of nights where he'd think too much about where he actually belonged. Something very candid. Something very raw. Something a child shouldn’t have to think. You had known how to bandage scraped knees and scuffed elbows. Knew nothing about those nights.

You refocused on his hand, plucking a pair of tweezers from the kit and leaning in, carefully pulling out the slivers of glass still buried in his skin. Your breath brushed against his wrist, your fingers gentle, your focus unwavering. Jungkook didn’t move, didn’t even flinch.

But he watched.

Watched the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in quiet concentration, the way your hands trembled just slightly when his thumb twitched against your palm.

He inhaled deeply. "You're good at this. You always have been."

You ignored him, reaching for the antiseptic. “This is going to sting.”

Jungkook smirked. “You sure you don’t want it to?”

You pressed the gauze down harder than necessary.

Jungkook inhaled sharply, his good hand gripping the edge of the counter. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“A little,” you admitted, pressing again just to make a point.

His laughter was quiet, but it was real.

You forced yourself to focus, wrapping a clean bandage over his palm, fingers tracing lightly over his knuckles as you secured it in place. His skin was warm beneath yours, solid, alive. You wondered if he could feel the way your pulse was hammering.

You sucked in a breath, finally, finally releasing him, stepping back like distance could fix what had already unraveled.

"This is reckless." You spoke, not knowing yourself if you meant his hand or him following you to the kitchen. "We need to stop doing this." You finished and looked up to gauge his reaction to your words, only to find that he was already staring.

Too close. Too secure. Too much.

You weren’t sure what you were excepting. Hurt? Regret? Guilt?

Definitely not the recap of what happened in the kitchen. Definitely not his good hand lifting. Again.

It’s imperceptibly, resolute. His fingertips brush your hip first, featherlight, a touch so barely-there that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

Until he grips.

Until he tugs.

And suddenly, you're slamming right against his unmalleable frame,

Your eyes fly up, locking onto his.

Jungkook’s gaze is unreadable, filled with something that makes your stomach clench. His hands plant themselves firmly on either side of you, caging you in.

“You tell me to stop,” he said quietly, “and I will.”

Your fingers tighten around his forearm.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because he shifted, tilting his head slightly, the smallest movement—one that said he’d do it again.

Kiss you.

Undo you.

His gaze flickers down, lingering on your parted lips. "Yet all you do is look at me like you want me to fuck you on this damn counter. And Jesus, angel, if it doesn't make me rock hard."

The crude words leave him like there’s no consequence to him. To you they rise goosebumps all over your body. For a moment, you try to convince yourself that it's a warning sitting heavy on your skin.

It shimmers through your mind, something about distance, about lines, about how you’ve already crossed too many. You could still say it.

You could still put an end to this before it tattered beyond repair.

But then Jungkook’s grip on your waist tightened, and suddenly, the ground wasn’t beneath you anymore.

Your breath caught as he lifted you. Effortlessly, hands firm, unwavering. The air shifted around you, heat rolling off him in waves, and before you could catch your breath, the cool press of marble kissed the backs of your thighs.

You swallowed hard, fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his shirt. He settled between your parted legs, the warmth of his body bleeding into yours.

Your pulse thrummed, a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

"That," you breathed, trying to sound firm, trying to anchor yourself in reason, "sounds like a bad idea."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "It does."

And then he kissed you again.

It wasn’t fair, the way he kissed.

Like he knew exactly how to disentangle you.

Like he knew that every time his mouth met yours, resistance becomes a footnote.

His tounge moved with yours, fingers traced the edge of your knee, palms gliding up the sensitive skin of your thigh before finding its mark at your hip with a confidence that says its his anyways. A soft ache that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t have to.

The space between you is already non existence.

But his hands need to be closer. Preferably, inside so one of his hands slides higher, disappearing beneath the hem of your dress. Unhurried, exploring, teasing.

Your thighs tensed against his hips, heat coiling in your stomach, something familiar and overwhelming pressing at the edges of your ribs. His bandaged hand then found the small of your back, fingers splaying against your spine as if mapping you, tugging you still until you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours and the outline of his bulge against your thigh.

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, anchoring yourself, gripping onto something solid as his touch grew more confident, more certain when he found the wet spot forming on the lacy white material—so thin, so damn easy to tear—and something primal glinted in his gaze.

His lips dragged along the planes of your chin, the corner of your mouth, before he exhaled against your skin, voice hushed, but steady. "Still want me to stop?"

His answer was you pressing into his hands instead of pulling away, your breath catching when his fingers brushed higher, thumb pressed bolder and stroking slow patterns against your clothed fold, dragging his knuckles along the delicate fabric.

Your head tilted back slightly, your breath uneven, and Jungkook watched you—watched the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers dug into his biceps, the way your body responded to him, even without words.

He knew.

And he liked it.

His lips found your throat, his voice low, rough. "You should." A kiss, slow and deep. "You really should." Another, this one firmer, teeth grazing over your pulse.

A shiver rolled down your spine and desperation rolled on.

"Don't stop. Want your fingers." His cock twitched in his pants and he bit harder onto your neck. He thinks he's again gonna make a wreckage in his pants at the realization of you trembling for him.

"Good girl, angel. Already so wet for me." he breathed, and eased down your soaked panties from your thighs. His eyes glinting again when the thin white late is revealed to him. And god, when it slipped down, revealing glistening skin beneath, he exhaled something broken. "Fuck—have you been waiting for this? Is that what it is?" He wantons and bunches the fabric in his hand to tuck it in his pocket. You flush at the implications, at what he just did, at what he might do.

"Have you?" You dodge the question and he grunts, parting your folds with his thumb and forefinger.

"You have no fucking idea." His forehead pressed to yours, jaw clenched. "The idea of having you like this again consumed me. You consume me."

A soft whimper slipped from your throat, and he grunted again at the sound, his fingers pressing more firmly now, tracing, exploring, teasing you apart. "Did that charming mouth used to get you a lot of girls out there?" The question sounds like a taunt but tastes like lemon on your tounge. You don’t know why you ask it—why you let the thought slip past your lips when you could have buried it like all the others. Maybe now, with his hands on you, with the past and present colliding so violently in the space between breaths, the thought worms its way in.

If he had kissed someone the way he kissed you. If his hands had crammed the shape of someone else’s body. If, somewhere across an ocean, he had found something that didn’t taste like longing.

His fingers stilled. A sharp breath. A pause thick enough to drown in.

Then—he laughed. A low, disbelieving sound that sent a shiver curling up your spine. Not amused. Not really. More incredulous than anything, roughened at the edges with something else.

His bandaged hand tightened around your thigh, dragging you closer. "You think I’ve wasted this mouth on anyone else?"

His voice was low, velvet-soft but weighted, pressing into your skin like the heat of an open flame. Your stomach clenched.

"I don’t know." You swallowed, pulse fluttering against your throat. "I never heard anything, but—"

"But what?" His thumb dragged along your folds. “You think I’d let someone else have what’s yours? Thought I’d put my hands on someone else and think of anything but you?" The pads dig into your skin, his grip an demand for honesty because this is all he plans to give you now. The honesty that every time he tried to want something else, it was your voice in his head. Your name on his tongue.

Your lashes fluttered, the words sinks into your bones, pools at the base of your core. It terrifies you how much you like the way it sounds coming from his mouth—low aching, like it had been a curse, like you had ruined him without ever meaning to— how much you like the way him stressing every word with press of his fingers.

“I want things with you,” he said, the words dragging out of him like they’d been kept in a vault. “Not just this. Not just your body—though fuck, I’ll worship it until I’m in the ground.”

His hand stilled again, the stillness worse than movement, because now he was looking at you. Really looking. Voice softer now. Like he was afraid to let it live in the air.

"I want it all." He whispered. "I want every morning with your hair on my pillow. Every night with your hands on me." Your mouth parted, but no sound came out—just breath, shallow and stunned.

His fingers moved again, slow and reverent, his touch suddenly less about taking and more about giving. "Your clothes in my closest." Showing.

Promising.

Your head fell back against the mirror, your breath coming in sharp, uneven pants, every flick of his wrist sending another spark of pleasure shooting through your limbs.

"Jungkook," you gasped, barely able to form his name.

"Your name on every piece of paper that has mine." he kept going, his voice low, yet the way two of his digits slipped inside, slow, stretching, filling, setting a rhythm that had your thighs trembling wasn't exactly something you could keep quiet for. "Your moans in my ear that I'm gonna keep just for myself."

Your cunt clenched around him and head dropped to his shoulder in an attempt to muffle the sound. "Mhm. Fuck." Your body arched into him, chasing the fire that threatened to consume you whole. His pace quickened, his touch growing rougher, more desperate, as if he needed this just as badly as you did, as if he needed to become a devotee of the way you fell apart in his hands.

"Say it." He curled them just right, making a consistent squelching sound that bounced off the walls. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me." His mouth was scornful when it spoke but affectionate when it peppered kisses on the crown of your head.

"You know I do." Your voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper against his skin, hips stuttering beneath his touch.

"Not enough." He growled, voice thinned by impediment, fingers curling again, slow and deep and your grip on him was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

"I—Jungkook—I" You broke off, a cry catching in your throat as he pressed and flicked. A merciless rhythm of knowing.

"Come on. Be my good fucking angel." He murmured against your hair, fingers pushing in and out of your slick hole with practiced ease, working you open, watching every shift of your body, every tiny gasp and shudder.

"I feel it," you breathed. "God, I feel it—I want you."

He too could feel how you seized against his fingers, how your breath started to come in short pants. "More." He husked. "I want you to lose it for me," his voice took a pleading note, his head dunking down, lips finding the curve of your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before soothing the bite with his tongue. "Fall apart. Come on my fingers knowing what I want with you. Knowing you're it. Let go, baby."

And then he found that spot—the one that drove knuckles deep into your quivering cunt, curling and flicking, shattering you, the one that had your eyes rolling back, your breath catching in a sharp, broken cry as teeth dug unconsciously into his shoulders, hips shifting, chasing his touch, needing more and he felt the urgent need to bury his cock into you the next second.

“Right there, fuck—Jungkook,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, lashes damp.

“Don’t stop. I’m—god, I’m gonna cum. So close. So fucking close.” Eyes stayed fixed on your face like it was a masterpiece made for him alone. The heat of your slick coated his fingers, the way your body clenched down around him driving a ragged curse from his throat.

Your orgasm hit with brutal force, crashing into you like a wave breaking at high tide, leaving you boneless, trembling, and Jungkook caught you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist, his lips pressing into the side of your neck, as if searing the moment into your skin.

As if he had no intention of letting you go. As if he never had.

"Beautiful girl." He mummered. "So fucking perfect when you come for me." He praised and pulled his two digits drenched with your essence out of your pulsating pussy to slide them into his mouth. Eyes closing when the taste of you settled on his tounge, reacquainting himself what has been taken hold of every inch of his mind. The appreciative hum that starts to leave his mouth gets lodged in somewhere in the middle when he feels your thighs wrapping around him, your front pressing against his cock that throbbed with the need to be lamented inside your salivating warmth.

He cursed under his breath, his control fraying at the edges. "Needy little thing." he growled, half in awe, half in torment. "Still aching for me?"

You blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence, but your hips shifted again, grinding up into him in a way that had his jaw clenching, his breath turning ragged.

“I can feel how hard you are,” you whispered, voice barely there. “What if I want more?”

"Fuck," he gritted out, "I need to be inside you." He needs and his hands gripped your thighs, clutching you closer with the intention to rub against your bare, soused pussy. You felt the heat of him, the weight of the orgasm he had wrung from you with nothing but his fingers, the sheer presence of him pressing against you, and your pulse fluttered, a mix of nerves and overwhelming want.

His hand that you mended, hooks up your chin. You barely registered his words at first, too dazed, too lost in the lingering ache of pleasure still pulsing deep within you. But then—his voice, low and thick with something rekt, something wanting.

"Think we've got enough time?" He asks, shrugging a glance at his rolex. His hands traced over your thighs, palms spreading against flushed skin to bunch up the silk material of your blood stained church dress, the delectable longness of his erection pressing against you. And though it was phrased like a question, it sounded rather possessive and certain, as if the answer had already been decided.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, torn between reason and the undeniable heat pooling low in your stomach. "We'll have to find out." You whispered, teeth biting onto your lip as you grinded in response, letting you feel him—hard and urgent, straining against the fabric that abstracted you—until it didn’t.

Your fingers moved without permission, trailing down his stomach, feeling the taut muscle beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. Lower still, to the belt that had been teasing you with its presence, the polished metal of the buckle cool beneath your fingertips.

Jungkook inhaled sharply when you undid it, the sound rough. His hands around you clenched, but he didn’t stop you. Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t want to.

You took your time, savoring the way his breath hitched as you worked open the button, the zipper, how his body tensed beneath your touch. And then—when you pressed your palm against him, feeling the full length of his need—his head fell back, his throat bared in a perfect, aching display.

God.

Your breath stilled in your chest.

He was beautiful like this.

Not just in the obvious way—not in the way the world saw him, sharp-suited and composed, the perfect image of a man in control. No, this was something else entirely.

You traced your gaze over him, over the column of his throat, over the way the muscles in his jaw tightened as he swallowed. Over the way he looked like he was waging a war against himself.

“Y/N,” he gritted out, his voice tight, strained, as if he were warning you.

Or begging.

But you only pressed a little firmer, fingers teasing, tracing, thumb swiping over his swollen tip that leaked with pre cum.

With a growl, his hand wrapped around your wrist, halting your movements, dark eyes snapping open to meet yours. "Fuck, baby. I'm not patient enough for this."

And then he was lifting your hips, guiding you against him, his tip poking at your entrance, making you let out a shuddering breath. He leaned in, his lips brushing over your cheek, feather-light, a stark contrast to the way his hands gripped your thighs.

"Let me feel you," he hiss, more plea than demand, his voice thick with restraint. "Let me have you all of you, angel."

And when you nodded—when you let him pull you to the very edge, let him replace his fingers with something hotter, heavier—your hands fisted in his shirt, nails biting into his shoulders as your breath hitched.

Jungkook groaned against your ear as he pushed himself all the way to the hilt, sworeing how he would never get enough of you, his fingers flexing at your waist as he stilled, letting you adjust to the sudden intrusion of his massive length, letting himself revel in the feeling of you wrapped around him like you always would in the sweetest of his dreams, like you did a certain night away. And from that moment he had wondered how had he ever functioned without this? How will he ever function without you if you keep yourself away from him?

Your hands slipped up, cupping his face, tilting him toward you until your lips brushed. “Move,” you whispered, voice barely there.

Slow at first, rolling his hips into yours, his mouth catching every broken sound that left you, his hands never stopping their worship of your body.

And when he felt his willpower leave him, when slow became desperate, when his name spilled from your lips like a prayer—he answered.

He met you in every way you needed.

It was urgent—messy and desperate and filled with everything neither of you could say out loud. Could only afford in hushed whispers and lips tracing sin on skin. Something he'd taken pain from you if it meant he'd get to kept this. Because it was better than nothing, better than those years when he wanted you with a desperation that should’ve dulled with time, with grief, with regret.

But it hadn’t.

It had only grown sharper.

It was too much. It was not enough.

The way he gasped softly as he pushed himself inside you—inch by inch, stretching you around him, your hands fisting his shirt like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

He pressed you further onto the counter, knocking over something ceramic that shattered on the tile, neither of you caring. The pace of his cock driving inside you turned desperate, driven by something raw, something that tasted too much like loss but felt too much like home.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, closer, closer. "Oh yeah! Fuck, just there!" You panted, hips snapping against his, encouraging him further as he outright pounded into you.

"You’re—fuck—so tight,” he rasped. “So warm. I knew it. You were made for me.” He highlighted with a squeeze to your boob, rolling your pebbled nipple between his digits. Your walls fluttered around him, still so tight, still taking all of him like you had been made to, eyes fluttering close when he gave it a pinch.

And fuck—he wanted to see that again.

“Eyes, Y/N.” he murmured, his voice rough, strained.

Your lashes lifted, glassy and unfocused, your lips parting around a soft gasp as he rolled his hips again, hitting deeper this time.

He smiled, dipping his head, lips brushing over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “That’s it, baby. Let me see you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers pulling into his hair. “Jungkook I can't—Too much!”

His grip on your waist tightened, his pace faltering slightly. “Shhh. I've got you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t have to do anything. Just take me.” He cooed, his head falling to the crook of your neck. His teeth grazed over your pulse, tongue following, lips dragging along heated skin.

The sensation sent a shiver rolling down your spine, sharp and electric.

Your back arched, pressing further into him, your thighs tightening around his waist. You could feel yourself spiraling, the coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips, every deep, mind blowing thrust.

You felt full.

Overwhelmed.

Like you were going to break apart any moment.

Jungkook must have felt it—the way your nails dug into his skin, the way your breath stuttered against his ear—because his grip shifted, one hand slipping between you, fingers pressing against your most sensitive spot, rubbing slow, lazy circles.

Your body jolted at the added sensation, a sharp cry tumbling from your lips that he caught in his own.

And he smirked.

“My angel's so close, hmm?" he murmured against your mouth.

Your breath hitched, a whimper escaping before you could stop it. "Yeah—shit—yeah. Wanna come again. Want come so bad, Jungkook."

Jungkook groaned, his cheeks hollowing, brows furrowing like he was barely holding himself together. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you do that.”

You were right there.

Jungkook felt it.

And he wasn’t about to let you go without making you fall apart for him.

His thumb rubbed faster, tighter circles, his thrusts rougher, deeper, his lips brushing over your ear, his voice low, wicked.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he promised, panting. “Right here. Around me. Look at me when you do.”

The coil snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, your body tightening, then releasing all at once. Your vision blurred, your entire body trembling, your nails raking over Jungkook’s back as you moaned his name, breathless and undone. "Shit, that's right." He heaved.

His thrusts started to get sloppier, trying to constraint the sound of his hips slapping against yours in the tiled bathroom only while he pursued his own release. More urgent—less about control and more about instinct. He could only last so long with your pussy milking him for all he's worth.

"Fuck—baby," he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed hard against yours, sweat-slicked and trembling. "I’m close… fuck, I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you up."

You found yourself nodding mindlessly, relating with the wretched appetite in his voice to be warmed up to within.

“Such a needy girl,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. “So desperate to be filled, huh? You want all of it, angel?” His hand moved from your waist to your jaw, thumb swiping your lip like he was trying to soothe something uncontainable.

Jungkook's thrusts slowed into something deeper, deliberate, chasing every inch of you as he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, full-bodied and guttural, like it had been torn straight from his chest. His release hit him hard, cock twitching deep inside you, thick warmth spilling in hot waves as his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise like he was trying to memorize you, like he hadn’t spent the better part of his life trying to memorize you in ways he had never deserved.

He didn’t stop—just kept grinding into you, riding it out, chasing the feeling of being so deep inside you that the world didn’t matter. His jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut as he emptied every last drop, as if he could carve his name into you from the inside.

Like the years had never carved a distance between you, like nothing—no one—had ever come between this pull, this thing that always seemed to exist between you and him.

And yet, reality was creeping back in.

You could hear it—the soft murmur of voices beyond the door, the distant clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation that you were supposed to be a part of.

The world you were supposed to return to.

You exhaled shakily, body still trembling in the aftermath, shifting against the counter, trying to gather yourself, trying to think. Your fingers curled weakly into his shoulder, and you felt it—his chest rising and falling against you, his breath warm against your temple, the quiet steadiness of him as he held you there, as if neither of you were quite ready to move just yet.The sweat cooling on his skin glistened where the low light caught it, and his nose nudged softly into your hairline, inhaling you like he wasn’t ready to let go yet.

"Still with me, angel?"

You hummed a airy "barely" and he kissed one, featherlight and sweet, dragging his mouth lazily toward your jaw. He was taking his time. He didn’t seem to care that your clothes were halfway off or that you were still tangled around him.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped up in the quiet. You sighed, resting your head back on his shoulder, content and warm and glowing all over. The mirror behind you was fogged with breath, the air still thick with the scent of heat and sweat and him.

“We should go back now," you whispered and when you moved to slip away, his hands curled against your thighs, halting you in place. Not tight, not forceful—just there, just asking.

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin where he adjusted the hem of your dress after wiping the remnants of him with a tissue, doe eyes giving away the look a kicked puppy would have. “Not yet. Give me a minute."

Not yet.

Not don’t go. Not stay.

Just not yet.

And maybe that was why you didn’t move.

Maybe that was why you let yourself linger for just a second longer, your fingers smoothing over the collar of his shirt, tracing a wrinkle that your own grip had left behind. A pointless action, an excuse to touch, to feel the warmth of him for just another moment before you had to pretend like none of this happened. "Fine. I mean I wouldn't want to walk back smelling like sex and you."

Jungkook’s gaze darkened. His hands slid up, brushing over the curve of your cheekbone, his touch slow and sharp like satisfaction curling under his tongue.

“That right?” he murmured. “You smell like me?”

The question caught you off guard.

Too late. He was already drunk on it. He ducked down, nosing along your throat, breathing in deep with a groan like the idea physically did something to him. “Fuck. You do. You smell like me, angel."

You blinked, your fingers stilling against his shirt, your breath hitching in your throat.

Something darker lit his eyes—satisfaction painted in shadow. “Good.”

Your breath caught. “It’s good that I reek of you?” And definitely not the hottest scandal the neighborhood will get their hands on. Right.

He dipped his head, nose brushing your neck, lips skimming your pulse. “You should smell like me,” he whispered. “You should walk out there with your thighs dripping and my scent all over you. Glowing because you took every inch of me." he murmured, voice low and reverent. "Let them wonder."

You whimpered, helpless under the press of his mouth, the press of his words.

“I—” you started, but your thoughts tangled as he sucked gently at your neck, just above where your collar would hide it.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Still want to go back?”

"Yes."

Jungkook studied you for a second longer, his eyes searching, tracing every inch of your expression, as if he was looking for something, as if he was still waiting for you to change your mind.

But you didn’t.

So he only exhaled, pressing his lips to your head. And then, finally, finally, he let you go.

You breathed out, fingers curling at the edge of the counter before you shifted again, moving to slide down—to plant your feet back on the ground, to leave but not before letting yours eyes drift to him for a second where he tucks himself in his slacks.

“Y/N.”

His voice was softer this time, but it stopped you all the same.

You barely had time to react before his fingers found your jaw, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

Your breath stilled.

Jungkook’s thumb brushed against your bottom lip, slow, lingering. And then, so softly, so quietly he asked—“when you walk out from here will you start avoiding me to the next Sunday again?"

Your brows scrunched up and you attempted to look away.

"Please don't, angel." He pressed his lips to where the crease formed for a brief moment.

And god help you, you wanted to listen.

The evening (6:25, you noted from your wrist watch) was quiet, the sky yawning open into a stretch of velvet dark, the stars distant pinpricks of light like secrets kept at a distance. You had always known the halls of the university to be full—full of voices, of conversations that layered over each other, of common stories and repeated gestures. Even today, it had been the same.

The evening air carried the last remnants of warmth, a hesitant shift between winter and spring that clung to the pavement, to the air, to you, you could feel reprieve take hold instead of a sort of suffocation.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, your breath curling in the cool air. The once-busy campus had emptied out, leaving only a handful of cars scattered beneath the flickering glow of overhead lights.Your heels clicked against the pavement, hurried, purposeful, as you wove between the cars, searching.

Hoseok was ahead, his figure easy to spot—relaxed posture, a casual sway in his step, his tan coat catching the dim light. It wasn’t hard to catch up with him. He moved like someone who never rushed, even when he should. But you still called his name, breathless from the rush.

“Professor Jung—Hoseok, wait up.”

His tailored blazer was unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to reveal lean forearms, his usual crisp attire softened by the slight ruffle of his hair, undoubtedly from running a frustrated hand through it after a long day. His dark eyes lifted at the sound of your approaching footsteps, and when recognition flickered across his face, his lips curled into an smile.

"Ah," he mused, had just reached his car, one hand already on the door handle when he turned at the sound of your voice. His lips curved into an easy smile as he leaned against the frame. "To what do I owe the honor of you sprinting across the lot?"

You huffed, coming to a stop beside him, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “I think some of my test papers got mixed up with yours. I noticed a few of my poetry essays were missing, and I have a hunch they ended up with your psychology midterms.”

Hoseok made a thoughtful noise, rubbing his chin. “That… would explain why I was grading a sonnet on existential dread instead of cognitive behavioral theories.”

You sighed. “I knew it. I must have switched the stacks when I was in a rush earlier, I'm sorry."

“Don’t worry about it," he assured you, resuming unlocking his car. "I’ll check when I get home. Worst case, I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

You nodded, relief sagging through your shoulders. "Thanks, Professor Jung. You're a life saver. I planned to finish grading them tomorrow."

Hoseok made a mock grimace. “You work too hard.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Says the guy who spent last night preparing an extra credit seminar.”

“That was different. That was for the kids who actually care about my class,” he countered, before nodding toward the nearly empty lot. “You’re headed home? Want a ride?”

It was harmless. A casual offer from a friend, from someone who had sat across from you in faculty meetings, who had lent you his pen more times than you could count, who had laughed with you over shared frustrations about students turning in assignments late. There was no reason to hesitate.

It had been a long day, longer than you realized. You would actually prefer it rather than waiting for the bus that always seems to be running late by minutes.

Yet the answer that came was.

"She's already got a ride." The voice wasn't yours. It had been the one you had come to realize that avoiding was futile, that whatever admissions it breathed into your ear ran deeper that you would have assumed, affected you more than you'd liked and you have started to come terms with it. The words weren’t sharp either, weren’t cruel, but they cut through the quiet with the ease of something unquestionable.

Hoseok’s brows lifted slightly as both of you turned toward the voice, towards the faint crunch of footsteps against pavement.

The raven haired man who had once been standing a few feets away, watching, was now stepping forward, minimizing the distance until he was right beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his coat that was as dark as the night, the sharp cut of his jaw illuminated by the glow of the streetlights. His eyes didn't lock with yours as they usually would, instead they zeroed In on the psychology professor who was unaware of the sudden tension buzzing through the air.

What the hell?

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had someone waiting.”

You swallowed, grounding yourself. “Uh—yeah.” You cleared your throat. “Hoseok, this is Jungkook. My—" You cringed at how visibly you struggle to come up with words when the ardour of the man beside you pressed into your side. God, he was always so warm.

When Hoseok, ever perceptive, raised an eyebrow you snapped out of it and continued. "Minho's brother."

Hoseok glanced between the two of you, and his mouths part in understanding. Dots connect. His eyes glance at you with a look that says 'That Jungkook?' And you blink, 'That Jungkook.' All that you've ever told him about Jungkook making it clearer.

"Ohhh." He grins and extends a hand without hesitation, always one for politeness. “Well, nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I'm Jung Hoseok. I first met Y/N at a masters program. Been friends since then."

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to the offered hand before he shook it, firm and brief. Just a little tighter than necessary, enough to make Hoseok chuckle under his breath.

“Oof. Strong hands,” he said, raising an eyebrow but otherwise unfazed.

"Nice to meet you." There was nothing outright hostile in Jungkook’s voice. Nothing overly tense but you still felt like you were caught between two frequencies—one warm and familiar, the other crackling with something dangerously unspoken.

Hoseok seemed to pick up on it. He glanced between the two of you again, the corners of his mouth tilting into something unreadable before he shifted his weight.

“Well, I won’t keep you if you're settled then,” he said easily, flashing you a small smile. “See you Tomorrow?”

You nodded, grateful for the out. “Yeah,

see you.”

Hoseok gave Jungkook a small nod before slipping into his car, headlights flashing on as he pulled out of the lot.

You exhaled slowly, shifting on your feet, resisting the urge to lean into him. No, you were supposed to question him first.“What was that? And what are you doing here?”

“What was what?” He hummed, his mouth no longer set in that stern shape, his hand slipping from his coat pocket to brush a stray strand of your braid that barely seemed to hold its own away.

You narrowed your eyes, looking around instinctively before back at him. “You know what.”

Jungkook took a slow step forward, not even bothering that you were out in public, the space between you shrinking, charged. His head tilted slightly, voice deceptively light, tounge pushing against his cheek; That little tell of his, a habit you learned and found more attractive that it should have been, a habit he did when he was displeased with something. Maybe even pissed. Or both. "Didn’t know you were that close with Hozook, angel."

You blinked, thrown by the sudden turn in conversation. “It’s Hoseok.” You scoffed. “We work together, Jungkook. I’ve known him for years."

His lips pressed together, as if that information did absolutely nothing to quell whatever had flickered across his face moments ago.

Then—he opened his mouth, about to say something else, when you cut in, tone flat, unamused, every word sharpened.

“You’d know that if you hadn’t ghosted me for years.”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved right there on his tongue. His jaw twitched once. His brows dipped slightly, something unreadable passing through his gaze—but he said nothing. Good.

After a beat, he exhaled, shaking his head before motioning toward his car when he noticed the thin layers of your clothing, a dress shirt paired with a half sleeved sweater. “Come on.”

You frowned, your feet hesitating. You should be walking the other way. Should be dealing with public transport, going through the motions of an evening that should have belonged to you alone. He wasn’t obliged to be a part of this. “You didn’t have to come pick me up.” you say, smoothing down the strap of your bag.

He shrugs and his hand reaches you, or most specifically your bag, fingers curling around the strap and taking in his fist. “I was in the area.”

You snort, unimpressed. “Right.”

Still, you don't protest when he opens the door for you for reasons you don't want to analyze. And when you slide into the passenger seat, you don't mind how natural it's starting to feel.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh. The city hums past you in streaks of gold and red, the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re inside a dream you once had and forgot the ending to. The faint murmur of the radio filling the space between you.

You’re both quiet for a while.

Then—“How was work?” he asks, without looking. His tone is mild, almost too careful, as if the question isn’t just about your day but about the right to ask.

It’s a simple question, casual, but the way he says it slows your thoughts. Like he’s trying, like he wants to know you again.

You shrug, shifting in your seat. “Fine. Uneventful. Spent half the day grading, the other half convincing students that deadlines actually mean something.”

He hums in amusement. “They don’t.”

You glare at him. “They do when I say they do.”

“Terrifying,” he muses, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You roll your eyes but it does little to conceal your own smile. “What about you?” It feels like you owe him the same curiosity.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a slow, measured thing. “Had a meeting. Went as expected. Some numbers that needed fixing. Boring stuff.” You had always understood your husband's disdain for a life that was a repeat of listening to some guy talk too much, lose his temper when his ego would be on the line. But you had never known why Jungkook would prefer this or even why he wouldn't.

You look at him then, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way the city lights flicker across his skin in intervals—light, dark, light, dark—like the world couldn’t quite decide how to hold him. You weren’t sure you could either. Maybe you never asked enough questions, never studied every crease on his face liked you'd with minho and inspect it to hell.

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He steals a glance at you, quick, assessing. “Less exhausting now, though.”

But now that you do, now that you want to, you understand what he means.

It’s easy, this. Talking like this. Falling into a rhythm you hadn’t realized you still knew, one that had been untouched for years but still existed, waiting beneath the veneer. The intimacy of nothing in particular.

Jungkook has to force himself to focus on the road, fingers flexing again as he shifts gears.

If you scrutinize deeper, you'd also find that this—this slow glide through streets neither of you had named, the soft murmur of the radio, your shoulder nearly brushing his in the dark. This is what he’s always wanted. Not the secrecy. Not the stolen minutes behind doors that you had to double check if they are locked.

But this.

A ride home after a long day. A quiet conversation. The sound of your addictingly sweet voice in his car, in his space, in his life in a way that feels so woefully unpolished that it almost hurts.

“You’re not driving to my place.” Your voice pulls him back, your gaze sharp now, watching as the streets grow less familiar.

He doesn’t even pretend to be surprised at your realization.

“No.”

Your brow furrows. "Can you for once just drive me to my apartment without taking me to some place I don't want to go?"

"No."

That alone makes your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap.

You had spent so much time trying to untangle your own thoughts about him, about whatever this was turning into. Picking at it. Trying to name it. But Jungkook had been the picture of certainty. Unflinching. Unbothered. Like none of it had touched him the way it had touched you. Like he had already made peace with something you were still trying to name.Like he’d walked back into your life not to ask if he could stay—but to decide that he would.

Tonight, he seems different.

Its in the way his jaw tightens every time you shift in your seat, like he’s bracing himself. The way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip before he speaks, only to change his mind and stay silent. The way his gaze flickers toward you like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t know what to do with that.

Jungkook and hesitation have never belonged in the same sentence. At least, not since he came back.

You try again. “Where are we going, Jungkook?”

His mouth pressed into something unsure. Jungkook, unsure. It wasn’t something you were used to seeing now. It wasn’t something he looked when he pressed you against the kitchen counter, hadn’t sounded like this when he whispered his most cordial of dreams into the corner of your neck.

When he finally speaks, his voice is even, controlled. “Somewhere I want you to see.”

“That’s vague.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a surprise.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach pull tight.

Because you’ve seen Jungkook confident. You’ve seen him arrogant, smug, amused. You’ve seen him angry, cold, unreadable. But nervous? No. Not since he came back from a different life, not since he became the man that no longer fit into the spaces you had once saved for him.

And yet, right now, here he is. Inside, the space, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh, fingers drumming idly like a song he hadn’t decided to play yet. It was a small thing, a habit from when he was younger—back when he used to tap against the wooden desks in class, always restless, always itching to move.

Some things hadn’t changed.

Some things had.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. “You’re being weird.”

"I’ve always been weird, angel."

"No you haven't." There's something defensive in the way you phrase these words. "Don't change the subject."

This time, he smiled—brief but real. It softened something in his face, something he so rarely let slip anymore.

“You’ll like it,” he murmured after a beat, voice softer now, like he was almost convincing himself of the same thing. “I think.”

Just turned down a street you didn’t recognize, the road quieter here, the buildings spaced apart, until he finally pulled up in front of a modest, modern structure with floor-to-ceiling windows and a single light illuminating the entrance.The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice if you didn’t know what you were searching for.

You couldn't help but ask again. "Where are we? What is this?"

Jungkook cut the engine, but he didn’t move right away. His fingers tapped against the wheel once, twice, before he finally exhaled and turned to you.

"I bought this place," he said simply.

You blinked up at the building again. "What?"

His lips pressed together, eyes flickering away before he cleared his throat. "Just—come inside."

You followed him out, your steps slow as you took in the building, the way the large glass panes mirrored the stars. The sky leaned against the windows like it, too, wanted to press closer, to see inside. There was a sign by the entrance—simple, elegant script, almost shy in how little it asked to be noticed. You don’t recognize it, and that alone makes you reconsider.

Jungkook said nothing as he unlocked the door, the quiet snick of the key turning loud in the stillness. He held it open for you like always, but this time his eyes didn’t meet yours.

You stepped inside and the push of the door revealed —A gallery.

Not just any gallery.

Paintings. Everywhere.

Paintings stretched across every wall, soft pools of golden light falling over their frames. Each piece breathed color—bold, bruised, aching with emotion. Blue melted into umber, ochre kissed the edge of crimson. Every brushstroke pulled something raw from your chest.

You moved forward, like your body remembered the path before your mind could catch up. Your fingers hovered in the air, trembling as they traced the lines without touching them, as if the act of reaching alone might wear you.

All of it look like what had been painfully dear to you.

Your stomach twisted.

Because you knew this work.

You knew it. Not just the style, not just the way the colors lived together in layered silence—but the soul of it. The way it looked back at you. The way it knew you.

You knew the hand that had created it. Been the first and last one to hold them close to you.

You reached for the closest canvas, your vision blurring at the name signed at the corner.

Jeon Minho.

The name cleaved through you like a wave, cruel and kind in equal measure. Your heart twisted. Your fingers hovered over a piece, afraid to touch, afraid it might slip through your hands if you weren’t careful. It was his—all of it, the way he saw the world, the way he translated it onto canvas.

It was like standing inside his head again, like hearing him laugh through color, like stepping back into a time where his presence still existed beyond memory.

Your breath shook.

“This…” Your voice wavered. “This is his.”

He was watching you instead, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he was waiting for you to feel it before he explained it.

And you did.

God, you did.

In the farthest corner of the room.

Your feet carried you again, before your mind could catch up, before you could brace for the impact of what you were about to see.

The world blurred at the edges.

The painting was soft, muted in color, like it had been caught in the golden hour of a fading summer. Three figures sat at the edge of a dock, backs turned, feet dipping into a painted lake that rippled with every brushstroke.

Two boys who's curves of smiles you would know even from behind.

One girl who knew.

It was them.

It was you.

Your throat tightened painfully, a memory rising unbidden, curling at the edges of the canvas, spilling into the quiet of the gallery until it was no longer just a painting—It was then.

You were twelve the summer Minho decided that the best way to survive the heat was to sit at the edge of the lake until the sun stopped trying to kill him.

Jungkook had been the first to follow, feet kicking idly at the water, arms propped behind him as he leaned back, his oversized t-shirt damp from an earlier splash war that he had definitely lost.

You had been the last to sit down, cross-legged between them, tossing small pebbles into the lake just to watch the ripples expand.

It had been quiet, warm, easy. The afternoon smelled of earth and sun, of laughter spilling into the open air.

“Stay still, Minho!” you giggled, reaching over to press another blade of grass into his already messy hair.

“Why?” he huffed, cracking one eye open. “You’re ruining my masterpiece.”

“You’re ruining my masterpiece,” you shot back, grinning as you tucked another strand behind his ear. A few away, Jungkook sat cross-legged, watching the two of you with quiet fascination. He was younger then, still round-cheeked, his dark eyes wide and serious as he curled his fingers in the grass.

“Are you gonna put grass in my hair too?” he finally asked, tilting his head.

You paused, considering, then reached over and plucked a small daisy from the ground.

“Not grass,” you said, leaning closer. “But hold still.”

He did.

Even then, Jungkook had been good at that—at waiting, at being patient in a way that seemed too big for his age.

Carefully, you tucked the daisy behind his ear.

“There,” you murmured, sitting back.

Minho snorted, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Now he looks really ridiculous.”

But Jungkook only blinked, reaching up to touch the flower gently, like it was something delicate, something that had been given to him and him alone.

He didn’t take it out.

It stayed there like the three of you—trapped in summer light, forever twelve, forever laughing, forever somewhere time could not reach.

A quiet exhale broke the silence behind you. But the deep ache stayed spread through your chest, slow and unforgiving.

"He never showed me this," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "He painted it the year before he…" Jungkook hesitated, the words catching. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of Minho’s signature. "Before he passed."

Your chest constricted. The truth never stopped feeling like a knife.

From the first time since you stepped inside, you finally turned to Jungkook then, eyes searching, waiting for him to tell you why.

Why he had done this.

Why had he crushed that one devastating voice in your head that would make it's appearance timely—you are forgetting him. You are forgetting the exact way his laughter curled at the end. The domesticity of how his step fell beside yours. Those were slipping with every sunrise you surived without him. Dissolving like fog under the sun. You are forgetting your min min.

And one night, you'd wake up desperate, breathless, trying to recall the way he said your name but you wouldn't. And the guilt—God, the guilt—would sit on your chest.

Until now that Jungkook had gathered every fragment of Minho’s soul and brought it back to life. Not as a ghost. But as something immortal. As something known. Someone someone will always know. A hundred things rise to the surface. None of them make it past your lips.

Jungkook exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair before shoving it back into his coat pocket. His shoulders were drawn tight, but his voice was steady when he finally spoke. "I started looking for them a while ago. A month before I came back, maybe longer. They were scattered—some in old studios, some with collectors. A few were in storage, collecting dust. I tracked them down, bought back what I could."

He hesitated before continuing. "Hyung's anniversary is next month." The words felt heavy, like they were scraping raw against the throat of a boy who had never quite come to terms with losing the only man he's ever looked up to. "And I—" A pause, like he was choosing his next words carefully. "We—never really did anything, did we?"

You blinked hard, trying to push back the sting behind your eyes.

"No." Your voice was barely there.

A muscle in Jungkook’s jaw ticked. "I didn’t want this year to be like that. I wanted to do something. Do you like..this, angel? We could open this to the public too if you want. Show mom and dad."

Something rises within you, vast and unnameable—less a feeling, more a tide. It isn’t just the gallery. It isn’t just Minho.

It’s the echo of affinity stitched into every frame. The invisible thread that leads back to Jungkook.

It’s the fact that Jungkook did this. That he spent God knows how long making this happen, gathering Minho’s work, making sure his art wouldn’t just sit in forgotten portfolios, lost in the quiet corners of time.He unearthed what time tried to bury. Preserved what you feared was lost.

And the immensity of it—the quiet significance of what he’s saying, of what he’s not saying—hits you harder than you were prepared for.

The gallery holds its breath. Your pulse does not.

Slowly, carefully, you reach for his hand like you would in the dreamiest of dreams.

Jungkook stills.

His fingers are warm beneath yours, rough at the knuckles, tense. But he doesn’t pull away. Not from you. Never from you.

“Thank you,” you whisper. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all you have. Like gratitude too big for language. Like grief softened into approbation. “This is—” Your throat closes, a breath hitching past your lips, eyes blinking away tears that had nothing to do with sorrow and everything to do with love."This is beautiful. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Jungkook doesn’t speak, but something shifts in his face, something almost imperceptible. In a way that made him want to take this moment where you're looking at him like he had hung the stars back in the sky and bury it deep inside his ribs, somewhere no one could ever touch it.

And when he does speak, his hands intertwine with yours, eyes holding yours like gravity. "You're beautiful."

Your lips parted, caught off-guard.

A muscle of his cheek clenches. “I meant—your face is all red. It’s distracting.”

You smiled, watery and gentle, and he swore if he if he had even a silver of the talent his brother carried in the cradle of his hands, he would’ve painted you too.

With your face flushed from crying and the faint glimmer of laughter still clinging to your lashes. With your fingers looped between his like you didn’t even realize you were holding on.

He would’ve painted you in soft oils and pale light, your presence the only subject, the only truth. And maybe he’d leave a smear of color just beneath your eye where your tears had dried, like a signature only he could understand. Not even someone who could’ve looked at it years from now would have understood.

But Jungkook couldn’t paint.

Couldn’t even draw a straight line without it wobbling under pressure. He had no brushstroke to offer you, no canvas that could carry the weight of this feeling blooming in his chest like it had always belonged there.

So he squeezed your hand instead, pulled you into him and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, repeating how you're so beautiful, how he wants to spend the rest of his life telling you so, how he will lay the world on your feet if you only just smile like that for him.

What he doesn't say is that he came back for this. He stayed for you. He'll always stay.

And how still, in the soft lull that followed, his mind—traitor that it was—pulled him somewhere else.

Back to the night he first listened to Minho’s voicemail.

He hadn’t planned to.

It had sat in his inbox for two weeks after Minho passed, unopened. Just a little notification bubble, small and silent, like it knew it wasn’t ready to be heard.

But that night, something in Jungkook had split.

Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the way the world kept turning like nothing had happened. Maybe it was just loneliness.

He’d climbed up to the roof of some rented building in Daegu, drunk off something cheap, the stars sharp above him, the world far below.

And he played it.

"Jungkook-ah." Minho’s voice cracked a little. Old, soft, raspy. Too gentle for someone whose lungs had been fighting him for years.Too familiar, too. The kind that had once read bedtime stories and yelled over bicycle crashes.

“I figured you’d be too pissed to pick up. Can’t blame you.” A soft chuckle, winded.

"I know it’s been a while. Years, actually." He waited, if considering whether it's worth a try or not before resuming. "Too long, huh?"

"I saw your name the other day. Don't even remember where. But it made me stop. Not that I got too much going on for me." Another shaky chuckle followed. "I don’t know what kind of life you’re living now. Maybe something busy. Maybe something brilliant. But if you’re hearing this… I want you to know I was proud. I am proud. Even when I was angry. Especially then, maybe. Even when I didn’t understand you. I watched you become your own person, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t wanted to see you turn into our father."

His voice wavered, raw and fraying.

"But you didn’t become him. You didn’t. And I wish I’d told you that sooner."

“Because you're my little brother. You always will be and I'm sorry I forgot that for a moment and I..I don’t know how much longer I’ve got so I had to tell you this." He paused, and Jungkook could almost hear the way Minho looked up at the ceiling when he was thinking. Like there was something celestial about regrets once they’d been said out loud.

"They don’t say it, but I can tell. I can see it in the beautiful brown of my wife's eyes."

Jungkook remembered pressing his palm against his chest like it could stop the ache. It couldn’t.

"Though it has dulled a shade ever since the coughing starting hurting worse. I suppose, I should be sorry for that too, but I don't want to die drowning in sorrys. I don't want to die regretting. Even if it kills me that I'll never hear your name in the news again, that I will never see her in morning light and think that heaven’s not far off."

He cleared his throat, like it hurt to speak. Maybe it did.

"I want to be content with all that I've had. With all that I've become. I want to be hopeful that the world will be kinder to her. To you. That you'd not spend your whole life outrunning ghosts."

Minho’s voice lowered, like it was just the two of them now. Like it had always been.

"I hope it’s not too late." I hope I'm not too late. "I hope—when the dust settles—you’ve still got something to hold onto. Someone. And I really hope she forgives you."

Silence stretched, one last time for minho, perhaps. For his little brother, it was the sound of his own breaking. He tried to hold his breath. Tried to stay still. But the pain didn't stay quiet. It raked up his throat, rude and coarse, until the first sob slipped out, ruptured and helpless. His hand, the one holding the phone, trembled violently. The other curled into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white, nails digging into his palm like that might stop the shaking.

It didn’t.

“I’ll be somewhere soft. Don’t rush. Just… be good. Remember your hyung. I love you, Jungkook-ah."

Static.

He pressed the phone harder to his ear, like if he clung to it tightly enough, Minho might speak again. That maybe—somehow—he could rewind, could stop it, could change everything.

Only static.

"The centre of every poem is this: I have loved you. I have had to deal with that." — Salma Deera, Letters from Medea (2015).

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