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flutterguk · 1 month ago

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CAN WE GET A PT 2 PLSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

12 rounds │ jjk 18+

“Lose the fight, win me. That’s the deal.”

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: boxer jungkook, toxic but addicting, established couple

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: He loses the fight. Unfairly. Publicly. And the only thing stopping him from snapping is her—barefoot on the balcony, refusing to be shut out. She doesn’t coddle him. Doesn’t flinch when he’s cold. She pushes back. And when the silence finally breaks, it turns into something they both understand better than words—heat, desperation, and a need to feel something real.

The crowd roars around you, but your eyes don’t leave him.

Jeon Jungkook. In the ring like he owns it—shirtless, sweat-slicked, muscles cut and coiled with every movement. His jaw is locked, knuckles already bloodied, and the way he moves is pure venom. Focused. Cold. Dangerous.

And yours.

You’re standing near the front row, VIP badge barely needed when everyone already knows who you are. Cameras flash your way, whispers trail behind your back—“That’s his girl.” “They’re so hot together.” “How the fuck does she pull him?”

You ignore them. You’re not here for the attention.

You’re here for him.

He hasn’t glanced at you once since the fight started. You don’t expect him to. That’s how he is when he’s locked in—ruthless, silent, unreadable. You fell in love with that part of him and hated it all the same.

But you know he felt you walk in. Felt your gaze when it landed on him. He always does.

You catch the way his shoulders roll back when the second round ends—his back glistening with sweat, muscles twitching beneath bronzed, tattooed skin. He’s a walking sculpture, wrapped in rage and breath and heat. The kind of body that’s earned—not gifted. The kind that could ruin you without even trying.

You’ve seen him like this before. Too many times. But it never gets old.

Jungkook in the ring is another version of him entirely. More vicious. More beautiful. Like a storm trapped in a body. That controlled fury in every punch, the precision in every dodge, the restraint that only you understand because you’ve seen what it looks like when he lets go.

“Finish him!” someone yells, and you catch the glint in Jungkook’s eye.

He’s tired. You can tell from the way his footwork staggers for half a second—no one else would notice it, but you do. He should’ve had this guy knocked out in the second round, but the ref was too slow on the break call, and the other guy got a cheap shot to the ribs.

Dirty hit.

You grit your teeth, arms crossed under your chest, diamond bracelet glinting under the arena lights. You look good tonight. Too good. Cropped jacket hugging your waist, heels tall enough to look down on half the men here. Your makeup’s untouched even after hours.

Jungkook always says you look like trouble. And that’s why he likes you.

And even though he’s locked in—throwing punches, tasting blood—you know he saw you. You know he saw the way your lips parted when he ducked under a hook. The way your hand wrapped tighter around the bar railing when he landed a left.

He fights like he knows you’re watching.

The bell dings for the final round.

He exhales, shoulders tight.

And even though he hasn’t looked at you once, his jaw ticks like he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

He knows this isn’t going to be clean. You both do.

You feel it the second the final bell rings.

And you know—before the ref even lifts the wrong hand—that it’s about to be bullshit.

The other guy’s arm is raised.

The crowd erupts in boos. Furious, stunned. It’s not even subtle. Everyone saw the illegal shot. Everyone saw Jungkook dominate the first four rounds. But the judges? The commission? Bought. Blind. Doesn’t matter.

Your heart drops.

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. His jaw is tight, lips parted, chest rising slow like he’s trying not to explode. Blood trickles from his brow, sweat carving paths down his torso. His taped fists hang at his sides, and for a full five seconds, he just stares at the ref.

Then he turns. And you’re already moving.

Security parts before you like instinct. You walk in heels like they’re made for the mat, your blazer hugging your waist, hair still perfect, not a drop of emotion on your face—except for what’s in your eyes. Fury. Devotion. Fire.

He sees you immediately.

And that’s when he finally breathes.

His gloves are already off, tossed to the side. Tape loose around his wrists, knuckles bruised and red. He walks straight into your space like a magnet, and before you can say anything, his hand catches your hip, dragging you in.

Your arms go around his neck like instinct. His body is hot and hard and shaking.

“Don’t say anything,” he mutters against your ear. His voice is low, dark. Controlled the way dynamite is controlled—right before the fuse is lit. “Not here.”

You nod, forehead pressed to his. “I’m not.”

His other arm wraps around your lower back and pulls you flush against him. It’s not soft. It’s not delicate. He holds you like a claim, like possession, like he wants every camera watching to see exactly where he finds peace. His scent hits you immediately—leather, sweat, the faint echo of his cologne, spiced and sharp and familiar.

“Fucking rigged,” he mutters, voice cracking with restraint.

You tilt your head and stare up at him. Even angry, he’s beautiful—his lip is split, his cheek swelling, but his eyes are dark and locked on yours like they haven’t seen anything else all night.

“You should’ve knocked him out,” you say quietly.

“I tried.” His jaw flexes. “Didn’t want to kill him.”

You smirk, just barely. “Pity.”

His lips twitch. The smallest hint of a smile—there and gone.

Then he leans down.

A quick kiss. Messy and sharp. His bottom lip tastes like blood. Yours smudge gloss onto his. It’s not sweet—it’s public. It’s loud. It’s a declaration. His hand slides down to your ass, gripping without shame as he pulls you tighter, and you feel his exhale shake against your mouth.

Let them all see.

He’s not hiding anything.

Reporters shout both your names. Cameras flash in waves. A mic’s shoved toward your face, and a voice slices through the noise.

“Y/N, thoughts on the decision tonight? Do you think Jeon Jungkook was robbed?”

You don’t break eye contact with him as you reach up and gently fix a strand of damp hair from his forehead. His hand stays wrapped around your waist like a cuff.

Then, to the cameras, your voice comes out steady and clear—

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” Your tone is cool. Confident. The exact opposite of the storm you’re holding down inside. “But that’s okay. We’re not done.”

Jungkook hums low in his throat like he agrees.

He lets go of your waist just long enough to lace your fingers together, holding your hand as he steps down off the mat. Security tries to hold back the press, but he doesn’t give them a choice—he walks you through the chaos like it’s his runway, like the world owes him a moment of silence.

You don't need to look at him to feel it. The shift.

He’s still holding your hand, but his grip has changed—firmer, tighter, a little too close to a fist. The crowd is screaming, cameras flashing, everyone clawing to get a glimpse of him. Of you. Of you two.

But Jungkook doesn’t care about the noise anymore.

He walks you out of the arena like he’s dragging a ghost behind him. Silent. Stormy. The win stolen right out from under him, and the only thing keeping him from knocking out someone on the way out is the weight of your hand in his.

He lets you in the limo first. His touch on your hip is automatic, firm, but there’s no softness in it now. No teasing squeeze. Just pressure.

The door shuts behind him with a hard thunk.

And he goes still.

The moment feels longer than it is. The silence isn’t peaceful—it’s thick. Suffocating. Like the air’s too heavy to breathe.

He sits across from you. Shirtless. Shoulders wide, bruised, skin glinting with the last remnants of sweat and blood. His jaw is locked, his brows drawn. The cut above his brow has stopped bleeding, but there’s still a smear on his cheekbone. You know he’ll refuse to get it cleaned up until the morning.

His phone buzzes. He checks it with a flick of his eyes. Then declines the call without a word.

You sit still.

Waiting.

Watching.

The engine hums beneath your feet, and outside, the crowd disappears. The tinted windows block out everything, but inside the car, the silence only gets louder.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer.

You try again. “That decision was bullshit.”

Still nothing.

You cross your legs, lean into the seat. “Cool. So you’re doing the sulking-in-silence thing tonight.”

He exhales through his nose. Slow. Measured. Controlled. That control scares you more than if he’d yelled.

You press your tongue to your cheek. “At least you looked good getting robbed.”

He finally moves—just his eyes. Sharp and dark, cutting across the seat to look at you like a warning.

You meet it head-on. “Don’t look at me like I’m the one who handed out the scorecard.”

“You don’t get it,” he mutters.

“I don’t get what?”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, voice low and cold. “I worked for that fight. I fucking bled for that fight. And they gave it away like I was nothing.”

“You think looking good is enough to make that go away?” he says. It’s not cruel. But it’s sharp. Wounded.

“I don’t want to hear anything right now.” His jaw clenches.

You stare at him. “Guess I’m just for show, huh? Pretty thing to stand beside when you lose.”

“I didn’t lose.”

You pause. Quiet. “Then why do you sound like you did?”

His gaze flicks away. That’s the last thing he says.

He leans back, hands rubbing over his face once, then through his damp hair. The seat creaks under his weight. You watch him closely, waiting for him to break the silence.

But he doesn’t.

He shuts down completely.

The ride continues like that—heavy, wordless. The distance between you stretched by everything he’s not saying. You’re still in your heels, still in your perfect blazer, still looking like the girl every guy wants to steal. But he doesn’t reach for you.

Doesn’t even look.

You fold your arms and turn to the window.

Fine.

If he wants quiet—he’ll get it.

The elevator opens to the quiet luxury of the penthouse—glass, marble, soft lighting, the city glowing below like it has no idea the man standing in this hallway just got robbed of a win that bled months of preparation.

Jungkook walks in first. No word. No glance.

You follow behind, slower. He leaves the door open for you, but doesn’t wait. His duffle hits the floor with a dull thud, water bottle in hand before you’ve even unzipped your jacket. His back is to you when you step inside, and it stays that way.

You toe off your heels by the door, your body still humming from the adrenaline of the arena. But he doesn’t even look.

The silence follows you through the living room like a shadow. You sit on the edge of the couch, slowly undoing your blazer buttons, waiting—hoping—he says something first.

He doesn’t.

He twists the cap off the water bottle. Drinks like it’s a chore. His jaw tenses with every swallow, throat bobbing, chest rising and falling too quickly.

Still no words.

You exhale. “You’re really not gonna talk to me?”

He caps the bottle. Tosses it on the kitchen island. Then turns around—but his eyes don’t meet yours.

Your voice drops. “You’ve been quiet since we left. You gonna keep doing that all night?”

“Don’t,” he mutters, walking past you.

That’s all he says.

Don’t.

You stand slowly, arms crossed. “You don’t get to snap at me like I’m the one who made the call.”

He doesn’t even slow his steps. Just walks straight to the balcony, opens the glass door, and steps outside.

You blink. “Are you fucking serious?”

No response.

The door shuts behind him with a cold finality.

You stay frozen in the living room, lips parted in disbelief, hands curled at your sides.

He’s done this before—gone quiet when shit gets under his skin—but this? This feels different. Sharper. Like he’s not just mad about the loss. He’s mad about everything. The fight. The cameras. Himself. And maybe even you, though he won’t admit it.

You walk to the balcony door, stop just short of opening it. He’s out there with a cigarette between his fingers, leaning against the glass railing, the glow of the city painting his skin in soft gold and silver. Shirtless. Silent. Alone.

Smoke curls from his mouth as he exhales. His hair’s still damp. His knuckles are red and scraped raw. He presses the cigarette to his lips again, breathing in slow like he’s trying to stay sane.

You stare at him through the glass.

Your chest rises, falls. But you don’t go out there.

Not yet.

Because if he wants space, if he wants to stand out there and pretend like you didn’t ride for him all night, then fine. Let him.

You walk back to the couch, arms still crossed, jaw still tight, sitting down like you’re done talking until he starts.

And in the silence, the distance stretches like a fault line between you.

The cigarette’s almost done.

You watch from the couch, pretending not to care, but every time you look up, he's still out there. Still silent. Still leaning on the glass railing like the weight of the city might drag him over it.

And you’ve had enough.

You rise slowly. Quietly.

The balcony door opens with a soft click, and the air outside hits you—cool, sharp, but nothing compared to the chill in his silence. The wind brushes your skin. You walk barefoot onto the balcony, arms folded, steps deliberate, slow.

Jungkook doesn’t look at you. Not right away.

You stop beside him, close but not touching.

He exhales smoke without a word. The wind pushes his hair back from his face. His profile’s cut in moonlight—high cheekbones, the edge of a bruise on his jaw, lips still red from the fight, or from you. His chest rises, slow and tense.

You stand still.

The silence stretches between you, long and bitter.

And then you speak—softly, just above the wind.

“You gonna be quiet forever?”

His jaw clenches, cigarette between his fingers. “Depends.”

“On what?”

He flicks the ash over the edge. “On whether or not I say something I’ll regret.”

You look at him, long and level. “You already did.”

That makes him finally glance at you. A flash of guilt crosses his face, but it disappears just as fast. He drops the cigarette in the ashtray beside him and leans back against the glass, arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“I’m tired,” he mutters.

You nod once. “I know.”

“I’m angry.”

“I know that too.”

He looks at you now. Really looks. “Then why are you out here?”

Your lips twitch. “Because you always act like the world’s ending when you lose. Like I’m supposed to stand back and let you implode.”

“I’m not imploding.”

“You’re not talking.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

You pause. “Not with you. With you, silence is worse.”

He looks away again.

You hate how beautiful he looks like this—quiet and bruised, still burning. You can see the fight still living in his shoulders, in the way he breathes, like his lungs are too full of everything he didn’t get to say in the ring.

You step closer, slowly. Until your shoulder almost brushes his arm.

“You don’t have to talk,” you say softly. “But you don’t get to shut me out like I’m the problem.”

His eyes flick to yours. And for a second—just a second—you see it. The crack. The thing underneath all the silence.

He reaches out.

Fingers graze your wrist. Light. Hesitant.

Then firmer.

His hand wraps around your wrist, tugging gently until your front touches his side. His head dips toward you, forehead resting against your temple, his eyes closed like he’s just too tired to keep carrying all that weight by himself.

“I don’t know how to lose,” he whispers.

You press a hand to his chest. His skin is warm. His heart is pounding.

“You don’t have to,” you murmur back. “Not when I’m here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But his hand slides to your waist.

Not tentative this time. Firm. Certain. The kind of touch that says he’s done pretending you’re not exactly what he needs.

He exhales into your neck—warm, shaky. “You wore that just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

You smirk, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I always dress for war.”

His fingers tighten, pulling you flush against him. Your chest meets the bare heat of his torso, and for a moment, you both just breathe—his nose grazing your cheek, your fingers curling into his shoulder. The bruises on his skin don’t scare you. If anything, they only make him feel more real. Less like a symbol. More like your man.

The one who bleeds, and breaks, and still tries to keep the world on his back.

He turns his face, mouth finding yours in the dark. And it’s slow this time. Not sharp. Not angry. Just deep. Needy. His lips part against yours like he’s tasting relief, like kissing you is the only thing that makes him feel like himself again.

He kisses you like he lost something out there and found it the second you walked onto the balcony.

Your hands tangle in his hair. His body presses you gently against the glass. You gasp softly into his mouth when his palm moves lower, finding the backs of your thighs, lifting—just enough to make your breath hitch.

“I need you inside,” you murmur, voice low. “Now.”

He doesn’t answer. Just takes your hand and pulls you in.

You follow him through the dark, quiet penthouse. No lights on. No music. Just your footsteps, your breathing, the sound of his body so close you can almost feel him without touching.

He stops in the middle of the living room.

Turns.

And kisses you again—harder this time.

Your back hits the couch. He leans over you, not breaking the kiss, hands roaming with more heat, more pressure. Like all the silence from earlier is pouring out now in the way he touches you. Desperate. Focused. Controlled in only the way he is when he’s about to lose it.

His mouth leaves yours to trail down your jaw. Your throat. Your collarbone. Every kiss is a vow. A bruise. A surrender.

You pull him closer.

Because this is what it always comes down to.

Not the fight.

Not the anger.

But this— The way he breathes when he’s on top of you. The way his body fits against yours like it’s home. The way he falls apart when you touch him like he’s not invincible.

And for once… he lets you hold him without flinching.

No more silence.

Only skin, and sighs, and everything he doesn’t know how to say in words.

Your back hits the couch cushions and his weight follows immediately—solid, heavy, demanding. His knee parts your legs without hesitation, and you open for him like muscle memory.

His mouth is back on yours, but different now. Gone is the slow burn. This is messier. Breathless. All tongue and teeth. He kisses like he’s punishing you for showing up. Like he’s mad it made him feel better.

Your head tilts back and you moan against his mouth. His hand wraps around your throat—not choking, just holding. Grounding. Possessive. His thumb brushes your jaw as his other hand pushes your dress up roughly, bunching the fabric around your hips.

“Fuck,” he growls into your mouth. “Look at you.”

You gasp when his palm slides up your inner thigh, fingers dragging, slow and firm, like he wants to take his time even though you both know he won’t. His touch is hot, calloused, and so familiar it makes your chest ache.

You grab his wrist, breath hitched. “Don’t tease.”

He smirks, but it’s darker now. “You don’t get to make demands.”

His fingers slip past the edge of your underwear, and you jolt, legs twitching. He grunts when he feels how wet you already are, dragging his fingers through you, slow at first—just enough to feel how badly you want it.

“Fuck, baby…” His voice is low, wrecked. “You like it when I’m angry?”

You stare up at him, lips parted, breathing hard. “You like pretending you’re still in control.”

That makes him snap.

He pulls your underwear down roughly, doesn’t even bother taking it off fully—just pushes it past your knees and spreads your thighs with both hands. You feel the heat of his breath as he looks at you, not touching, not yet.

“You’ve been testing me all night,” he mutters, sliding two fingers into you without warning.

You arch off the couch with a sharp gasp.

His fingers curl immediately, dragging against that spot you hate how fast he finds. His thumb presses down on your clit, slow circles that contrast the way he fucks you with his hand—deep, rough, unrelenting.

You grip the cushions, eyes fluttering. “Jungkook—”

“I said don’t talk,” he growls.

He leans in close, nose brushing your cheek. His breath is hot, his words even hotter.

“You sat through the whole fight looking like a fucking trophy. And now?” His fingers thrust harder, faster, obscene sounds filling the room. “Now you’re dripping for me. Soaked through and shaking.”

You moan, thighs closing around his hand. He forces them open again, pushing them down with his knee.

“Keep ‘em open,” he commands.

Your fingers slide up his back, nails dragging through the sweat and tension in his spine. He shudders from it, his mouth dropping to your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. You gasp again. His tongue soothes over it.

He groans low in your ear. “You want me to fuck you like I lost?”

You nod, dizzy. “Yes.”

“Like I hate everything but you?”

“Yes, Jungkook—fuck, yes.”

He pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, and you whimper at the loss. He pushes up onto his knees, breathing hard, undoing his sweatpants with one hand, eyes locked on your thighs like he’s about to destroy you.

When he pushes in, it’s fast and deep—too deep. You cry out, legs wrapping around him, nails digging into his biceps as he starts thrusting without mercy.

Every snap of his hips punches a sound out of your throat. He’s gritting his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes dark and fixed on the way your body gives under him.

“This what you wanted?” he pants, fucking into you hard enough to rock the couch. “Wanted to be the only thing I could feel after getting robbed?”

You nod, whimpering, trying to keep your voice from breaking.

“You are,” he snarls. “You fucking are.”

You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore—just sounds, gasps, curses, his name. His name, over and over.

He slips one arm under your back, dragging you up against his chest so you’re nearly sitting in his lap, your legs wrapped around him. His rhythm doesn’t slow. If anything, it gets rougher.

Skin on skin. Bruising, breathless. His hand on your ass, your nails in his neck, teeth grazing lips between ragged kisses.

He’s not being gentle. And you don’t want him to be.

This isn’t careful. It’s not sweet.

It’s two people breaking at the seams and using each other to survive it.

His forehead drops to yours. His breath is hot, shaky, lips brushing yours with every thrust.

“I need you,” he murmurs. It’s not rough. Not this time. Just honest. Raw. “I need you, baby. Stay with me.”

You kiss him like a promise. Like you’ll never go anywhere.

Your orgasm hits hard—fast and full-body. You shake, fingers clenching around him, crying out his name. And he follows, growling into your neck, burying himself inside you with one final thrust that leaves you both breathless.

The only sound left is the way you both breathe.

Then silence.

Warm. Spent. Wrapped around each other on the couch, skin damp and hearts pounding.

And for the first time all night— He’s not angry. He’s just holding you.

authors note: comment and lmk what u think!

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