nikixkoo

[nikixkoo]

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌

pairing: jungkook x f!reader.

word count: 6k

content warnings: smut [MDNI], protected sex, dirty talk, oc’s a nightclub dancer.

a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 to be honest, i don’t know if this will have a second part, but for now, i hope u enjoyed reading it. lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼

summary: You dance beneath the harsh glow of neon lights, each movement a promise, each step a declaration of independence. Living on your own isn’t easy, and the money doesn’t always stretch far. But in the nightclub, you’ve found a place where you can truly be yourself, a place that makes you feel free.

Jungkook is everything you’ve learned to distrust. A music prodigy wrapped in luxury, carrying wealth, fame, and a smile that could melt anyone.

When his world collides with yours one fateful night, neither of you expects what happens next. He sees you, and in that moment, everything changes for both of you.

You fix your lipstick in a mirror that’s seen better days, the fluorescent light above buzzing like it’s got secrets to spill. Behind you, the dressing room hums with chatter, perfume clouds, and the sound of stilettos clacking against worn tile. Someone giggles. Someone curses. You barely hear it.

Your focus is razor-sharp. The crimson lipstick stains your mouth like a weapon. You’ve learned how to wear it like armor.

You step out onto the stage with the kind of confidence you’ve learned to fake until it feels real. The lights are dim and seductive, low purples and moody reds licking across your skin like silk. The air is thick with smoke and perfume, the scent of attention heavy in your lungs.

Love, I said real love…

The opening notes of Cherry drip through the speakers like slow, warm honey, and you feel it before the sound even reaches your ears. It wraps around you, slinks into your spine, and settles in your bones.

You don’t rush. You never rush.

Your fingers trail down your sides, slow and teasing, as your body moves to the rhythm, hips rolling in a lazy figure-eight that draws every gaze like gravity. You let your head fall back, exposing the column of your neck, lips parted just slightly. The music is a heartbeat beneath your skin, and you let it lead you, let it possess you.

A touch from your real love…

There’s a chair waiting center stage. You walk toward it with purpose, heels clicking against the glossy floor like a countdown. You turn your back to the crowd, lower yourself onto the seat like a whisper, and spread your legs just enough for the room to hold its breath.

Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’, I fall to pieces when I’m with you…

You run your hands up the inside of your thighs, slow and deliberate, eyes hooded as you look out into the sea of shadows.

And that’s when you feel him.

You don’t know how or why, but somehow, you know exactly where he is. Back corner. Booth. Dressed in black like sin dressed itself up to behave. His gaze is molten, quiet, and sharp enough to cut through the noise.

You tilt your head slightly, just enough for him to wonder if that glance was for him. And it was.

Still seated, you slide one leg over the arm of the chair, reclining like you belong to the stage, like the world should beg to touch you. Your hand slips up your torso, fingers brushing under your chest, and you arch into your own touch—not for them, not for the money—but because it reminds you this body is yours.

You move like liquid. Like smoke curling in the dark. The song coils tighter, and so do you, legs closing slowly, body shifting with sin-soaked grace. The chair groans beneath you as you lean forward, hands gripping the edges. You let your tongue touch your lip, let the lights catch the sheen on your skin.

And my cherries and wine, rosemary and thyme…

You drag the final steps out like a promise you don’t plan to keep, rising from the chair one last time and walking offstage as if you don’t notice the tension you leave behind.

The dressing room swallows you like a deep breath.

Backstage, the lights are too bright, and the air too still. You peel off your heels, stretch your legs, and lean back against the wall, still in your performance set, still buzzing from the stage. Sweat clings to your skin, the lace of your top damp where it hugs your ribs. You don’t care. That was one of your best sets in weeks, and you felt it.

You think about him. Dark eyes. That stare. The way his presence reached you from across the club like heat from a flame.

You try not to let it linger. You’ve got other things to focus on. Rent, groceries, getting home without your ankle giving out. But even as you wipe off your lipstick and slip into your hoodie, he’s still there, in the corner of your thoughts, in the imprint of his gaze.

Time skips forward.

It’s late now, the club is closing, the night air bites at your skin as you step outside, the sounds of the city soft in your ears. You wrap your hoodie tighter around you, your little backpack slung over one shoulder, heels hanging from your fingers.

The sidewalk is mostly empty. Most of the crowd has already scattered into cabs and Ubers, high on alcohol and neon. You’re about to head for the subway when you see him.

Leaning against a sleek black car parked across the street. Hands in his pockets. Still in that same all-black outfit, like he never left.

His eyes meet yours, and this time, he smiles.

You slow your steps, unsure for just a moment if you should keep walking. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

There’s a quiet confidence in it, something that tells you he’s not used to chasing, but he will, if he has to. You step off the curb and cross the street.

“Were you waiting for someone?” you ask, voice calm, curious. You keep your distance, but not too much, just enough to test the air between you.

His gaze flicks down, then back up. “I wasn’t sure,” he says. “I thought maybe I imagined you.”

You tilt your head, trying not to smirk. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t think so.”

The night hums around you. He still hasn’t told you his name.

“Jungkook,” he says, like he felt the thought leave your mind.

You nod. “You always wait outside clubs for dancers?”

He chuckles. “First time. I guess I got lucky.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, intrigued. “You don’t seem like the type to come here.”

“I’m not.” He leans back against the car a little more. “My friends dragged me. Said it would be good to get out, I didn’t argue.”

“And now you’re here. Still.”

“And now I’m here,” he repeats, like it means something. “What about you? You always leave looking like that and walk straight into the night?”

You shrug, shifting your heels in your grip. “This is me after work. You should see me at rock bottom.”

He laughs again, and this time, it’s genuine. It crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I don’t think you have a rock bottom.”

You glance at him. His jawline sharp in the streetlight, earring catching the glow, one hand dragging through his hair like he’s trying to stay cool. He’s not trying to impress you, he’s just interested, and that’s dangerous.

You’ve learned to be careful with men who have everything.

“You should go home,” you say eventually. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but makes no move. “You got someone waiting on you?”

The question is light, but loaded. You smile, tired. “No. Just bills.”

He nods, eyes flicking down to your heels again. “Want a ride?”

“No thanks,” you say, not unkindly. “If you’re smart, you won’t wait for anyone who dances like I do.”

He raises a brow. “Why’s that?”

You hold his stare. “Because girls like me don’t lead you anywhere safe.”

The moment hangs, then you walk past him, brushing lightly against his sleeve.

He turns as you go. Watches you disappear into the night with that same look he wore in the club, like he’s still trying to figure you out.

The walls of your apartment are thin, not just the kind of thin where you can hear neighbors argue, the kind where it feels like your life could split down the middle if you breathe too hard. You’ve been here six months, and it still doesn’t feel like home.

You’re curled up on your couch, a cup of instant coffee in one hand and your phone in the other, the glow of your banking app reflecting off your tired eyes. The numbers glare at you, mock you. Rent’s due in four days.

You have almost enough. Almost enough to cover bills, almost enough to maybe buy some groceries, almost enough to keep pretending this version of your life isn’t eating you from the inside out.

You rub your thumb over the screen. Your feet aches from hours in heels. Your shoulders are sore. You’ve got another shift tonight.

And still, it’s not enough.

You let your head fall back against the couch. Maybe if you picked up more shifts, maybe if you danced dirtier, maybe if you finally said yes to that older guy who keeps asking for a private show.

You hate thinking like that. But sometimes, surviving means doing things you swore you wouldn’t.

You glance over at your worn-out calendar taped to the wall, two more weeks until your second job pays out, until then, it’s late nights and glittered skin, making magic onstage for strangers who toss money without ever seeing you.

Well… except for one.

You blink that thought away like it’s dust in your eyes. He was just another rich man with too much time and not enough boundaries. He looked at you like he was curious, like you were a mystery, you’ve seen that before.

You set the coffee down, pull your knees up to your chest, and try to breathe through the pressure closing in behind your ribs.

You’ll figure it out. You always do. But damn, you’re tired of surviving.

The club is already breathing heavy when you arrive. Bass pounding through the walls, lights spilling onto velvet floors, bodies moving like shadows in a fever dream.

Your locker’s waiting. So is your routine. But before you can even make it down the hallway, a familiar voice calls after you.

“Got something interesting for you, sweetheart.”

You turn around. Your manager, Dean, is grinning like he knows a secret. You arch a brow. “If it’s another pair of fishnets, I’ll scream.”

He chuckles. “Better. Or worse, depending on how you see it.”

You follow him back to the dressing room, your curiosity sharp. He gestures toward your station, where a black velvet box sits, untouched and elegant, like it doesn’t belong in a place like this.

“What is it?” you ask slowly.

He shrugs. “Open it and see.”

You hesitate. Nothing good comes wrapped like that. Not in this world. Still, your fingers move before your mind can catch up. The lid lifts, and your breath catches.

A choker. Thin, intricate, red velvet lined with diamonds, tiny but real. You can tell by the glint under the lights, it’s delicate and rich and dangerous, it’s the kind of thing worn by women who know they’re being desired.

Dean crosses his arms. “You gonna wear it?”

You close the box. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On who gave it to me.”

He gives you a sly smirk. “Then you might want to take a peek at the lounge.”

Your pulse stumbles. You step out of the room, shoes silent against the carpet now, and look.

He’s there, again. In the far booth. Casually lounging like he’s part of the decor. Black slacks, a fitted shirt rolled at the sleeves, rings glinting on his fingers, one ankle crossed over the other. A drink in front of him, untouched. His eyes already locked on yours.

A smile curves across his lips, you stare back for a second too long, heat crawling up your spine. Then you disappear back into the dressing room. You don’t say a word to Dean, you don’t explain. You just take the choker out of the box and fasten it around your neck.

You change into your outfit for the night, a deep crimson bodysuit, sheer panels that show just enough, long sleeves that hug your arms, heels that add an edge to every step. You keep the choker on.

He gave it to you, and you want him to see it.

The night starts slowly, but you can feel him there. Watching from his booth, nursing that drink he hasn’t touched. You dance for others, smile for them, let them fantasize for the length of a song. But the only eyes that matter tonight are his.

You pass his booth once, on your way to the bar. His fingers tap against the glass lazily, but his gaze trails down the line of your legs, lingers on your throat—on the choker.

“You wore it,” he says lowly as you pass.

You don’t stop walking. Just smile over your shoulder. “It matched the mood.”

He chuckles behind you. The kind of laugh you feel in your stomach.

Later, as the night starts to wind down and the crowd thins, you find him standing at the bar, no entourage or noise, just him. He’s been patient. But his eyes are hungry now.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he says, voice dipped in velvet.

You lean against the bar beside him. Close, but not quite touching. “That’s bold.”

He shrugs. “I’m not good at pretending I don’t want something.”

Your fingers toy with the edge of your glass. “And what do you want?”

“You.” The word drops between you like a spark. “But not like this,” he adds, eyes steady. “Not just in glimpses. I want to sit across from you and hear your voice when the music’s not drowning it out.”

You’re quiet for a moment, staring at him. It should be easy to say no. You’ve had men want more, want what they shouldn’t, but he’s not like them.

There’s no pressure in his words, and… something you haven’t seen in a long time. Something real.

You take a sip of your drink and finally smile. “Maybe.”

His lips twitch. “Maybe’s a good start.”

Your shift ends later than you’d like. The night stretched long with sweaty bills tucked into your thighs and too many hands reaching for a version of you they’ll never truly get. But all you could think about was that choker on your neck… and the way he looked at you like you were the only person who mattered in the whole damn room.

“Goodnight, baby,” one of the girls purrs, already halfway out the door, heels swinging in hand.

You nod, half-dazed. The rush has faded, but your heart still beats fast, because it’s not over yet.

You head back into the dressing room, peeling off the crimson bodysuit, watching your reflection in the mirror as your skin shimmers faintly with leftover stage light.

You change slowly. A black dress that hugs your hips and dips just enough at the front to make your pulse jump. Strappy heels. Clean skin, the faintest trace of perfume behind your ears, and the choker stays on. Of course it does.

Outside, the city is humming. Night air kisses your skin with a bite, but you barely notice, because he’s there.

Leaning against the side of his car, hands in his pockets, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the ink on his arms. His hair is messy in that way that looks styled on purpose, and his gaze is already locked on you the second you step into view.

He doesn’t say a word at first, he just looks at you. From the choker down to your dress, down your legs, then back up again, slower.

You walk toward him, your heels soft against the pavement, lips curved. “Thought maybe meant maybe,” you tease, stopping just a breath away.

He smiles. “You don’t dress like a maybe.”

You tilt your head, heart racing. “You always this smug?”

“Only when it works.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but there’s no denying the heat between you.

He opens the passenger door without a word, and you slip inside, the choker catching the light as you move. It’s quiet in the car, just the pulse of the city and the rustle of your dress as you cross your legs.

Jungkook slides into the driver’s seat and glances at you sideways, eyes dark with something wicked and wondering.

“You look like trouble,” he says.

You smile slowly. “So do you.”

The restaurant is drenched in luxury. Everything glows with a low, golden hue that makes every table feel like a secret. Crystal glasses, flickering candles, linen napkins folded with mathematical precision. It smells like money in here. Old money. And for a moment, you feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin.

Jungkook walks like he belongs here. He thanks the hostess with a nod, hand resting lightly at the small of your back as she leads you to a booth tucked into the curve of the wall. It’s intimate, shadowed. You slide in across from him, trying not to feel small, or out of place.

When the menus come, you pick yours up slowly. It’s black leather, the font too elegant to be readable at a glance. Your eyes trail down the list, and your heart drops with every number beside every name.

₩92,000 for an entrée. ₩160,000 for a bottle of wine.

Even if it’s not your money, the guilt creeps in. You should be focused on the rent due in four days, not sitting across from a man who smells like spice and sin, making you forget you’ve been scraping coins out of your coat pockets all week.

He notices the way your fingers still against the page. “Hey,” he says, voice smooth and quiet, but pointed. “Order whatever you want.”

You glance up. “I— It’s just…”

“I know,” he interrupts, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But you don’t have to worry about that. Not tonight.”

You hesitate. He leans forward, tattooed fingers wrapping around the stem of his wine glass. “If I bring you somewhere, it means I want you there. Let me have that.”

You feel the breath catch in your throat, because it sounds so simple when he says it. Like indulgence isn’t dangerous. Like pleasure isn’t a slippery slope.

But deep down, guilt bubbles beneath the surface. You should be thinking about the bills piling up in your tiny apartment, you should be clocking into your next shift, counting tips, wondering if you’ll make it.

Instead, you’re here. Wrapped in silk, lips glossed, his choker still hugging your neck, letting a man like him treat you like you’re worth more than what the world ever gave you.

You close the menu slowly, trying to keep your voice steady. “You really are impossible.”

He grins. “That’s not a no.”

And it isn’t. Because no matter how hard your reality pulls, there’s something magnetic about the way he looks at you. Like you’re art. Like you’re a fucking storm.

The wine is deep and red, almost black in the low lighting, and you take the first sip slower than you mean to. It’s sweet, rich, the kind of expensive you’d never order on your own. You glance over your glass at him, lips still wet from the drink, and find him already watching you.

“What?” you ask, setting the glass down with a soft clink.

He rests his cheek against his hand, rings catching the candlelight. “Nothing. Just trying to figure you out.”

You raise a brow. “Good luck with that.”

“I like a challenge.”

You laugh, softly. But beneath it, there’s a hum of something warmer. Something that cuts deeper than playful banter.

“Why me?” you ask before you can stop yourself. The question slips out too honestly, too bare. You hate that it does.

He blinks, then tilts his head like he’s surprised you even have to ask. “Because you walked like you weren’t afraid of being looked at,” he says. “And danced like no one ever saw you the way you wanted them to.”

God. That shouldn’t feel as raw as it does.

“I didn’t think you were watching that closely.”

“I wasn’t watching,” he says, voice lower now. “I was caught.”

You stare at him for a beat too long, your heart hammering in your ears. It shouldn’t get to you, but it does. You look away, your fingers tightening around your wine glass.

“I should be worrying about my rent,” you murmur, half to yourself, half to him. “Not sitting here with a guy who wears watches worth more than my entire apartment.”

He doesn’t laugh, he just looks at you, seriously this time. “Then let me be the exception.”

You meet his gaze again, and for once, he’s not cocky or teasing. He’s… sincere. Dangerous in a whole different way, and somehow, that’s worse. Because you can already feel yourself leaning in.

The car ride is quiet, but not calm.

Jungkook’s hand rests casually on the wheel, his other arm draped along the center console, fingers inches from your bare thigh. You’re still in the same dress, the one that felt powerful earlier, but now it feels tight, like your skin is stretched too thin. Too aware of him beside you. The scent of his cologne. The warmth of his voice still coiled inside you.

You glance at him once, but he’s already looking at the road, jaw tight. You know he wants to say something. You know you want to say something. But neither of you does.

When he pulls up to your apartment, the street is quiet. Your building stands there, small, a little worn down, but home. His engine idles. You reach for the door handle, but pause.

“I had a good time,” you say quietly.

He turns toward you, one arm still resting on the steering wheel. “I did too.”

You linger in that second, waiting for it to end, but it doesn’t. His eyes drop to your lips. His jaw ticks.

“Do you want to come in?” you ask, breath barely audible.

Jungkook doesn’t move for a second. But then, his voice comes low. “Are you sure?”

You nod, heart pounding. He kills the engine and gets out.

You leave the door to your apartment cracked behind you, and the moment he steps inside, he sees all of it. Your life in its smallest, truest form.

Shoes scattered by the door. An old mug on the table. A tiny couch barely big enough for one person to stretch out. This isn’t his world, but he doesn’t blink. He just looks at you.

You slip your shoes off quietly, walking toward the middle of the room, unsure what to do with your hands, your breath, your desire.

“You live alone,” he murmurs, eyes slowly sweeping the space.

“Yeah.”

He steps closer. “Doesn’t feel lonely?”

You shrug. “Sometimes. But it’s quiet. And it’s mine.”

He nods, but his gaze lingers on your lips again. He’s closer now, only a few inches separating your breath from his. And then, like it’s inevitable, you lean in.

Your lips brush his, just barely. You feel his breath stutter. His hands clench at his sides, like he’s holding back. But you’re done holding back.

You press your mouth to his, full this time, and he groans into it, like you’ve finally broken something he’s been trying to keep caged. His hands rise, one threading into your hair, the other gripping your waist.

Your back hits the wall, and he kisses you like it’s oxygen. His mouth moves over yours, tongue tasting, claiming. You gasp when his teeth catch your bottom lip. He swallows it down like a curse.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers against your mouth, voice ragged.

You whimper, fingers clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s nothing between your bodies but heat.

“You want this?” he asks, lips ghosting along your jaw, down your throat.

“God, yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

And that’s all he needs. He lifts you easily, lips never leaving yours, and you wrap your legs around his waist, letting him carry you toward the bedroom, or hell, ‘cause you’d let him take you right there if he asked.

He carries you through the short hallway like it costs him nothing. One arm under your thighs, the other curled around your back, holding you like you weigh less than a thought. You feel the muscles in his chest flex against you, the soft drag of his breath near your neck, the beat of his pulse hammering through his skin.

You don’t tell him which door. He picks the right one anyway.

Your bedroom is small, barely more than a mattress pushed up against the wall and a rickety dresser, but it’s clean. It smells like you, soft perfume, maybe vanilla, and Jungkook freezes for a second in the doorway.

Like stepping into your space is suddenly more intimate than kissing you. But you’re already pulling him back in.

Your hands are in his hair, fingers tugging gently, tilting his head until you find his mouth again. He groans into the kiss, and this time, it’s needier, more frantic. His hands slide down your thighs as he sets you on the edge of the bed, and he doesn’t let you go, not for a second.

Your legs fall open for him instinctively. His body slots between them like he was made to fit there.

“You’re so—” he starts, but his voice breaks off in a low growl. His hand comes up, brushing hair from your face, then trails down your jaw, over your throat, and lower. “—fucking beautiful.”

You shiver at the rasp in his voice, the reverence tangled in the filth.

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, soft cotton stretched across a lean chest. He watches you as you push it up, exposing inch after inch of inked skin. His abs flex beneath your touch, and he hisses when your fingertips trace the lines between muscle and tattoo.

“You wanna touch me, baby?” he murmurs, voice like honey-drenched sin. “Then do it. Take what you want.”

And god, you do. You lift his shirt over his head, and he lets you, dropping it somewhere on the floor. Your hands roam his body like you’re trying to memorize it. His skin is warm, smooth, and covered in ink and heat.

“Take it off,” he whispers, fingertips brushing the strap of your dress. “Please.”

That please wrecks you. You slide the straps down slowly, teasingly, letting the silky fabric pool around your waist. You’re not wearing a bra, and Jungkook’s gaze drops like gravity’s pulling it.

“Fuck,” he says, almost reverently. His hands rise, hesitating just an inch from your chest.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

His palms cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they stiffen, until your hips shift restlessly beneath him. He kisses your chest slowly, tongue dragging, mouth worshipping. He trails kisses down your stomach, open-mouthed and warm, until he’s kneeling between your thighs, looking up at you like a man starving.

His hands trail up your legs. His thumbs stroke gently along the inside of your thighs, raising goosebumps with each inch.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, lips parted, eyes dark and blown out. “Lay back,” he says softly. “Let me taste you.”

You sink into the mattress, hair splayed around you, your breath already caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. And when he slides your panties down your legs, leans in and kisses you there, slow and open-mouthed, like you’re something delicate and holy, you swear you feel it in your soul.

The first lick is gentle. Experimental. He watches your reaction as his tongue flicks once, then again, a little firmer. Your legs tremble. Your fingers twist into the sheets.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

He hums like he agrees. His mouth is warm, wet and perfect, tongue stroking with unhurried precision, lips sucking softly, gently. It’s not rushed, it’s thorough, like he’s learning you. Mapping the way your breath stutters when he drags the flat of his tongue up and flicks at the top. The way your hips buck when he moans against you, sending vibrations through your bones.

You’re soaked in seconds, your back arching, one hand covering your mouth and the other clutching his hair, grounding yourself to the only thing that matters right now.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, pulling back just long enough to speak, then licking a slow stripe that makes you whimper. “You want me to stop?”

You shake your head desperately. “Don’t you dare.”

That makes him grin, mouth shiny with you. “Didn’t plan to.”

And then he dives back in, more eager now, more relentless. His tongue works in tight, steady circles, and when he slips one finger inside you, it’s all too much.

You come with a gasp, legs shaking, voice breaking around his name. He keeps going until your hips jerk from oversensitivity, and even then, he kisses the inside of your thigh like a goodbye.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then rises to hover over you, gaze fixed on your face.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers, brushing hair from your cheek. “Do you know that?”

You shake your head, too breathless to speak, but your body tells the truth.

You pull him down to kiss you again, and this time, there’s nothing soft about it. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of your mouth. Like he’s starving, but still somehow patient, hands braced on either side of your head, his body suspended over yours like he’s keeping himself in check.

He pulls back, staring at you. You drag your palms down his chest, and he watches you with hooded eyes, lips parted, breath heavy.

Then his hand cups your jaw. “I want you,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “But I’m not going inside you without a condom.”

You blink, your breath catching for an entirely different reason now.

God, even when he’s like this, cocky, dominant, eyes dark and body tense with want, he still thinks. He still respects you.

You nod, breathlessly. “Top drawer.”

He leans over you, muscles shifting beneath his inked skin as he slides it open and pulls out a condom. You’re still catching your breath, thighs slightly parted, watching him like he’s something out of a fever dream.

He stands. His eyes stay locked with yours as his fingers go to the front of his slacks, and your mouth runs dry when you hear the slow drag of his zipper.

He slides them down, unhurried, the material catching on the curve of his hips before pooling at his ankles. His black boxers cling to him, the outline of his cock so thick and perfect it makes your head spin.

When he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pushes them down, your breath hitches.

He’s big. Hard. Veins prominent, tip flushed and glistening, his cock bobbing slightly as it’s freed.

He strokes himself once, just enough to make your thighs press together, and then rips the condom wrapper open between his teeth, a soft hiss escaping as he rolls it on with expert ease.

“Been dying to fuck you properly.”

And then he’s back, one hand braced on your hip, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

You’re still soaked, still aching from the way his tongue worshiped you minutes ago, and when he pushes in, your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

“Shit,” he groans. “You’re so tight…”

He gives you time to adjust. Every inch deeper comes with a slow grind of his hips, his lips brushing your neck, his breath warm against your collarbone.

And when he’s finally all the way in, bottomed out and still holding back, you swear you’ve never felt so full.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nails digging into his shoulders. “You can move.”

He starts slow. Each thrust is measured, his hips pressing into yours like he’s savoring the stretch, like he’s mapping out every gasp he can pull from you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking softly, tongue dragging over your pulse.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know.”

You moan, your hips arching into his, chasing more friction. But it’s not enough, not yet. He’s still holding back, still careful. Still too gentle.

“Jungkook,” you breathe, voice cracking.

He pulls back enough to look at you. “Yeah?”

Your eyes burn into his. “Don’t hold back. Please.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, something primal that’s barely been caged.

“You sure?” His voice is lower now. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You shake your head, breathless. “I need it.”

And that’s all it takes. He slams back into you, hard enough to make the headboard knock. He sets a rhythm that’s filthy and perfect, each thrust hitting a spot that makes your toes curl.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he pants, driving into you with rough, perfect thrusts. “You’re taking me so well. Look at you.”

He catches your gaze, and your breath catches. You’re not sure if it’s the pace, or the way he sees you like this, but it’s too much, too good.

Your legs tremble, tightening around his waist, and you arch into him with a breathless cry.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

You moan his name like a prayer and a curse, your body burning at the edges.

He leans down, mouth grazing your ear, voice rough silk. “Feel how deep I am, baby?” He grinds his hips, rolling them just right. “Right where you need me.”

You can’t even answer, only whimper, nails dragging across his back. He groans at that, dark and wrecked.

Then suddenly, he pulls out. You gasp, dazed and blinking up at him, but he’s already grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your stomach in one smooth motion.

“Up,” he commands, voice thick and ragged. “On your knees.”

You obey without thinking, and his hands immediately grab your hips, pulling you back until you feel his cock drag between your folds.

He gives you one slow thrust, then pulls back, teasing. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, sliding back in, this time hard and deep. “You’re dripping so much for me.”

He snaps his hips, and you cry out, bracing yourself as he fucks you from behind, rough and fast, a hand sliding around your throat as he pulls you back against him. His other hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit with ease.

“Come on,” he growls. “One more. I wanna feel you clench around me while I fuck you.”

You’re already so close. Your moans turn frantic, eyes fluttering as his fingers work you faster, his thrusts unrelenting.

“That’s it, baby. Let me ruin you.”

You come with a scream, your body shaking, thighs trembling. You collapse forward, but he doesn’t stop, rides you through it until your body’s boneless, twitching under him.

“Shit—” he groans, and with one final deep thrust, he spills inside the condom, body tensing over yours.

Silence follows, charged and intimate. You feel his weight shift slightly, one arm wrapping around your waist as he lowers both of you to the bed gently.

For a second, neither of you says a word. His breath is hot against your shoulder, lips brushing skin like an apology and a promise all at once.

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling you to his chest.

You let him. Heart pounding, skin flushed, body aching in the best way. You don’t know what this is, what it’ll become, but tonight, you don’t care.

And in the quiet that follows, with his fingers stroking lazy circles into your spine and his breath steady beside yours, you realize, maybe for the first time in a long time, you feel safe.

Even if it’s just for tonight.

[nikixkoo]

you ar incredible, i loved your most recent work. its so gently beautiful 🤍

🥹🥹 tysm, luv. it feels really nice to read those words!! ♡

[nikixkoo]

𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐄

pairing: jungkook x f!reader.

word count: 7.7k

content warnings: mentions of smoking.

a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 honestly, i created this story from my longing for a romantic love. i didn’t plan for it to be this long, but i guess i let myself be carried away by the feeling of the moment. i hope u enjoy it and that u’re able to feel all the emotions i tried to convey! lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼

He found peace in her quiet. She found forever in his touch.

summary: He spends his days marking people’s skin with the stories they carry. You spend yours surrounded by stories written long before you.

His world hums with noise; yours, with silence. But somewhere between the chaos and calm, you found each other, and now, you’ve built a life where both can exist.

There’s love in the mundane. Healing in the quiet. And in every brush of his fingers and every turn of your page, a language only the two of you speak.

The late afternoon sun filters through the front windows of your bookstore, casting golden light across worn wooden floors and the rows of mismatched tables. There’s a familiar hum in the air: the gentle clink of mugs, soft murmurs of conversation, the occasional page turning. You’ve always loved this hour, when the rush slows down and the light settles like honey across everything.

You wipe down the counter slowly, eyes half-focused on the mug in your hand. Or rather, pretending to be focused, because your attention has drifted again, like it always does when he’s in the room.

Jungkook is sitting at a table near the front, half turned toward his friend as he speaks, his laugh spilling out across the space like sunlight. He’s loud, he always is, but it’s never too much. Not to you. He talks with his whole body, hands moving in quick bursts, tattoos on full display where the sleeves of his black tee are pushed up to his elbows. There’s a half-empty iced americano beside him, a sketchbook lying forgotten near the edge of the table. His smile is wide and unguarded, the kind that makes his nose scrunch and his eyes disappear.

You don’t even realize you’re smiling too until you catch your reflection in the glass behind the counter.

God, he’s beautiful. And loud. And a little ridiculous. And still, somehow, yours.

Your chest swells quietly with something warm and heavy. Not the fluttery rush of new love, but the settled, soft ache of the kind that’s stayed. The kind that folds into your life without asking, fits into your quiet without taking up too much space. He belongs in this place, even if he doesn’t match it. Ink, leather and cigarette smoke in a room that smells like cinnamon, old books, and roasted beans, and somehow, he still fits.

He throws his head back laughing at something his friend says, and you swear you can feel it from across the room. That joy, that light.

Your cat, curled up on a stack of used poetry books behind the register, lets out a soft yawn, tail flicking against your elbow. You reach down, brushing your fingers over her fur.

It’s just an ordinary day in your bookstore. But he’s here. Laughing. Existing. Loving you, even without touching you.

And somehow, that’s everything.

Jungkook’s friend is slipping on his coat as the two of them walk toward the counter, deep in conversation. Their laughter has softened now, like they’re slowly re-entering your quiet world.

You glance up just as they reach you, and the friend grins, lifting a hand in an easy wave.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he says, nodding toward you. “And for letting me hang out here all afternoon. Place is still perfect.”

You smile, already fond of him. He’s one of the few friends of Jungkook’s who always treats your little shop like something sacred. “You’re always welcome.”

He glances between you and Jungkook, something teasing in his eyes. “Alright, I’ll leave you two alone. See you both soon?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook says, offering a fist bump. “Tell Hyun I said hi.”

“Will do.” And then the friend leans a little closer across the counter to say quietly to you, “Take care of him, yeah?”

You laugh softly, nodding. “Always.”

He sends one last wave before heading for the door. The bell above rings, and then it’s just the two of you.

You don’t get a second to pretend you’re busy, because the moment the door swings shut, Jungkook turns fully toward you, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.

And before he says anything, he leans in and presses a soft, brief kiss to your lips. Not rushed, not dramatic. Just gentle and familiar, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink up at him when he pulls back, lips still tingling.

His voice is low when he finally speaks. “You looked so pretty behind the counter, I had to kiss you.”

Your heart does something. That quiet ache again, warm and steady. You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the way you’re smiling.

“Shut up,” you mumble, cheeks flushed.

He just smirks. “Make me.”

You shake your head, still blushing as you turn to busy your hands with the coffee cups again, though he’s already seen through you.

Jungkook leans his elbows on the counter, chin in one hand, watching you with that lazy little smile he saves just for moments like this.

“Busy day?” he asks, voice quieter now, like he’s already syncing with the rhythm of your space.

You nod, still half-turned. “Mhm, kind of. The morning was slow, but it picked up around lunch. That girl with the poetry obsession came back again, third time this week.”

He hums. “She’s the one who sits in the window seat, right? Leaves lipstick prints on the mugs.”

“That’s her,” you say, lips twitching. “I don’t even bother scrubbing them anymore.”

He laughs softly. “Honestly? Respect.”

You glance over at him, eyes soft. “What about you? Did you work today?”

He nods. “Couple of appointments this morning. Finished that phoenix piece I was telling you about.”

“Oh, the one with the color gradients?” you ask, interest lighting your expression.

“That’s the one.” He leans in a little, like he’s about to tell you a secret. “Took me six hours. I barely moved.”

Your eyes widen. “You’re insane.”

He shrugs, but there’s pride in his smirk. “You love it.”

“I love you, not your questionable choices.”

He grins wide at that, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Just that quiet stretch of air between you, filled with everything unsaid and everything already known.

Then, he speaks again. “I missed you today.”

You blink, surprised. “You were here all afternoon.”

“I know,” he says, gaze warm. “Still missed you.”

Your heart gives the gentlest ache again. You reach across the counter, brushing your fingers against his. He hooks his pinky around yours like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

You don’t know how long you stand there like that, pinkies tangled across the counter, the rest of the world soft and far away. But eventually, the spell breaks with the rustle of a customer’s bag and the quiet scrape of a chair being tucked in.

Jungkook glances toward the front of the shop. “Closing time?”

You sigh, glancing at the clock. “Almost. Fifteen more minutes.”

He hums like he’s considering something. “Wanna cheat and call it now? I’ll help.”

You tilt your head at him. “You’ll help?”

He holds a hand over his heart. “Swear on my life. I’m excellent at stacking chairs.”

You can’t help but laugh, grabbing the rag you’d left beside the espresso machine. “Fine. But I’m docking your imaginary paycheck if you slack off.”

He grins and pushes away from the counter with dramatic flair. “Deal.”

It’s quiet teamwork after that. Him collecting mugs and wiping down tables, you tallying up the register and shutting off the coffee machine. The air smells like cinnamon and espresso, the soft indie playlist still humming faintly in the background. Everything feels calm. Easy.

Your cat, still asleep on the poetry books, stirs when you dim the overhead lights. She stretches long and slow, then hops off the stack with practiced elegance, trailing you as you move toward the front door.

Jungkook’s already flipped the sign to Closed, and now he’s crouched near the counter, fingers reaching out to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

“She rules this place,” he says, glancing up at you.

“She lets me think I’m in charge,” you reply with a smile, grabbing your coat.

When everything’s locked up and your bag is slung over your shoulder, you meet him by the door. He’s holding it open already, one hand reaching for yours without even thinking. It fits easily in his.

The street outside is quiet, the sky painted in that deep indigo that comes right before night fully settles in. A gentle breeze moves through your hair as you step outside, his thumb brushing back and forth over your knuckles.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs.

The sidewalk glows gold beneath the streetlights, and the world feels slowed down, like the night is stretching itself out just for the two of you.

Jungkook’s hand is still laced with yours, warm and steady. You walk in comfortable silence for a few blocks, the only sounds being your footsteps and the distant hum of a car passing now and then.

When you reach the corner by the florist that always closes too early, he slows just a bit and slips his hand free.

You already know why.

Without a word, he pulls a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his back pocket and tucks it between his lips. You watch as he lights it with practiced ease, the flick of the flame reflecting briefly in his eyes.

He takes a slow drag, exhales like he’s been holding something in all day.

You don’t say anything. You just walk a little closer, your shoulder brushing his as the smoke drifts upward and disappears into the night.

He looks over at you, lips quirking. “You okay?”

You nod. “Mhm.”

He gestures toward you with the cigarette, smiling. “You always get quiet when I smoke.”

“It’s not the smoking… it’s the way you always end up talking after. I like listening to you,” you say softly, glancing up at him.

He slows a little more, like your words tugged gently at his chest.

“Why?”

You shrug, looking forward again. “You always sound like you mean what you say.”

He laughs under his breath, takes another drag. “You make me sound like I’m wise or something.”

You glance at him again. “You are, sometimes.”

He exhales a quiet scoff, grinning. “Only when I’m with you.”

There’s a pause. Then, still looking ahead, he asks, “Do you ever think about what it would’ve been like if we hadn’t met?”

You look up at him, surprised. “Why would you ask that?”

He flicks the ash off the edge of the cigarette, watching it fall. “I don’t know. Just… I was thinking earlier, watching you behind the counter. How you move through that space like it’s part of you. Like it breathes with you.”

You stay quiet, letting him keep going.

“And I thought… God, what if I never walked in that day?” He smiles softly, gaze far away. “What if I never saw you sitting there, reading some poetry book with your hair falling in your eyes?”

You feel warmth bloom in your chest, slow and deep.

You bump your shoulder into his gently. “Then I guess you’d still be overcharging people for snake tattoos.”

He laughs, loud and full. “Rude.”

“I’m right, though.”

“You are.” He stubs the cigarette out against the brick wall near you, flicking it into the trash. “You’re always right.”

Then he’s reaching for your hand again, like it never left his.

The rest of the walk is quiet. But not empty.

Never empty with him.

The apartment is quiet when you get there, the kind of quiet that feels lived in, not empty. You unlock the door with one hand, the other still in his. Jungkook stays close behind you, his chin briefly brushing your shoulder as he waits for you to push the door open.

Your cat darts in first. Tail high, full of purpose, like she owns the place and just allowed you both to tag along.

Jungkook laughs under his breath. “She’s such a diva.”

“She’s earned it,” you murmur, setting your bag down by the door.

Inside, it smells faintly like the lavender candle you lit before leaving for work and the vanilla detergent you both pretend not to be obsessed with. You toe off your shoes and watch as Jungkook drops his jacket onto the back of the couch before disappearing into the bedroom.

Your cat immediately finds her spot on the armrest, curling up like she never even left it.

You smile, shaking your head as you make your way into the kitchen, flicking on the soft under-cabinet lights. The gentle glow spills over the counter just as Jungkook reappears, barefoot, in an old black t-shirt with a tiny bleach stain on the hem and those worn gray sweats you secretly adore.

He stops in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you for a moment.

“You want me to heat something up?”

You turn your head to look at him. “You offering?”

“I’m pretending to,” he smirks, pushing off the frame and heading toward you.

While he rummages through the fridge for leftover takeout, you pour water into the cat’s ceramic bowl. She comes padding over, brushing against your leg with a tiny meow of gratitude.

Jungkook turns with a container in hand, holding it up. “Spicy tofu or the pasta from two nights ago?”

“Pasta,” you say. “The tofu’s yours. I’m not saving you from your own decisions again.”

He grins and sets both containers on the counter, bumping his hip against yours in a gentle nudge. “You love my bad decisions.”

“Only when they involve you showing up at my store with pastries.”

“You mean like yesterday?” he asks, leaning in close.

“Exactly like yesterday,” you murmur.

The microwave hums in the background. You glance at him. Hair a little messy, tattoos peeking out from the edge of his sleeve, the silver hoop in his lip glinting under the warm light, and you feel it again.

That peace. That fullness.

Home.

By the time the food’s warmed up and plated, neither of you bother with the table.

You carry the bowls to the couch while Jungkook grabs a couple of drinks from the fridge. He flicks off the kitchen lights as he follows you, the apartment dim now, lit only by the warm glow of the living room lamp and the muted city lights slipping in through the window.

Your cat is already curled up on the cushion between your spots, like she knew the routine. You give her a gentle nudge and she grumbles, but moves, stretching before claiming the blanket at the edge instead.

Jungkook settles beside you, his thigh pressed to yours, bowl in one hand and remote in the other. He flips aimlessly through a few shows before landing on some slow, black-and-white film neither of you have seen. You don’t really care.

You eat in the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. Pausing only to steal bites from each other’s bowls, brushing arms now and then, smiling without needing to say why.

When the food’s gone, he leans back with a satisfied groan, placing the empty bowls on the coffee table. He stretches out, arm draping over the back of the couch, and like its instinct, you curl into his side, your head resting right over his heartbeat.

His fingers move to your arm without thinking, tracing slow, absentminded circles over your skin. You feel it everywhere, those small touches of his, quiet reminders you’re loved even when no words are spoken.

“Comfy?” he asks softly, voice low and rough around the edges.

“Mhm,” you hum. “You make a good pillow.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t fall asleep on me again.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He doesn’t argue, just rests his cheek against your hair, breathing you in.

For a while, neither of you say a thing. The movie flickers on, forgotten. Outside, the city keeps breathing, keeps moving—but in here, time folds in around you. Quiet and full.

And when Jungkook finally speaks, his voice is a whisper against your temple.

“You know I’d choose this in every version of my life, right?”

You smile without opening your eyes.

“I know.”

The bell above the tattoo studio door jingled softly, and Jungkook didn’t bother looking up at first, he was cleaning up his station, half-focused on the mess of ink caps and gloves when the familiar scent of coffee hit him first.

“Slow day,” you say gently, your voice filling the space like warmth in cold hands.

He turns around instantly, a slow smile blooming across his face like he’s been waiting for you all day without even realizing it. You’re standing there with two takeaway cups in your hands and that soft, content expression you always wear when you’re around him.

“Yeah?” he asks, crossing the room to you, brushing his fingers along the back of your hand as he takes the coffee. “Guess I’m lucky, then.”

You smile, stepping inside further, eyes scanning the space. It’s warm and a little chaotic. Sketches taped up along the walls, half-finished designs on his desk, a playlist humming low from the speaker in the corner. The usual scent of disinfectant and ink lingers faintly beneath the scent of him—tobacco, coffee, and something warm you can’t quite name.

He takes a sip of the coffee, eyes closing for half a second. “You always remember how I like it.”

“Of course,” you murmur, fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the couch as you sit. “It was quiet at the shop. No one was really coming in. I thought I’d rather be here.”

He leans against his counter, watching you with that soft-eyed look he always gets when he’s not quite sure what to do with how much he loves you.

“Well, your timing’s good. I’ve got one more appointment today, but they’re not here yet. You’ve got me for a little while.”

You glance around again, settling deeper into the couch like it’s yours—which, in a way, it is. “Mind if I stay while you work?”

He raises an eyebrow, sipping again. “Since when do you ask?”

You laugh quietly. “Since now. Felt polite.”

“I don’t mind. You know that. I like having you here.”

Before you can say anything else, the front door opens and his next client steps inside, looking around curiously. Jungkook straightens up and waves them over, the professional mask slipping into place, though the corners of his smile don’t fade.

He glances over his shoulder at you before getting started. “You staying right there?”

You nod, settling in with your coffee. “Right here.”

He holds your gaze a moment longer, like he’s saying something else entirely with his eyes, then turns back to his work.

You stay curled up on the couch while Jungkook welcomes his client, a young guy with an eager smile and a printed reference folded in his hand. They chat for a while—positioning, size, meaning—and you sip your coffee slowly, letting the comforting buzz of their conversation and the gentle whir of the machine lull you into a quiet rhythm.

But every now and then, Jungkook glances your way.

It’s subtle at first, a flick of his eyes as he adjusts the stencil, a smirk playing on his lips when he catches you watching him. He’s in his zone, sleeve rolled up, brows furrowed in focus, gloved hands moving with practiced precision. And yet, somehow, it feels like half his attention is still wrapped around you.

You look away, trying not to smile. He sees it anyway.

Between needle strokes, he speaks to the client with ease, explaining aftercare instructions and cracking a light joke, but then, in a pause, he throws a quick glance your way and mouths, stop staring.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning innocence, and take another sip of coffee.

He grins, shaking his head softly, then leans in closer to the client again, focused. But when he straightens up to switch needles, he wipes his hands, catches your eye again, and mouths this time, you’re distracting.

Your heart skips a beat. You tilt your head, lips curving. It’s not your fault he’s attractive when he’s focused. Or when he’s not. Or always.

You reach into your tote bag and pull out a book, an excuse to look away, to settle your nerves, but you can still feel his attention flickering to you between every pass of the machine.

“Sorry,” the client says suddenly, wincing a little. “Did I move?”

“No worries,” Jungkook says easily, adjusting the guy’s arm. “You’re good. Just breathe.”

He leans in again, focused, jaw tight with concentration. You watch the way his hands move, steady and careful, and wonder if he even realizes how gentle he becomes when he’s making art. You wonder if he knows how many times you’ve watched him like this and thought, I could stay in this moment forever.

When he finally sits back to let the client breathe, he stretches, rolling his neck before pulling his gloves off temporarily. He glances at you again, this time more deliberate, then gestures at his water bottle near your side of the room.

You raise it like a question, and he nods.

You bring it over, brushing past him quietly. His fingers graze yours as he takes the bottle, eyes lingering on your face for just a second too long.

“Thanks,” he says under his breath, low enough that only you can hear. Then, with a crooked grin, he adds, “You’re still staring.”

You lean in just a touch, voice soft. “Maybe you like it.”

His brow lifts, clearly not expecting the sass. A quiet chuckle leaves his lips as he takes a long sip of water, eyes still locked on yours.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You flush, lips twitching into a quiet smirk, and turn away before he sees too much of it.

But you know he already did.

The buzz of the machine dies down with a final click, and Jungkook leans back in his chair, surveying the finished piece with a small, satisfied smile.

“Take a look,” he says, handing the mirror to the client. “See if it sits right with you.”

The guy grins as he examines the tattoo, nodding immediately. “Man, this looks amazing. You killed it.”

Jungkook hums, modest as ever. “Glad you like it.”

They talk a little longer—aftercare instructions, a handshake, some final words of thanks—and then the door jingles shut behind him, leaving the studio a little quieter. Warmer. Still.

You’re sitting on the couch with your book half-forgotten in your lap, watching him.

He pulls off his gloves, tosses them into the bin, and lets out a low breath as he leans back against the counter, fingers running through his hair.

And then his eyes are on you again, no longer stealing glances. He’s looking at you now.

“You know,” he says, voice soft and teasing, “you made it really hard to concentrate.”

You close your book slowly, meeting his gaze. “I was just sitting.”

He huffs a small laugh and crosses the room, standing in front of where you sit. “Exactly. Just sitting. Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re the one who drew blood.”

You try to keep your face neutral, but the smile pulls at your lips anyway.

His hand finds the back of the couch behind you, and he leans in just a little, not quite close enough to touch, but enough that his presence wraps around you like a breath.

“You gonna admit it?” he murmurs. “You came in here to distract me.”

You look up at him, innocent. “Or maybe I just missed you.”

That pulls something softer from him. His teasing melts into affection as he lifts a hand to your face, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Dangerous move,” he says, thumb lingering just at your cheekbone. “Coming in here looking like that, with coffee and that quiet little smile like you’re not doing anything.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you whisper, even as you lean into his touch.

He dips his head, pressing a slow, barely-there kiss to your temple.

“Sure,” he breathes against your skin. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You laugh quietly, and the sound makes him smile.

“I should clean up,” he says, pulling away just enough to glance at his station.

“You want help?”

“Nah,” he says, but then catches your hand before you can move too far. “Just stay close.”

You squeeze his fingers gently. “Always.”

He keeps your hand in his for a moment longer before finally letting go, rolling his shoulders as he heads back to the station. You watch him move. Gloves back on, his focus shifting like a switch has flipped, precise and methodical as he starts wiping down the chair and rearranging his tools.

You stand, stretching a little, then let your eyes wander to the low shelf near the wall. A messy pile of sketchbooks and scattered drafts sits there, some loose sheets curling at the edges like they’ve been flipped through one too many times.

Curious, you crouch down and start flipping gently through them. Most of it is the usual mix. Fine-line florals, detailed animals, ornamental pieces with haunting precision. But then, you pause.

One draft is simpler. Not as loud as the others, but it speaks to you in a way you can’t explain right away. Something about the shape. The weight of it. The meaning it could carry.

You stare at it for a long moment, your fingers resting on the edge of the page.

Behind you, the soft sound of gloves snapping off catches your attention, followed by the faint flick of a lighter.

You glance over your shoulder.

Jungkook’s standing by the open window, cigarette between his lips, one hand braced on the frame as the other rests in his pocket. The smoke curls around him in slow spirals, catching the amber light of late afternoon. His eyes are on you again, this time, curious.

“Found something?” he asks, voice a little rough around the edges.

You hesitate, then turn the sketch around to face him. “This one.”

He exhales slowly, the smoke trailing from the corner of his mouth. “You like it?”

You nod. “I don’t know why. It just… pulled at me.”

He studies you for a second. Not the drawing, you.

“That’s one I never finished. Didn’t feel right for anyone who came in. Maybe it was waiting.”

You blink at him. “Waiting?”

He shrugs a little, takes another drag, and says, “For you.”

Your breath catches. He says it so casually, but the weight of it presses somewhere deep in your chest. He flicks ash out the window and watches you with that quiet intensity that always makes you feel like he sees too much.

“I’ve never really thought about getting one,” you admit, still holding the drawing. “But this… I don’t know. Maybe.”

He walks toward you, smoke trailing behind him, and takes the page from your hand, studying it again like he’s seeing it with new eyes.

“If you ever want it,” he says, “you don’t have to ask.”

You smile softly. “You’d put it on me?”

“I’d be honored.”

He leans down, presses a light kiss to your hair, then pulls away with a grin. “But you better not cry when the needle hits.”

You scoff. “You literally made someone cry last week.”

“Yeah, but he was being dramatic.”

“You said he almost passed out.”

Jungkook smirks, tapping ash into the tray. “You wouldn’t. You’d take it like a badass.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He exhales the last bit of smoke, flicks the cigarette out, and turns back to you with that stupidly gorgeous grin.

“Only when you’re watching.”

You roll your eyes playfully, taking the sketch like it’s fragile from his hands. You sit back down on the edge of the couch, your fingers trace the lines again, this time with more intention, like you’re trying to picture them on skin instead of paper.

Jungkook watches you, now leaned against the armrest beside you, elbow propped as he turns his rings absentmindedly.

“Where would you put it?” you ask softly, without looking up.

He hums, thoughtful. “Somewhere quiet.”

You glance at him. “Quiet?”

“Yeah.” He shifts closer, reaching for the paper again. “Someplace soft. Just for you.”

He holds your gaze as he says it, and something about the way he does makes your skin warm.

You try to play it cool. “So… where?”

His eyes roam over you with that artist’s precision. He’s not undressing you, not really, just seeing. Like canvas. Like potential.

Then he taps the edge of the drawing. “Ribs,” he says. “Left side. Just beneath the bra line.”

You raise a brow, unsure. “Wouldn’t that hurt?”

His grin is slow. “Yeah.”

You blink at him.

He laughs. “But it’s worth it. It’d sit so beautifully there.”

You hesitate, then stand slowly. He watches you with mild curiosity as you step toward the mirror on the far wall. There’s a stool nearby, and you nudge it gently toward him without a word.

He catches on quick, sitting down in front of you, holding the sketch in one hand.

Your fingers move to the hem of your shirt, and you lift it just enough, baring the side of your ribs, skin soft and warm in the golden afternoon light.

Jungkook’s eyes flick up to yours, slow, checking. Asking.

You nod once.

He leans in without a word, guiding the paper up to your skin. The edges brush against you lightly as he aligns it, pressing just enough for you to see where it would sit. Your breath hitches a little, not from the pressure, but from the closeness.

“Right here,” he murmurs. “Would follow your line when you breathe.”

You glance in the mirror. The sketch fits you. You can’t explain how, but it just does.

“I can make it smaller,” he offers. “Tuck it in more, if you want it hidden.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t want to hide it.”

He lifts his eyes to meet yours in the mirror, and for a second, neither of you says anything.

Then, with the paper still resting against your ribs, he shifts just slightly closer. His fingers, warm and calloused, brush your waist, holding you steady. He leans in, and presses a kiss just below your ribs, right where the sketch would sit.

The kiss is featherlight. Almost reverent.

And when he looks up at you, there’s nothing cocky about his expression, just that quiet kind of awe, like he can’t believe you’re his.

“This,” he says, voice low, “would look perfect on you.”

You don’t trust your voice to answer, so you just reach out and brush your fingers through his hair gently, smiling as your stomach flutters under his touch.

You’re still standing between his knees, the both of you reflected in the mirror. Him sitting back, relaxed, looking up at you like he’s already imagining the ink there. You, trying to stay calm while your heart flips over itself.

His voice breaks the quiet, low and teasing. “So? What do you think?”

You glance down at the paper still in his hand, then at your side in the mirror. The image lingers, ghosted over your ribs like it already belongs to you.

“I think…” You hesitate, lips curving. “I’ll think about it.”

Jungkook raises a brow, amused. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.”

“Mm,” he hums, grinning like he already knows the answer. “You’re gonna say yes.”

You roll your eyes and pull your shirt down, trying to hide the way your smile keeps growing. “Cocky.”

He stands slowly, tucks the sketch carefully onto the shelf like it’s already been claimed. “Confident.”

You bump your shoulder into him on the way past, and he catches your hand gently, giving it a soft squeeze. When you turn, he’s already looking at you again.

“I won’t rush you,” he says, quieter now. “But if you decide… I’ll make it special. Just for you.”

You meet his eyes, and for a second, you swear he’s more serious than you expected—less flirt, more something else.

You nod. “I know.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy, it’s warm, wrapped in a shared understanding, a feeling that lingers even as he picks up your empty coffee cup and you reach for your bag.

“Come on,” you say softly, tugging his sleeve. “Let’s go home.”

He follows you, steps falling in line with yours, hand brushing yours again as the door shuts behind you, sketch tucked safely away, and something unspoken left between your ribs, just waiting.

The bookstore is quiet in the way you love most. Soft jazz humming from the old speakers, the gentle clink of mugs from the corner where two regulars sip their usuals, and the warm scent of espresso and cinnamon lingering in the air.

You’re behind the counter, sorting through a new stack of poetry books, but your hands have slowed. Your thoughts keep drifting, pulling you away from the paper and ink, back to yesterday. Back to his voice, his hands, the way the sketch looked resting against your ribs like it already belonged there.

A quiet chirp pulls you from your thoughts.

You glance down to find your cat stretching lazily beside the register, tail flicking as she stares up at you with disinterest, like she knows you’re daydreaming and mildly disapproves.

You smile softly, reaching down to scratch behind her ears. “You think I’m crazy for even considering it, huh?”

She blinks slowly. No judgment, just feline silence.

You reach into your pocket and pull out your phone. You’d taken a photo of the sketch when Jungkook wasn’t looking, just in case.

Tapping it open, you hold the image up, studying it in the morning light. The lines are delicate but intentional. Every curve has meaning. It’s you, somehow, though you’re still not sure how he saw it so clearly.

Your fingers brush absently over the side of your ribs, over fabric and skin, feeling the ghost of his touch, the memory of that kiss.

You’d said you’d think about it.

And you have been. More than you meant to.

You tuck your phone away when a customer approaches, offering them a polite smile and ringing up their coffee. But even after they leave, your mind doesn’t return to inventory or restocks or emails.

It lingers in his studio. In the warmth of his fingers. In the way he said, “Just for you.”

The bell over the shop door jingles softly as you turn the sign to Closed. The street outside is tinted in that golden-orange haze of early evening, long shadows stretching across the sidewalk. You lock up, shoulders sagging from the long day, but it’s the good kind of tired. The kind that feels earned.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re slipping it into your coat pocket.

+1 heart (koo) ♡ [6:34 PM]:

omw home. today was insane.

but i missed you.

You smile, cheeks warming.

You [6:35 PM]:

hurry up and i’ll make it worth it.

His reply comes in immediately.

+1 heart (koo) ♡ [6:35 PM]:

say less.

By the time he walks through the apartment door, dusk has spilled across the walls, casting everything in a soft lavender glow. He kicks off his boots with a groan, stretching his arms above his head and rolling his shoulders.

“You look like you’ve been carrying the world,” you say, stepping out from the kitchen with a glass of water in one hand.

“I have, babe,” he mutters, taking the glass and leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Two walk-ins, both huge pieces. My back is begging for mercy.”

You smile, brushing the hair from his forehead as he drinks. “Good thing I’m feeling generous tonight.”

You’re both in the living room not long after, his t-shirt discarded somewhere on the floor. He’s lying across the couch, head propped up by a pillow, eyes closed while you straddle his thighs, hands moving slowly across his bare shoulders and down his spine.

He sighs under your touch, melting into it.

“God, you’ve got magic fingers,” he mumbles. “Might propose right here.”

You laugh softly, leaning down to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Don’t tempt me.”

Your fingers keep working, and the silence between you stretches sweet and comfortable. Your cat hops onto the back of the couch, curling up behind Jungkook’s head like a soft guardian. He lets out a sleepy laugh at the tiny paws brushing his hair.

And then, in the quiet, just when his body is soft and his breathing steady, you say it.

“I’ve decided,” you murmur, fingertips slowing over his ribs. “I want to do it.”

He shifts slightly, eyes opening, voice quiet. “The tattoo?”

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

“I want your art on me,” you say, softer now. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. And yesterday. And… I think I knew the second you placed it there.”

He sits up a little, turning so he can look at you fully. His eyes warm, curious, like he’s trying to read something in your face.

“You sure?”

“I am.”

He studies you for a moment longer. Then, his hand reaches out—fingertips ghosting over your side, right where the sketch would go.

He smiles. “Okay. We’ll do it.”

You blink. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he repeats, and then leans in to kiss you. Soft, slow, full of something that feels an awful lot like forever.

You’ve always loved the quiet of his studio, but tonight, it’s different. Jungkook closed the day early, just for you. He didn’t need to say anything, but the way he set everything up, making sure you felt comfortable and relaxed, told you everything you needed to know.

The dim light of the studio feels warm, soft against your skin. You can hear Jungkook’s movements as he preps everything around you. His calmness is contagious, and you feel your nerves slowly start to melt away.

You’re sitting on the padded table minutes later, shirt lifted just enough for him to reach your ribs. The cool air touches your skin, goosebumps blooming across your side, but his hand is steady and warm as he places the stencil.

You glance at the mirror across from you. The design is simple, clean, but holds everything you’ve never said out loud.

A butterfly with ink-stained wings resting on an open page. A soft-line drawing of a butterfly perched delicately on the corner of a slightly open book. The butterfly’s wings are detailed, and at the tips, there are small splashes of black ink, like she flew too close to the story, and it left its mark. One page of the book flutters like a wing, echoing hers.

Your chest aches with how right it feels.

He looks up at you, waiting for a nod. “Still good?”

You nod, exhaling softly. “Still good.”

He leans in, presses a slow kiss just beneath your ribs. “Then let’s do this, baby.”

You can feel the slightest tremor in your body as he preps the needle, the soft buzzing of the machine filling the space. But then his hand finds yours, warm and steady, and your heart skips.

“I’m right here,” he reassures you, his voice calm and grounding. “Just focus on me. It’ll be fine.”

His hands are gentle, guiding the needle over your skin. You feel the coolness of the ink first, then the steady hum of the machine, and the sharp sting that follows.

Your thoughts drift, lulled by the rhythm of his breath, the steadiness of his hand, the warmth of being so close to him like this. You can’t help but watch him, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips slightly parted.

When the tattoo is finished, he pulls back gently, wiping the area with a soft cloth. His fingers trace over the ink, his touch tender, like he’s making sure it’s real.

“Done,” he murmurs, his voice low and soft, just for you.

You take a deep breath, your eyes tracing the delicate butterfly now inked into your skin. It feels like a piece of you now, something so deeply personal that you can’t help but be moved.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, your voice a little shaky, but filled with truth.

He smiles. “I’m glad you like it. It’s you, in every way.”

He cleans the area one last time, fingers brushing gently over your side before he sets everything aside. The hum of the machine fades, but the warmth he left behind lingers, echoing in the space between you.

You stay seated on the padded table, your body still catching up to everything you’re feeling. Tender, buzzing, filled with something soft and new.

Jungkook steps closer, settling between your legs without hesitation, hands resting on your thighs. His thumbs draw slow circles over the fabric of your jeans, and when he looks up at you, there’s nothing but affection in his eyes.

“You already know this,” he starts, voice low, “but I’m still saying it.”

You smile, the corners of your lips pulling up. “Of course you are.”

“No touching it too much,” he says, grinning a little. “Keep it clean, moisturized. No sun, no baths. Just showers. And text me if anything feels weird, though you’ll probably be sleeping next to me when you do.”

You laugh softly, your fingers brushing through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “I’ve heard you give that speech like a hundred times.”

“Still had to say it.” He leans in, resting his head lightly against your chest, his arms wrapping around your waist. “This one’s different.”

Your breath hitches. It is. It’s you.

He pulls back, hands still framing your thighs. His eyes flick up to yours, quiet for a moment, gaze unreadable in that way that always makes your heart ache.

And then you lean in, cupping his face and pressing your lips to his. Slow, soft, like a thank you. Like a promise.

He hums into the kiss, hands gripping your thighs just a little tighter as he tilts his head to deepen it. It’s not rushed. There’s no urgency in it. Just the warmth of the moment, the comfort of his body close to yours, and the new piece of you inked into your skin.

When you finally pull away, his eyes stay closed for a second too long. Like he’s memorizing the way you taste.

Then, he looks at you—really looks—and his voice drops, low and honest.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you look right now?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity, by the way his gaze traces your face like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

“Not just the tattoo,” he adds, one hand drifting to your side again, just above the ink. “You. Sitting here, all mine.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t say it for effect, doesn’t say it to get a reaction. He says it like it’s the simplest truth he knows.

And suddenly, the studio feels too quiet, too still. Like the world’s holding its breath just for the two of you.

“Then keep me,” you whisper, eyes locked on his.

He smiles, slow and sure, fingers still resting gently on your thigh.

“Always.”

It’s one of those rare, quiet days when neither of you has anywhere to be.

It’s a quiet night, the kind that feels like it belongs only to the two of you. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze, rustling the curtains, carrying the distant hum of the city. Everything else is still.

You’re both in bed, the covers pulled loosely over your legs. A movie plays quietly in the background, something neither of you is really paying attention to. His arm is curled around your waist, fingers brushing up and down your side in that lazy rhythm he always falls into when he’s relaxed.

Your cat is curled up by your feet, purring faintly, and Jungkook looks like he was made to exist in this room, in this moment. His free arm is tucked behind his head, eyes half-lidded but awake, just enjoying the feel of you curled against him.

“Is it weird that I like days like this more than anything else?” you murmur, your voice muffled against his skin.

He hums, a low, sleepy sound. “Not weird at all. I think I’d choose this over anything, honestly.”

You lift your head slightly to look at him. His hair is a little messy, falling into his eyes, and there’s a softness to his face that’s only ever there when he’s completely relaxed. He looks at you like you’ve just told him his favorite secret.

“You’re warm,” he says with a small grin, brushing his fingers along the side of your face. “Like… you could replace my heater. I’d save so much money.”

You let out a quiet laugh, then playfully pinch his side. “Maybe I’ll start charging you.”

His grin widens. “Nah, you like me too much to do that.”

You shake your head, hiding your smile against his chest again.

His thumb moves gently against your skin, right over the tattoo he gave you days ago. You know he’s not thinking about it, not consciously, but the way his fingers always seem to find it, it’s like his hands remember what they made.

“You make me feel so safe,” you whisper.

Jungkook tilts his head, eyes soft. “You make me feel still.”

There’s a silence after that, but it isn’t empty. It’s full of everything neither of you needs to say out loud anymore.

Eventually, he shifts a little, tugs you closer until your leg is tangled over his. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.

“Let’s stay like this forever,” you murmur.

He kisses the top of your head, one of those slow, breathless kisses like he’s trying to press the moment into time. “Forever sounds good to me.”

The screen fades to black as the movie ends, and neither of you moves to change it.

Outside, the world keeps turning. But in here, it’s quiet. Warm. Safe.

And maybe love isn’t always loud. Maybe it lives in quiet rooms and half-whispered words, in shared glances across familiar spaces. Maybe it’s in the way he breathes beside you, the way your cat purrs between you, the way your bodies tangle without trying. Maybe love is this, a stillness that doesn’t ask to be anything more, because it already is everything.

[nikixkoo]

𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐

#1! ♡

pairing: jungkook x f!reader.

word count: 4.8k

content warnings: smut [MDNI], unprotected sex, jungkook’s still possessive here, and lots of teasing.

a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 here is the second and final part of this amazing story. i really hope u enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it! i’ll be back with new fics. lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼

She’s everything he hates to love. He’s everything she pretends not to need.

summary: In the world of wealth, secrets, and perfectly polished lies, you walk through the marble halls of the most prestigious university in the country like you own the place, because you practically do. Heiress of an empire. Flawless reputation. Everyone wants you. Everyone fears you.

Except him.

The only one who’s never looked at you like you were fragile. The only one who sees through the diamonds, the designer, the perfectly curated mask. Your favorite person, your first secret, and your biggest weakness.

You push his buttons. He tests your limits. You make him jealous on purpose. He pulls you into his bed like it’s nothing.

It’s not official. It’s not healthy.

But it’s yours.

A week has passed since the night you fucked Jungkook in your dorm.

Not kissed.

Not hooked up.

Fucked.

And yet, here you are—on a school trip to some overpriced cabins in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trust fund babies and their equally pretentious friends.

You’ve been pretending so well, too.

Like he didn’t ruin you. Like you don’t want him to do it again.

The cabins are massive, obviously. Modern, glass-walled luxuries disguised as “rustic” retreats. Each one big enough to house half the senior class. There’s a bonfire crackling in the clearing, music low and expensive wine passed around like it’s cheap beer. It’s meant to be a bonding weekend, but all anyone really cares about is who’s sharing rooms with who and which couple is going to fuck in the hot tub first.

You’re standing with your friends, holding a white wine glass you haven’t even touched.

Jungkook’s across the clearing, hoodie draped over his toned shoulders, beer in hand, and she’s next to him.

Her.

You don’t even remember her name, just the way she smiled up at him at that party a week ago. You’d brushed it off then. You were the one he fucked like he owned every inch.

But now? She’s laughing at something he said, brushing her fingers down his arm like she’s got a right. And he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t flinch. He just stands there, smug as ever, eyes flicking to you once, like he’s checking.

Like he knows.

Your throat tightens. Your fingers curl around the stem of the glass.

“Don’t look now,” Val whispers beside you, “but lover boy’s getting cozy.”

“I don’t care,” you say too quickly.

She laughs. “Sure you don’t.”

You roll your eyes and toss your hair over your shoulder, flashing the bored look you’ve mastered over years of being watched. “He can do what he wants.”

But your blood is boiling.

You turn, walking toward the cabins like you’ve got somewhere to be, even though you don’t. You just need space. You need air. You need to not care.

But of course, a few seconds later, you hear footsteps behind you.

Heavy. Familiar. Infuriating.

“Running off already?” Jungkook’s voice is casual, teasing, and way too close.

You keep walking. “Didn’t know I had to check in with you.”

“You don’t,” he says, catching up. “Just looked like you were about to rip that girl’s head off.”

You scoff, not slowing down. “You’re delusional.”

He steps in front of you, walking backwards now, his smirk lazy and lethal. “Thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t.”

“Mmm,” he hums, eyes scanning your face. “That’s cute.”

You stop. Big mistake.

Because now he’s standing close, too close. The shadows from the trees stretch across his jaw, his lips, his fucking cheekbones like they were drawn by some thirsty god. His hoodie’s unzipped now, revealing a sliver of toned abs and a chain that rests perfectly above the collar of his shirt.

“Jealousy looks good on you,” he murmurs.

Your jaw clenches.

“And arrogance looks good on you,” you shoot back, turning to walk again.

But this time, he grabs your wrist — gently, but firmly enough to stop you.

“Why are you mad?” he asks, voice lower now.

“I’m not.”

“Then look at me and say it.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Because you know he’ll see it. The want, the ache, the need you’ve been choking down since the bonfire started.

“I’m not mad,” you whisper, finally meeting his eyes.

A pause. Then he smiles.

“Good,” he says. “Then you won’t mind if I stay in your room tonight.”

Your heart slams.

He leans in, brushing his lips against your ear. “Or maybe you’d rather I invite her instead?”

You pull back just enough to glare at him, your fingers tightening around his shirt without even realizing it. He grins.

“There she is,” he says. “Knew you were still in there.”

Is he insane?

You snatch your wrist back from his grip, jaw tight, lips pursed. You don’t say anything, just look at him, sharp and unreadable, your silence louder than anything you could scream.

He’s still grinning, cocky, smug, way too sure of himself. “What?” he asks. “Don’t like it when I tease you back?”

You don’t respond.

That smile falters, just a little. You turn to leave again, but this time, slower. Controlled. Cold.

And you don’t look at him.

“Wait,” he says, and there’s something different in his voice now. No edge. Just… confusion. Softness, even.

Still, you walk.

“Nah, come on, don’t do that.”

You stop. Not for him. For you.

“Do what?” Your tone is flat. Distant.

“You know what,” he says. “You’re mad.”

You finally look over your shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “You think I’m mad because of her?”

Jungkook stares at you for a second too long.

Then he shrugs, like he’s trying to play it cool, but the way he bites the inside of his cheek says otherwise. “You just seemed… off.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of your little games.”

That hits.

Harder than you thought it would.

He opens his mouth, closes it, then steps closer cautiously, like approaching a flame he knows could burn him.

“I wasn’t trying to mess with you.”

You tilt your head, dry. “You sure about that?”

“I just…” He exhales through his nose, eyes darting to the side. “You looked hot. All night. Sitting there like you didn’t care, like you didn’t notice me watching.”

You cross your arms, still not giving in.

“So you flirt with some girl in front of me to what, punish me? Make me jealous?”

He shakes his head quickly, stepping even closer. “No. Shit. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

He looks at you, really looks at you. And suddenly, all that bravado he wore like armor slips.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet now. “I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

You blink.

His hands come up, tentative, landing softly on your hips. “I’m just—” He pauses. “I don’t know what this is. Between us. But when you walked off like that, it felt like shit.”

Your breath hitches.

“And I hate that I care,” he admits, eyes locked on yours. “But I do.” There’s a pause. He licks his lips. “You want me to beg?” he murmurs, stepping in until his chest brushes yours. “Because I will.”

Your stomach flips.

You can’t. You shouldn’t.

So you take a step back and turn to leave again, but this time, for real.

Before you start walking, you glance at him one last time “See you around.”

He’s watching you from where he sits on the other side of the cabin’s cozy common area. Fire crackling, everyone else scattered outside for drinks or trying to hook up somewhere in the dark woods. And you? You’re still not looking at him.

“Princess,” Jungkook says again, voice low and careful. “You really gonna keep ignoring me?”

You stretch your legs out across the couch, draping one over the other like you’ve forgotten he even exists. “I’m not ignoring you. I just don’t feel like entertaining.”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Come on, don’t be like that.”

“Be like what?” You finally glance at him, expression blank. “Like the girl who had to sit through watching you flirt with someone else?”

His jaw tenses. “I wasn’t flirting.”

You raise your brows, still calm. “You touched her waist.”

He groans quietly, getting up. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

“I hope it hurts.”

He makes his way to you, standing right in front of where you’re lounging in your little hoodie and designer shorts like the spoiled vision you are. You refuse to look up.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he says, softer now. “I was just… trying to piss you off. And it worked.”

“Oh, so now you’re proud?”

“No,” he mutters. “I’m fucking sorry, alright?”

You look at him finally, your expression unreadable.

He bends closer, hands sliding over your knees, warm and apologetic. “Let me fix it.”

You narrow your eyes. “How?”

His voice drops, full of heat. “Let me make you feel better.”

There’s a pause.

You shouldn’t. You’re mad. You’re better than this.

But god, the way he’s looking at you, like he’ll beg if you want him to. Like he wants to.

So you stand up slowly, brushing past him without a word, walking toward the hallway that leads to the private rooms.

You don’t even look back when you say, “Then stop talking and follow me.”

You know he will. And he does.

The door clicks shut behind you, the hum of the outside party fading like it was never there. The cabin bedroom is dim, the only light slipping through the crack in the blinds, painting thin lines across the bed you’re now standing beside.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s there. You feel him, body heat, tension, the air thickening like it knows what’s coming.

“You’re mad at me,” Jungkook murmurs from behind, his voice brushing your neck.

You hum. “Still deciding.”

You feel his hands on your hips, slipping under the hem of your hoodie, warm fingers skating across your bare skin. “Let me help you decide, then.”

You smirk, about to make a smartass comment, but he turns you around and sinks to his knees before you can.

You blink down at him. “What the hell are you—”

“I said I was sorry,” he mutters, already tugging your shorts down your thighs, slow and deliberate. “Now let me prove it.”

You step out of them, hoodie still on, your panties already damp with the thought of this. Of him like this.

He leans in and kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, then biting, then sucking until your skin blooms red beneath his mouth. “You smell like you missed me,” he says against your leg, and your knees nearly buckle.

“Shut up.”

His eyes flick up, dark and playful. “Make me.”

You grip his hair just as he mouths you over your panties, tongue pressing firm against the fabric like he wants to taste your attitude through it. You hiss, clutching tighter, and he groans like he’s the one being ruined.

Then he pulls the fabric aside and doesn’t waste a second.

His mouth is hot and messy, tongue working like he’s starving, like he needs this more than you do. He licks up your slit, flattens his tongue over your clit, sucks just right, again and again, until your legs tremble and you have to grip the edge of the bed for support.

“Jungkook—” you whisper, breath ragged, but he doesn’t let up.

He devours you.

Every moan he pulls out of you, every twitch of your thighs, every time you gasp his name like a prayer you don’t believe in, he chases it. Chases you.

You clamp a hand over your mouth when you feel yourself getting close, panic flaring at the idea of someone hearing.

He notices. Of course he does.

So he pulls back, lips wet, eyes smug. “Trying not to moan?” he murmurs, voice all silk and sin. “Guess I’ll just have to try harder.”

You don’t get to argue. He dives back in.

His hands spread your thighs wider, keeping you open for him, tongue flicking faster now, alternating pressure until you’re practically grinding against his face, panting through your fingers.

The orgasm builds hot and tight in your stomach, impossible to ignore.

“Cum for me,” he breathes, and the way he says it, like he’s begging, undoes you completely.

Your legs shake. Your back arches. You cry out his name behind your hand like it’s your last word.

He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, twitching, pushing at his shoulder because it’s too much.

He stands, wipes his mouth with his tongue, and leans close.

“Taste so fucking good when you’re mad at me,” he says, kissing your jaw. “Still mad?”

You stare at him, breathless. “…A little.”

He smirks. “Then I guess I’m not done yet.”

You wake up before the sun’s fully risen, pale gold light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the cabin, cutting soft shapes into the wooden walls. It’s quiet — too quiet for a trip that involved dozens of rich, noisy kids — and for a second, it feels like the world’s been muted just for you.

And him.

Because he’s still here.

Jungkook lies beside you, bare-chested under the thin covers, hair a mess, lips parted just slightly. One arm is draped lazily across your waist like he forgot where he ended and you began. His breathing is even. Peaceful. And it’s ridiculous—really, it is—how unfairly pretty he looks in the morning.

You should move. You should get up. But your legs are tangled with his, and your body aches in that soft, sore kind of way that reminds you exactly how you ended up here.

You roll onto your side, careful not to wake him, and just watch. Study the curve of his jaw, the lashes that touch his cheeks, the small crease between his brows like even asleep, he can’t fully relax. Not around you.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to trace him. Just once.

“Staring at me again?” His voice is husky, ruined from sleep, and it scrapes deliciously down your spine.

You blink. “You weren’t asleep.”

He cracks one eye open and smirks. “Was. But I felt you burning holes into me.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you with warmth. “Can’t help it,�� you mumble. “You look pretty when you’re not being a menace.”

He hums and reaches out, knuckles brushing your thigh just under the hem of your fancy lounge shorts. “So do you. Especially when you’re wearing my hoodie.”

“I’m not—” You glance down and curse under your breath. “Ugh. Did you make me wear this?”

He grins. “You were cold. Thought I’d be a gentleman for once.”

“You’re insufferable.”

He props himself up on one elbow, eyes roaming your face, slower this time. Softer.

“You didn’t kick me out,” he murmurs.

You shrug. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Something shifts in his gaze, like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in, presses a kiss to your shoulder, just barely, and rests his forehead against yours for a beat too long.

“I should probably go shower,” you say, breathless.

“Together?” he teases.

“In your dreams.”

He grins and flops back onto the mattress like he owns it. “Every night, baby.”

You toss a pillow at him and he laughs, eyes sparkling, hand catching it mid-air like he always knows your next move. You get up, legs still shaky from the night before, and his eyes follow you all the way to the bathroom.

Not a word more, but that look says it all:

He’s not done with you yet.

The lake is shimmering under the midday sun, the kind of sparkle that makes everything feel fake. Too perfect, too curated, like a scene out of a summer ad campaign. You sit at the edge of a wooden dock, sunglasses on, legs stretched out in front of you, your toes just barely grazing the water. Bikini top peeking under a loose designer tee you stole from Jungkook months ago and never gave back.

Behind you, there’s noise. Music from someone’s portable speaker, bottles clinking, your classmates laughing too loud. Everyone’s spread across the grass and dock like a Vanity Fair shoot that got way too drunk. No teachers in sight. Just privilege, boredom, and the freedom to misbehave.

You haven’t spoken much to Jungkook today.

He’s around, of course. Always is. Somewhere behind you, tossing a football around with a few guys from the team, shirtless and showing off, like he’s got something to prove. He hasn’t looked at you once. Not since this morning when he kissed your bare shoulder like a secret before the rest of the world woke up.

And honestly?

It’s pissing you off.

You don’t want to care. You don’t want to feel anything. But you do.

So when a guy from another group, one of those trust fund flirts with a tan and a perfect jaw, saunters over and drops beside you, you don’t tell him to leave.

He’s harmless. He’s charming in that try-hard way. You don’t remember his name, but he’s clearly interested. He’s also clearly stupid.

“You here alone?” he asks, giving you a cocky little grin.

You hum. “Depends. You offering company?”

He chuckles and leans in like you’ve given him a green light.

But you’re not paying attention to him.

You’re watching the lake. Or more specifically, the reflection of Jungkook, standing just a few feet behind you now, pretending not to look while his jaw flexes hard enough to crack.

You smirk. And that’s when things start to shift.

Jungkook sees red.

He hadn’t even been looking for you.

(That’s a lie. He always is.)

But the moment he catches sight of you—sprawled out like a fucking dream in his shirt, smiling up at some random asshole like it’s nothing—it’s like someone lit a fuse under his ribs. That soft, smug smirk you give when you’re trying not to be obvious. The way your hand rests on the dock behind you, so close to the guy’s leg it makes Jungkook’s throat tighten.

He turns back to the group. Forces a laugh at something Taehyung says. Acts like his chest isn’t burning.

But every few seconds, his eyes flick back to you.

You know what you’re doing. You always do.

And god. He wants to grab you by the wrist, drag you somewhere dark, and fuck that smug little look right off your face.

But he doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he waits.

You feel it before you hear him.

The shift in the air. The shadow falling over your crossed legs. The silence in your chest that only ever comes when he’s close.

“Having fun?” Jungkook’s voice is low, but there’s a bite in it. Something sharp beneath the calm, like he’s daring you to say yes.

You don’t flinch. You just raise your sunglasses to your forehead and look up at him. Shirtless, golden skin glowing, jaw tight enough to make you smirk.

“Loads,” you say, and tilt your head toward the guy beside you. “Why? You jealous?”

The guy blinks, sensing tension but not smart enough to back off. Jungkook doesn’t even look at him, his eyes are locked on you, dark and unreadable.

“Should I be?” he asks, voice lower now, like a threat wrapped in honey.

You shrug. “Depends who you’ve been flirting with today.”

He scoffs, nostrils flaring just slightly. “You’re one to talk.”

You raise a brow. “I’m not flirting. I’m relaxing.”

He leans in, too close, too fast, and suddenly his hand is on your knee, possessive and warm, fingers curling like he owns you.

“You really think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmurs. “Wearing my shirt, acting like you don’t care, letting some guy drool all over you…”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t move.

“Maybe I’m just trying to feel wanted,” you say sweetly.

That does it.

He grabs your wrist, gentle but firm, and pulls you up. The guy beside you sputtering something useless as Jungkook mutters, “We’re leaving.”

You don’t protest. You don’t ask where.

Jungkook’s grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make your pulse skip. His jaw is clenched, eyes dark as he leads you off the dock, cutting through the crowd like he can’t even see them. You hear someone call his name, maybe Taehyung, but he doesn’t stop.

You don’t either.

Every step back toward the cabins feels like a countdown. The tension between you crackles with every breath, every glance. You keep your mouth shut, biting back a smirk, pretending the heat in your cheeks is just from the sun — not from the look Jungkook gave you when that guy leaned too close. Like he was going to snap.

The door slams behind you.

Silence.

You barely have time to gasp before he’s on you, one hand fisting the back of your shirt, dragging it up and over your head. The cool air hits your skin, and you don’t even feel shy. You want him to see. You want him to fucking lose it.

“You really think this is a game?” he hisses, voice low, voice shaking. “Letting him sit next to you? Letting him fucking look at you?”

You blink up at him. “Why do you care?”

His eyes flicker, like you’ve struck something raw. Then he grabs your jaw, tilting your face up until your lips almost brush.

“Because you’re mine.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t share,” he growls, pressing his body flush against yours. “Not your smiles. Not your looks. Not your fucking time.”

Your hands scramble for his skin — his waist, his back, the smooth planes of his chest — but he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

“You wanna act like you don’t care?” he mutters, voice trembling with restraint. “Fine. But you don’t get to lie about this.”

He grinds against you, slow, hard, and you moan, louder than you meant to.

“This pussy belongs to me,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You belong to me.”

You whimper, nodding before you can even find your voice. “Yes.”

His lips find your throat, biting, sucking. “And I—” A kiss behind your ear. “I fucking belong to you.”

“Jungkook—”

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, back arching. “All yours.”

He lets go of your wrists, and your hands fly to his shoulders just as he shoves your shorts down. You help, kicking them off, underwear next, and he sinks to his knees.

You gasp as his fingers dig into your thighs, parting you, lifting one leg over his shoulder like he’s starving.

“Don’t make a sound,” he murmurs against your inner thigh. “Or they’ll hear how fucking wet you get for me.”

You don’t get a chance to reply.

His mouth is on you. Hot, desperate, claiming. His tongue parts your folds, slow at first, dragging up through your slick before curling just right around your clit. Your hips jerk, but he pins them down with a hand on your stomach, firm, possessive.

“Stay still,” he mutters, breath damp against your heat. “Let me taste what’s mine.”

And fuck, he means it.

He devours you like a man starved. Licking, sucking, moaning into you like the taste of you is everything he’s ever wanted. Your fingers claw at the wall behind you, your other hand flying to his hair, gripping tight. You try to keep quiet, you really do, but the first flick of his tongue in just the right spot punches a whimper straight out of you.

“Shh,” he teases, glancing up at you with wild eyes, lips glossy. “You want the whole cabin to know who’s making you feel like this?”

You glare, breathless. “Maybe I do.”

His smile is feral.

You barely get the next breath in before he doubles down. Fast, messy, relentless. Your legs start shaking, and he just groans against you like it turns him on how close you are, how undone you’re getting for him.

You bite your lip so hard it might bruise.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, hips starting to rock without permission, chasing that high. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growls, voice low and reverent. “Come on my tongue. Let me feel it.”

It hits you hard, a blinding, pulsing wave that crashes through your entire body. You grip his hair tighter, thighs closing around his head, but he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling, breathless, sagging against the wall with your heart racing like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

He stands slowly, licking his lips like he’s savoring you, and drags his hands up your body, possessive, like he needs to feel every inch of you trembling under his palms.

Your voice is shaky. “That’s not fair…”

He smirks, grabbing your jaw again, tilting your face up to his. “That wasn’t about fair.”

He backs you toward the bed, never breaking eye contact. You fall onto the mattress, still breathless, and he doesn’t waste a second. Kicks off his shorts, his boxers, lets you look. He’s already hard, thick and angry-red, flushed with want.

He crawls over you, slow and heavy, kissing you like he’s trying to brand it into you.

“Say it again,” he whispers against your mouth.

You swallow, dazed. “I’m yours.”

He groans, like it physically does something to him, and lines himself up.

Then he thrusts in, hard.

You cry out, hand flying to his back, nails dragging down. He’s thick, deep, and the stretch makes you dizzy.

“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips. “Always so fucking tight. Like this pussy was made for me.”

You gasp, blinking up at him. “It was.”

“Say it,” he grits out, snapping his hips. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” you choke out, voice breaking. “All yours, Jungkook.”

“And you?” he growls, breath ragged. “You’re mine?”

“Yes— fuck, yes.”

His thrusts get rougher, harder, and yet, there’s something soft in the way his fingers stroke your cheek, in the way his forehead presses to yours.

“I belong to you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You hear me? I fucking belong to you.”

His words still echo in your ears, heavy and breathless — “This pussy belongs to me. You belong to me. I fucking belong to you.”

It breaks something open inside you.

You barely have time to process it before he’s moving again, hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he pushes them up, folding you into the mattress with his body caging yours. He lines himself up again, staring at you like you’re something holy.

And then he fucks into you.

Hard.

You gasp, arching up as he fills you completely, no warning, no teasing this time, just raw need and pent-up frustration spilling out in every thrust. It’s not just sex anymore. It’s a storm. His pace is rough, relentless, like he’s trying to fuck the jealousy out of both of you, like he’s staking his claim in the way only he knows how.

Your hands grip at his back, nails digging into his skin as his hips slam against yours again and again. Sweat drips down his temples, his dark hair clinging to his forehead. His jaw is tight, his brow furrowed like he’s trying not to fall apart too fast.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he grits out. “Sitting there, letting him talk to you like that…”

You moan, unable to hold it back, your legs trembling in his hold.

“You liked making me jealous, didn’t you?” he growls, thrusts punishing. “You like it when I get like this, when I can’t stand the thought of anyone else touching what’s mine.”

You don’t answer, you can’t, not when he’s fucking you this deep, this good, every stroke hitting the spot that makes your vision blur. But you nod, desperate, overwhelmed, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the cabin.

Jungkook’s hand slides between your bodies, fingers circling your clit with devastating precision. “Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you choke out, breathless.

He groans, low and deep. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Jungkook,” you cry, back arching. “Only yours.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s right. All fucking mine.”

Your body clenches around him, the heat building, coiling, burning — and then it hits. You come with a strangled moan, your entire body seizing under him as pleasure rips through you like wildfire.

Jungkook isn’t far behind.

His rhythm stutters, then stills as he groans your name into your neck, hips jerking as he spills inside you, filling you completely. He stays buried deep, both of you panting, chests heaving, skin flushed and slick.

For a long moment, there’s only silence. The soft hum of the forest outside, your breathing slowing, his arms caging you in like he’s afraid to let go.

Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone. Not rushed. Not heated.

Just soft.

“I meant it,” he whispers.

You blink up at him, dazed and fucked-out. “Meant what?”

He brushes his nose against yours. “I belong to you.”

Your heart twists.

You cup his face, fingers brushing the damp strands of his hair off his forehead. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

His mouth quirks into a small smile, real and vulnerable in a way he never lets anyone else see.

And then he collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest, one hand on your waist, the other tangled in your hair.

Neither of you says anything for a while.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’ve already said everything that counts.

[nikixkoo]

𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

pairing: jungkook x f!reader.

word count: 4.2k

content warnings: smut [MDNI], unprotected sex, make out, kind of public display, jungkook’s a bit (a lot) possessive, and lots of teasing.

a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 this is my first time writing, but i hope u enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed doing it. english isn’t my first language, so please be kind if something isn’t right written! lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼

She’s everything he hates to love. He’s everything she pretends not to need.

summary: In the world of wealth, secrets, and perfectly polished lies, you walk through the marble halls of the most prestigious university in the country like you own the place, because you practically do. Heiress of an empire. Flawless reputation. Everyone wants you. Everyone fears you.

Except him.

The only one who’s never looked at you like you were fragile. The only one who sees through the diamonds, the designer, the perfectly curated mask. Your favorite person, your first secret, and your biggest weakness.

You push his buttons. He tests your limits. You make him jealous on purpose. He pulls you into his bed like it’s nothing.

It’s not official. It’s not healthy.

But it’s yours.

The sun hits the field like a spotlight, casting golden light over expensive turf and even more expensive egos. Cleats scrape, whistles blow, and the boys of Rutherford’s lacrosse team move like they’re auditioning for the front page of some legacy magazine. At the center of it all, Jeon Jungkook.

Fast, lethal, and disgustingly good at everything. He runs drills like a general, yelling commands, barking orders, and still managing to look like a god dipped in sweat. The kind of boy that makes good grades and bad decisions.

Today’s practice? Open to the public.

Translation? It’s a flex. A show. A power move.

And of course, you’re there. You’re always there. Not for the game. Not for the sport. But for him.

You sit front row, sunglasses on, designer outfit hugging you like sin, legs crossed like a weapon.

You know he can see you. You know he wants to look. And he doesn’t, not once, until he scores the final shot, whips his helmet off, sweat in his hair, and finally lets his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t look away when he meets your eyes. He drags that gaze down your legs, up your figure, and settles on your mouth, like he’s remembering the last time he had you underneath him, begging. The way you moaned his name with your lip gloss smudged and your voice wrecked.

The crowd starts to thin after the final whistle, mostly girls pretending not to stare, and boys pretending not to envy.

You stay seated. You know he’ll come to you.

The crowd is gone, and Jungkook walks out of the changing rooms like he’s got the whole world in his back pocket.

Still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, gym bag slung low over his shoulder. He’s in his uniform pants, but the top is gone, replaced by a thin black t-shirt that clings to his chest in all the ways that make you want to bite something.

He sees you. And he doesn’t look away this time.

He slows as he reaches you, shadow falling over your seat. You’re still sitting like the spoiled goddess you are, legs crossed, lip gloss fresh, phone in hand like you weren’t just watching him like a movie you’ve seen a hundred times and still crave.

You don’t even look up. “Took you long enough.”

Jungkook snorts. “Didn’t know I had a timer.”

“You always do.” You finally glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You just pretend you don’t hear it ticking.”

There’s a pause. A beat of quiet so thick it feels heavy. His eyes roam your face like he’s searching for something, maybe your limit, maybe your weakness. But the truth is, you both know the answer already.

“You like pushing me, don’t you?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Only when I know you’ll push back.”

The tension coils in the air, charged and dangerous.

“You wore that outfit for me?”

“You scored that goal for me?”

Touché.

He steps closer. Just a little. Close enough that your knees could brush if you shifted, but you don’t. Neither of you moves. You’re locked in that perfect space where tension thrives, just shy of something unforgivable.

“People are starting to talk,” he says quietly.

You hum. “They’ve always talked. They just don’t know what to say now.”

His gaze drops to your lips again. “They think you’re mine.”

You arch a brow. “Aren’t I?”

A beat passes. He doesn’t answer.

And maybe that’s your favorite thing about him, that he never says the things he feels. Not out loud. He says them in stares. In clenched fists. In the way he only kisses you when no one’s watching.

You stand, finally. And the shift is magnetic. Now you’re the one in his space. You fix the collar of his shirt like it bothers you, like touching him doesn’t set fire to your veins.

“Walk me to my car?” you ask sweetly, even though it’s not really a question.

He doesn’t respond. Just steps aside and lets you lead the way, like always.

You don’t talk.

Not until you’re leaning against the door, and he’s standing too close, eyes flickering from your lips to your neck to the space between you that’s already melting.

“You’re exhausting,” he mutters.

“And yet,” you smile, “you keep coming back.”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, mouth ghosting over your ear.

“I should let someone else deal with your attitude.”

You grin, unbothered. “You won’t.”

Tic tac, tic tac. He doesn’t answer.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your lips move at the same pace as his, the tip of your tongue touching the piercing of his lower lip every time it enters his mouth, causing chills to run through your body.

It doesn’t last long. It never does when it’s this heated. He pulls away like he hates himself for it, and you fix your lipstick like nothing happened.

His breath is still warm on your lips, and his hand is still wrapped around your waist like he forgot how to let go. His gaze is locked on you. Dark, unreadable, burning.

You smirk, like none of it fazes you. Like your knees didn’t almost give out thirty seconds ago.

“Missed me?” you murmur.

Jungkook exhales a sharp breath. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “And you like it.”

His jaw tightens, and for a second, just a second, his eyes flicker like he might kiss you again.

But instead, he drops his hand from your waist and takes a single step back, like space is the only thing keeping him sane.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” he mutters.

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in his tone.

“This game you play,” he goes on, voice low and dangerous. “Showing up, looking like that. Acting like I’m just some guy you can tease whenever you’re bored.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” he cuts you off. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You cross your arms, chin raised. “And what if I do?”

He laughs under his breath, bitter. “Then you’re more cruel than I thought.”

You take a step toward him. “And you’re more obsessed than you pretend to be.”

That gets him.

He looks at you like he wants to say something, something real. Something that would make this whole fake, undefined thing very real, very fast. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear.

“I could ruin every guy who looks at you the wrong way,” he whispers. “And the worst part? You’d love it.”

You swallow hard.

He’s right. You would.

But you can’t let him have the last word, not today.

So you turn your head slowly, lips ghosting over his, your voice just as quiet, “You won’t do it, though. Because you don’t want people to know you care.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t.”

You smile. “Then why haven’t you left?”

A beat. He doesn’t answer.

He just watches you walk around the car, heels clicking like a countdown. Before you slide into the driver’s seat, you glance at him one last time.

“See you around.” You echo sweetly.

Then you shut the door and drive off, leaving him standing there. Alone, silent, and very, very messed up.

Your dorm is a war zone.

Shoes tossed across the floor. Perfume clouds lingering in the air. The faint bass of the party already vibrating through the walls from four floors down. And in the middle of the mess, you.

Dressed in baby pink, your favorite color. Tight, tiny, and just shy of dangerous. Glossy lips. Winged liner. Hair perfectly undone.

You look like heartbreak with a trust fund.

“I swear to God,” Val says, flopping onto your bed, “if Jungkook shows up with that skank again—”

“Valeria,” Mar warns from the bathroom, “we’re not calling her that.”

You grab your earrings, smirking. “We are if she shows up in that tacky rhinestone top again.”

Val snorts. “Queen behavior.”

Mar pops her head out, mascara wand in hand. “Are you even gonna talk to him tonight?”

You pause.

“No.”

The silence is loud.

Val lets out a dramatic sigh. “You two are exhausting. Just admit you’re in love, make out against the nearest wall, and let the rest of us live.”

You grab your purse, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “We’re friends.”

“Yeah,” Mar mutters. “With benefits and unresolved trauma.”

You flip them both off with a perfectly manicured hand and head for the door.

The party is already on fire by the time you step in.

Music pulsing. Air thick with perfume, sweat, and secrets. Someone’s spilled tequila on the marble floor. There’s a fight brewing in the kitchen. And all of it fades the moment you see him.

Jungkook.

Center of the room like he owns it.

Black tee hugging his body like sin. Tattooed hand lazily holding a drink. And a girl, that girl, clinging to him like she’s got the right.

She laughs too loudly. Leans in too close. Touches his chest like she’s not two seconds away from being buried alive.

You freeze. Smile cracking.

Valeria steps beside you, looking bored. “Oh. He brought that one.”

Mar sips her drink. “Didn’t she throw up at the Halloween party?”

You glare. “Why the fuck is she touching him?”

Val raises a brow. “Better question, why do you care?”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy watching.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s pretending he hasn’t.

Because that’s what he does, right?

Pushes. Pulls. Drives you crazy, then reels you back in.

You down half your drink in one go. You don’t storm off. That’s for girls who lose.

You walk. Chin high, back straight, smile razor-sharp.

He wants to play games? You wrote the damn rulebook.

And right on cue, there he is—Kim Jisung, legacy boy, wine-stained lips, and a crush on you so big he’d probably kill Jungkook for just breathing near you. You find him by the bar, bored and beautiful.

“Dance with me,” you purr into his ear.

He doesn’t hesitate.

You don’t look back, but you know Jungkook’s watching. And that’s the point.

The music gets louder. Lights blur. Jisung’s hand slides a little too low. His breath is a little too close.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not the one you’re thinking about.

Not the one you want.

He finds you in the hallway, half-drunk on power and tequila.

“You think he can touch you like I do?” Jungkook’s voice is low, dark, dangerous. “You think he knows what you like?”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the wall. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t get to play the victim, princess. Not after the way you looked at me all night. Like you wanted me to lose it.”

You tilt your head, lips curved. “Did you?”

He’s in front of you in a second. Hand against the wall next to your head. His scent all over you, soap, sweat and sin. His eyes drop to your lips.

“You don’t want him,” he says.

You hum. “Maybe I do.”

He grits his teeth. “Liar.”

“You’re not my boyfriend, Jungkook.”

His smile is slow. Infuriating. “No. But I’m the one who fucks you so good you forget your name.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it, how your fingers twitch, how your lips part.

And he leans in even closer, brushing his mouth over yours but not kissing you.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “Push that bratty attitude right out of you.”

You clench your jaw. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because you want me to,” he says, cruel and sweet. “And I like watching you beg.”

His body cages yours, eyes dark, jaw tense.

“You’re playing with fire,” you murmur, tilting your head, lashes fluttering like you’re not completely wrecked by the way he’s looking at you.

Jungkook’s breath is heavy. Controlled. But you know him. You know what’s under all that control. And it’s dangerous.

“You think you’re the only one who knows how to play?” His voice is low, lethal. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?”

“Maybe I wanted you to see.” You smirk, brushing your fingers over his chest. “Maybe I wanted you pissed off.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Congratulations, princess,” he growls. “You got what you wanted.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Tension so sharp it could slice you both open.

His hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying across silk and skin. He doesn’t kiss you yet, no, he’s crueler than that.

“I should leave you standing here,” he whispers. “Let you think about what you’ve done.”

Your breath catches, again.

“But I won’t.”

Because the thing is, Jungkook doesn’t do restraint where you’re concerned. Not when you look at him like that. Not when your lips are swollen from teasing, from smirking, from wanting.

He presses you back against the wall, one hand on your throat—not tight, just there. A warning.

“You want me angry?” he murmurs. “Then take it. Feel it.”

And finally, finally, his lips crash into yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth, heat, and too many nights pretending you’re just friends.

You tug at his shirt. The hallway is too public. Too risky. Too perfect.

But just as it starts to blur, right when you think he’s going to lose it completely, he pulls away.

“I hope he saw that.”

And then he walks off. Leaving you against the wall. Pissed, panting, and ruined.

2:37 AM. You slam the door shut behind you.

Not loud enough to wake your roommates. Just loud enough to feel it. To feel something.

Your heels hit the floor first, followed by your jacket, then your body. Flat onto the designer duvet you bought out of boredom last fall.

Everything feels too much. Your skin still burns where he touched you. Your lips still tingle like they’re waiting for more.

And your heart? That traitorous thing is pounding like it doesn’t know the difference between lust and loathing anymore.

You press your fingers to your mouth, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed you. No, he devoured you.

Like you were his punishment and his reward all at once.

And the worst part?

You let him. You loved it.

You told yourself you had the upper hand. That he’d be the one crawling back.

But now you’re the one lying on your bed, thinking about his hands, his voice, the way he said:

“I hope he saw that.”

God. He’s so annoying. So cocky. So hot when he’s mad.

You roll over, burying your face in your pillow.

You shouldn’t have gone with that guy. You shouldn’t have cared about Jungkook being with that girl.

But you did. You do.

And now you’re here, lying in your palace of silk and envy, trying to convince yourself this isn’t getting out of hand.

You’re not in love. You’re just obsessed. Right?

Right?

Your phone buzzes from the floor where you carelessly tossed it earlier.

You ignore it for a second, maybe out of pride. Maybe because you already know who it is.

But when it buzzes again, you glance over.

koo ♡ [2:47 AM]:

still thinking about me?

You blink.

Another message lands before you even finish rolling your eyes.

koo ♡ [2:48 AM]:

didn’t know you were into public displays. should’ve kissed you harder.

And then, as if he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your chest:

koo ♡ [2:49 AM]:

sweet dreams, princess.

You stare at the screen. Heart hammering. Skin flushed.

Pillow no longer enough to hide your grin, or your frustration.

God, you hate him. You want him. You hate that you want him.

You type something. Delete it. Type again.

You [2:52 AM]:

u’re so full of yourself.

His reply is instant.

koo ♡ [2:53 AM]:

🤥 you weren’t complaining when i had you against the wall.

You let out a strangled laugh, biting your lip so hard it stings.

He’s cocky. He’s smug. He’s impossible.

And he wins.

Because now you’re wide awake, cheeks hot, thighs pressed together, and you know—

This isn’t over. Not even close.

Saturday nights used to be chaos.

Drinks. Laughter. Parties you’d barely remember and dresses you’d only wear once.

But tonight?

Silence.

Your friends are out with their boyfriends—tragic, really. You stayed behind under the guise of needing rest, but mostly because you couldn’t stand the thought of pretending to care about some mediocre couple’s anniversary dinner.

Now it’s just you.

Satin robe. Hair up. Music low.

A glass of red wine you’re not even sipping anymore.

You’re sprawled across your bed, legs bare, mind racing with thoughts you shouldn’t have… of him.

Then, you hear three soft knocks. Your stomach flips.

You don’t need to check. You know it’s him. Of course it’s him.

You open the door, and there he is. Jeon Jungkook, dressed like a sin you’d commit twice, hoodie half-zipped, jaw sharp enough to hurt, that same smug glint in his eyes like he already knows you’ll let him in.

You lean against the frame. “Didn’t know we had plans tonight.”

He shrugs, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“Maybe I was busy.” You close the door behind him.

He turns to face you, eyes raking over your robe, your bare legs, the curve of your smirk.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, “looks like it.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you want, Jungkook?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He just looks at you. Like he’s trying to decide if he wants to tease you or ruin you.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says finally. “Figured you might need company.”

“You figured wrong.”

He smirks. “That so? You always answer the door in lingerie when you’re not interested?”

You don’t respond.

You just turn and walk back to your bed, knowing he’s watching your every move.

He follows, he always does. The tension stretches, electric and maddening.

“You look comfortable,” he says, eyes still glued to your legs.

You tilt your head. “You look needy.”

He laughs under his breath, leaning back like he owns the room. “I am.”

You hate how that makes your heart race. Hate how your thighs clench. Hate how this game always ends the same.

But you love it, too. The way he looks at you like he’s starving. The way he speaks like he’s daring you to lose control first.

“You should leave,” you whisper.

He leans forward slowly, voice like smoke. “You should make me.”

His voice is low, cocky, soaked in heat. You should slam the door in his face. You should tell him to fuck off.

But your thighs press together. And you don’t move.

Jungkook steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly how this ends. His eyes drop to your robe, the slip of skin peeking out, the hint of lace beneath. You don’t bother hiding it. You know what he came for.

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

You say nothing.

You just tug at the tie of your robe, slow and calculated, and let it fall open an inch, enough to show the soft dip of your waist, the lace of your panties, the fact that there’s not a bra in sight.

His jaw flexes.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Then he’s on you.

The kiss is instant, hot and brutal, mouths colliding like magnets. His hands grab your waist, your ass, your everything, like he doesn’t know where to start. You let the robe slide off your shoulders, pooling onto the floor in a puddle of satin and sin.

He groans against your lips, breaking the kiss just to stare.

“Turn around,” he says, voice wrecked already.

You smirk, walking slowly to the bed, hips swaying, his eyes glued to every step.

You don’t even hear him undress, just the soft shuffle of fabric, the sound of his belt hitting the floor, the low curse under his breath when you bend over the edge of the bed.

He’s behind you a second later.

You feel him. Warm, solid, hard. His hands smooth over your hips, your thighs, spreading you open with a possessive grip.

“You like teasing me, huh?” he mutters, his voice thick, lips brushing your ear. “Walking around like that. Knowing I’d show up.”

You grind back against him just enough to make his breath hitch. “You always show up.”

His laugh is low, dark. “Because I know what this pussy tastes like.”

Then he drops to his knees.

You feel his mouth first. Warm, wet, and filthy. Dragging his tongue from your entrance up to your clit, slow and deliberate. You gasp, thighs trembling, fingers clenching the sheets.

He moans like he’s savoring every drop of you, his tongue lapping and sucking until you’re squirming, until your knees feel weak and your back arches without permission.

And then his fingers—two, thick and perfect, sliding inside you with ease. Curling just right. Pushing every button you forgot existed.

“Fuck, Jungkook…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs into your cunt. “Say my name.”

You do. Over and over.

Your moans fill the room, echoing off the walls like a song he knows by heart. You grind into his face, desperate, needy, shameless.

But he pulls back before you can finish.

You whimper, lifting your head to look back at him.

He wipes his mouth with his thumb, eyes dark with something dangerous. “You’re gonna take me so fucking well, baby.”

He strokes himself once, then twice, before grabbing your hips and lining up behind you.

“A spoiled little brat like you?” he groans, pushing inside, inch by inch. “You were made to be ruined.”

And god, he does.

He sinks in slow, deliberate, like he wants you to feel every inch of him stretching you open. And you do. Every fucking inch. Your hands grip the sheets, head falling forward as your mouth drops open in a soundless gasp.

“God, Jungkook…”

He groans, hips flush against your ass now, buried to the hilt. His hands grip your waist like he owns it, like he owns you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, dragging out slowly just to slam back in, making your legs jolt. “Missed this pussy.”

You can barely breathe.

He fucks you like he’s angry. Like you owe him. Like every roll of his hips is payback for every smirk, every tease, every time you walked past him like you didn’t need him.

Your body shakes with every thrust, skin clapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene sounds of sex and low curses.

“You wanna act like you don’t care?” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips. “Like I don’t fuck you better than anyone ever could?”

You cry out when he hits that spot, the one he always finds, like your body was made for him.

“You gonna walk away from me again?” he growls, voice wrecked, fucking into you harder now, unforgiving. “Let some other guy touch what’s mine?”

“N-no, fuck—”

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. You just shake your head, moaning, melting, unraveling under every filthy word, every punishing thrust.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, low in your ear now, his chest slick against your back. “Say it.”

You choke on a moan. “I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, fuck, I’m yours—”

He groans like he’s losing control, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, pulling your back to his chest. The angle makes you whimper, makes your toes curl, your eyes roll back.

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding deeper, slower. “That’s how you beg without saying a word.”

You’re close.

So fucking close you’re shaking, nails clawing at the sheets, your body clenching around him so tight he swears under his breath.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice rough, hand tightening on your throat just enough. “Be a good fucking girl and cum.”

And you do.

It hits you like a wave, loud, violent and blinding. Your legs tremble, your whole body shaking as the orgasm rips through you, soaking his cock, your moans turning shameless and broken.

“Fuck,” he grunts, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Take it—”

He throbs inside you, spilling deep, pulling your body back against his as he groans your name into your skin. His thrusts slow, messy, drawn-out until he’s spent and breathless.

Silence follows.

Just the sound of your panting, your bodies tangled, your skin flushed and marked.

And then his lips brush your shoulder.

“Still think I should’ve left?”

You laugh weakly, voice ruined. “Shut up.”

He pulls out slowly, and you wince, sensitive. You collapse on the bed, and he follows, arm thrown lazily over your waist, breathing steadying.

And in the quiet, with your body still buzzing and his cum dripping between your thighs, you hate how safe it feels.

How much you want him to stay.

How much he already knows he will.

Part 2? Probably yes.