“What is the difference between ethics, morality, and law?” 

Professor Kim leans against the desk at the front of the lecture hall with his hands gripping the edge on either side of his hips. The action makes the muscles in his arms flex, and you eat up the tan skin exposed by how his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The tight white button-up accentuates plump pectoral muscles that threaten to pop and lose a few buttons. It wouldn’t surprise you if it happened. Professor Kim is known for being accidentally destructive. 

It is unethical to fuck your professor because it would create a conflict of interest; you’d imagine it would be hard for Professor Kim to ethically assess your academic performance if he’d been balls deep in you. 

It’s morally wrong to fuck your professor because you know he’s married, not because he has ever provided your class with information about his personal life, but because you sit at the front of the class. From your position, you can see the glint of his wedding band. 

Legally, you’re pretty sure there isn’t a law against fucking your professor. It probably goes against your university’s code of conduct, but that’s not a law. 

You sink further into your seat and let your eyes wander the room. Everyone diligently takes notes as Professor Kim turns to the presentation projected on the large screen behind him. Ethics and Professional Responsibility isn’t your favorite class, but no one said getting your J.D. would be fun. On the contrary, everyone you knew said it would fucking suck. And it kinda does. 

One thing that doesn’t suck, though, is having a class with your program’s resident pretty boy, Park Jimin. 

Pretty boys aren’t your type at all. You prefer boys who are rough around the edges. You’re not interested if a guy doesn’t look like he’s a one-way ticket to jail or hell. Maybe it’s the rebel in you. Maybe you like the idea that opposites attract. A lawyer and a criminal sounds like a cute ship, no? 

Pretty boys are too soft for you. They’re the type to have skincare routines and listen to Jack Harlow. No thanks. 

Yet your eyes always manage to find Jimin. 

He’s sitting to your left and a few rows behind you, but close enough to see him when you turn your head. He sits with perfect posture as he scribbles notes on his iPad, plump lips puckered in a cute little beak of concentration. 

Fuck, no, not cute. Ridiculous. Soft and childish. Everyone in the room is at least in their mid-twenties, some even in their late fifties. A prestigious J.D. program has no room for beaks and squishy cheeks. 

You’re about to look away when Jimin lifts his stylus to his mouth. The end presses a small dent into his plush bottom lip. You instinctually lick your lips, though your mouth suddenly feels dry. 

Jimin sits that way for a few more seconds with furrowed eyebrows as he focuses on his notes. At Professor Kim’s mention of the end-of-the-year oral argument, your classmate finally lifts his head to face the front of the room. His eyes are bright and wide, unlike the haggard look of your peers, and you watch them shift back and forth as he reads whatever is on the screen. You have no idea what Professor Kim’s talking about; your roommate, Hoseok, will fill you in when you get home. 

All you know is that Jimin finally pulls his stylus away from his lips and casts a sideways glance in your direction. You lock eyes for a split second before he quickly ducks his head, suddenly interested in his notes again. 

You snort loud enough for the woman sitting next to you to give you an odd look, but you ignore her and return your eyes to Professor Kim. 

Your eyes don’t stray from the front of the lecture hall for the rest of the class. It’s not difficult; there isn’t anything else you find interesting enough in the room to distract you. Nothing. Especially not Pretty Boy Jimin. 

“Hey, can I come over tonight?” 

Two pale hands splay across your desk once the class is dismissed. Chipped, black polish adorns each nail, except for the pinkies, which are painted white. 

“Why are you asking me? You don’t need my permission to visit your boyfriend’s apartment.” 

“I’m trying to work on my manners, jeez.”

You roll your eyes and slide your tablet into your backpack. “Where were your manners when you and Hobi fucked on my couch? Hmm, Yoongi? Where were they then?” 

Yoongi lets out a low groan as he steps to the side to let you fall in line with him as you exit the classroom. Your roommate is waiting in the hallway, always the last student to arrive and the first to leave. 

“That’s different,” Yoongi huffs, though this time, the sound is due to Hoseok crushing him in a hug once they make it into the hall. “Besides, I’m asking because I’m bringing my friend. We aren’t going to stay. He just wants someone to come with him.” 

Hoseok untangles his arms from Yoongi’s and adjusts his backpack. Your best friends act like surviving a three-hour class is like surviving a lifetime apart. 

“Ohh, a friend?” Hoseok leans against Yoongi with his eyebrows arched. His questioning tone is fair. The three of you don’t have many friends aside from each other. It’s hard to maintain friendships with people outside of law school. There’s simply no time. 

“What is this, the buddy system?” You snicker as you follow the two men to their cars. “Sorry, I only do business with adults.” 

There is quite literally no reason for you to be judgemental about whoever this mystery friend is, but class has put you in a cranky mood. Probably because of stupid fucking Park Jimin with his distracting lips. Your unpreparedness for the oral argument is slowly causing anxiety to creep into your chest. 

Yoongi gives you a light smack to your bicep. “Some people get nervous about this shit, you know that.” 

“It’s weed, oh my god. You act like we’re cooking meth in our basement.” 

Yoongi stops walking to give you a stern look with narrowed eyes and a cocked head. “You don’t even have a basement.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s 2023, and weed is legal.” 

“It is legal to purchase weed at a licensed dispensary. However, you are not licensed to sell weed, nor is your apartment a dispensary.” 

“It’s got enough weed in it to be one,” Hoseok snorts, but the sound quickly morphs into a severe cough when Yoongi’s glare is directed at him. 

Yoongi yanks his car door open and slides into the driver’s seat. Then, with one leg still on the ground and his arm holding the door open, he lets out a long sigh. “You two are insufferable.”

“Love you too, babe!” Hoseok giggles and sends his boyfriend a flying kiss as Yoongi drives out of the parking lot. 

“For an anti-capitalist, Yoongi is so old-fashioned. I’m providing a product to the everyday person at a reasonable price,” you grumble while you fasten your seatbelt in Hoseok’s car. “Dispensaries are classist. They’re way too fucking expensive, and they’re all in affluent neighborhoods, anyway. The gentrification of marijuana in this country is ridiculous. Where does Yoongi think those tax funds end up? Not in neighborhoods that need them. And what about expunging people’s records? Is the government ever going to do that?” 

You slump in your seat, the sudden energetic burst of social consciousness in you dying out. “I hate rich people.”

Hoseok hums in agreement, keeping his eyes on the road as he drives. “We’re about to be rich people, though.” 

“Not me. Civil rights law isn’t going to make me rich, and I’m not touching corporate with a ten-foot pole.” 

Yoongi and so many other people in your program are too dependent on what is and don’t stop to question what can be or what should be.

Ethics is a social construct, morality is subjective, and law is arbitrary. 

Going to law school is less about learning how to be a lawyer and more about learning how to play a game. 

When Park Jimin walks into your living room, all you can do is blink at him. Your eyes are red and glassy, your mouth dry even though you’ve been sipping water, and your limbs feel too gooey to bother getting up. Maybe you’re hallucinating him, which would be very upsetting because you don’t want to explore why he’s sticking around in your head. 

But then Yoongi is ushering the guy to sit next to you, and the dip in the couch as he eases down feels too real. 

“Ah, Jimin! You’re the friend!” Hoseok gives the newcomer a blinding smile. Smoke punctuates each word, billowing toward the ceiling. There’s already a thin haze to the room; you and Hoseok have been smoking for a while. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

Jimin gives Hoseok a small smile. He also turns to give you one, but it falters when you meet his gaze. 

You’re not sure what expression you’re wearing. It could be anything, really. Or nothing at all. 

“Hi,” he says quietly. His lips are so pink. You want to ask him how soft they are. 

“How much do you want?” Is what you ask instead. 

Jimin turns to Yoongi, who is now cuddled up with Hoseok on the other side of the room. The chair is made for only one person, but they have never known personal boundaries. You suppose if they’re dating, it doesn’t matter. 

“Just give him an eighth,” Yoongi says with a dismissive wave. He’s more focused on plucking the blunt from Hoseok’s lips and bringing it to his own. 

“Of what?” You huff your words, twisting the joint you’ve got between your middle finger and thumb. It’s clear that Jimin knows nothing about weed. He can’t even come up with a measurement or a strain. 

Yoongi glares at you as if this is somehow your fault before saying, “Anything. Maybe not Girl Scout Cookies or Sour Diesel, though. I don’t want his brain melting out of his ears.” 

Jimin makes a slight noise of surprise at that. 

“Kidding,” Yoongi teases. “Well, about the brain-melting part. I mean it about the strains, though.” 

Leaving your joint in an ashtray on the coffee table, you stand up with a groan. Moving is low on your list of things to do right now. The indica you’ve been smoking makes your movements feel slow, though you can’t tell if they actually are. 

“Come on,” you mumble, gesturing for him to follow you down the hall. He goes without a word, eyes wide as if he’s about to discover something profound within the walls of your apartment. You don’t want to admit how cute he is, just as timid in your apartment as in class. 

“We keep everything in the office. It’s super organized, but I guess that’s expected.” You don’t know why you’re rambling (yes, you do, it’s the weed). 

Jimin nods. “Makes sense.” 

He’s so cute, you think, when he asks if he wants you to close the door once you’ve reached the office. As if there is something to hide in here. Hoseok and Yoongi are the only other people in the apartment. 

“I’m going to give you a hybrid. You know what that means?” 

Jimin hovers over you when you crouch next to a dresser with multiple drawers. Numerous glass jars, all labeled with pieces of white tape and messy handwriting, are stacked in the drawer you open. You sift through them, taking a few to inspect before placing them back again. 

“I do not.” At least he’s honest. 

“It’s the happy medium between sativa and indica. Sativa gives you a head high. People tend to feel alert and creative sometimes. Indica gives you a body high. It’s the stereotypical kind of weed people talk about that makes you lazy and get the munchies. It’s because sativa has more THC than CBD, whereas indica is more CBD-heavy. Think about how people use CBD products when they’ve got joint pains or anxiety, right?” 

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” The statement is redundant, but you don’t mention it. Jimin looks like he hangs onto your every word as though his life depends on it. It’s funny, and you have to stop yourself from laughing at him.

Finding what you’re looking for, you hand a jar to Jimin. “It’s already weighed, so you can take the whole thing.” 

Jimin holds the jar like it’s a newborn. This time, you let a few giggles slip out. 

“Do you have something to smoke it with? A piece or a bong?” 

A shake of his head is no surprise, but you act shocked because you’re high and feeling good, and you love how he looks when his eyes grow wide.

“Wow, you’re so cute,” you say with a grin that starkly opposes the shy blush that paints Jimin’s face. “You probably don’t know how to roll either, do you?” 

Another shake of his head. Of course. 

It’s not difficult to show Jimin how. You pull up another chair at your desk and push away all your notes and textbooks for school to clear a path to work. You show him how to grind the weed and roll a blunt and a joint — so he can figure out which one he likes better. 

Jimin’s body is warm as he presses against yours, your shoulders bumping into each other every time you move your arm. He keeps close, eyes glued to your hands as you work slowly but diligently. It’s a bit disarming having him so close. Aside from the occasional hello during class, you’ve never really talked to Jimin. Concentrating with all his Pretty Boy energy fogging up your mind is tricky. 

Or is it the weed? Nah, it’s the weed. 

“If you end up not liking either, go to a head shop to buy a bowl — it’s a pipe. Maybe don’t go with a bong yet. Yoongi can help you. He likes bowls better, so he’ll have good recommendations.” 

Once finished, you slip the blunts and joints into a ziplock bag. When you pass it to Jimin, you can’t help but let your fingers brush against his. The touch sends waves of hot electricity up your arm. The shock of it makes your entire body tingle. Sure, the weed is making your body extra sensitive, but it’s not only that. He’s so fucking hot. 

You don’t realize you’re staring at him. It’s hard not to stare or even know where to begin. His plush, pillowy lips? His fluffy, dirty-blonde hair that falls into his eyes? So cute that you don’t even care when he has to do a Bieber flip to get his bangs out of his face? 

And, fuck, he’s not wearing the usual crisp white Oxford shirt and black chinos get-up. He must have gone home to change after class because now he’s wearing a form-fitting black t-shirt (probably designer from the looks of it) and grey jogger sweatpants that do nothing to hide how thick his thighs are and you’re sure if you get a chance to look at his ass you’ll find that that part of his body is thick, too. Expensive athleisure wear looks even better on him than professional clothing. It makes him look soft. 

“Thank you,” Jimin says, speaking your name softly, and you feel like your knees grow weak at the sound of it tumbling from lips like those. “I’m sorry, I feel like I barged in here and took up your time. Not knowing anything… I’m sure you’re used to people with more knowledge than I do.” 

Shaking your head, you guide Jimin out of the office and lock it behind you. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone has to start somewhere, right?” 

It’s funny that he’s concerned about something like this, as if marijuana knowledge is so embarrassing not to have. 

When you turn around, you realize the two of you are standing way too close. Your apartment isn’t a shoebox, but it certainly isn’t large. The hallway is slim, and Hoseok has a million and one plants and decorative furniture scattered around for the “aesthetic,” which makes it even harder to navigate tight spaces. 

You’re not complaining, though. This close, you can see that Jimin is wearing contacts that make his eyes hazel, little flecks of orangish-brown highlighting his naturally dark irises. 

Jimin’s eyes drop to your lips, and you feel your stomach drop along with them. Even though you’re not touching each other, your skin tingles with the knowledge that you could be touching. He’s so close. All it would take is one tiny shuffle forward, and you could slot yourself against his nimble — but what you assume is a very solid — frame. 

“Yeah,” he speaks as he releases a soft exhale. You feel his warmth and shudder. “Thank you, still.”

“No problem,” you whisper. 

Jimin’s tongue darts out to run across his bottom lip. His teeth draw it in slightly, and when he lets go, you can see how his lip bounces back into place. 

Dragging your eyes back to meet his takes an embarrassing amount of effort. He’s finally looking at your eyes, too, with an expression you don’t understand because you don’t really know him. 

“How much do I owe you?”

Right. Because he’s here with Yoongi for a reason. You swallow, turning your head to the side to hopefully break whatever spell Jimin and weed have put you under. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Jimin inhales sharply, but you keep your eyes down. “I must pay you something. I don’t know what’s a standard amount.” 

If you were anyone else, you could honestly rip him off. The guy has no clue — he is even admitting that he doesn’t! But there are embers smoldering in the pit of your stomach. 

“Nope,” you say with a tone of finality. You can hardly think before your following words slip out of your mouth like snakes. “Pretty Boys get weed free of charge.” 

“W-w-what?” Jimin looks unbearably cute when he’s confused. It’s almost too much for you to handle. 

So you don’t. 

Without another word, you head back to the living room. Jimin follows silently. You’re sure his face is still painted with shock because Yoongi gives the two of you an odd look. 

“Right where I left you,” you tease.

Untangling his limbs from Hoseok’s, Yoongi lets out an old man grunt and stands. You hadn’t believed him when he said he wouldn’t be staying, but it’s clear that he’s sticking to his promise when he starts patting down his legs to make sure he has his keys. 

“Got what you need, Chim?” 

Chim? How close are Yoongi and Jimin? And why are you only now learning of this friendship? 

Jimin nods, his bottom lip between his teeth once again. He insists that you’ve been a great help to him, all while keeping his eyes locked with yours. It’s so different than his shy avoidance in class. 

“Don’t worry, Yoong,” you insist as you plop back on the couch. Your joint is patiently waiting for you. “I took good care of him.” 

You’ve never been very good at math, but it doesn’t take a mathematician to know that Pretty Boy Jimin ends up costing you hundreds of dollars as the semester progresses. 

All your peers will walk away from law school making six figures easily. But not you. You just had to give a shit about the world, didn’t you? You just had to pick an area of law that values protecting human rights over making a profit. 

God, being a good person is so hard! 

And now, Park Jimin is sucking you dry before you can even earn money. Every time his fat little ass sashays away from your apartment with another jar of free weed, you can practically hear the chime of money signs ringing out with each step. 

There’s a worse feeling, though. It hadn’t occurred to you until now, as you stand in the entranceway of Jimin’s apartment unit, your backpack carrying precious cargo inside slung over one shoulder. 

Allowing Jimin to walk out of your apartment with the Pretty Boy Discount of free marijuana hurts your pocket, but doing a free weed delivery is even more pathetic. You’re wasting your own time and gas money to drive to Park Jimin’s motherfucking apartment to deliver him weed that you aren’t even going to charge him for simply because he’s hot. 

Maybe this is the terrible consequence of abstaining from sex to “focus on school” — as if smoking weed with Hoseok all day isn’t a distraction. But, on the other hand, maybe you just need to get laid. 

Dipping on this commitment would be easy, you think as you bounce on the balls of your feet. You could leave right now before Jimin answers the door, ask Hoseok to handle Jimin’s future requests, and put all of this behind you. But, of course, the entire situation is ridiculous anyway. You don’t even know Jimin. Not really. 

There’s a clicking sound from the other side of Jimin’s front door. Logically, you know it’s the sound of him unlocking the door, but your nerves tell you it’s the sound of your fate being locked into place. It may as well be because Jimin opens the door with a smile that puffs up his cheeks, his hair looks damp, and he smells like body wash. 

Fuck. 

“Hi!” His voice squeaks, but a deep cough returns it to a normal tone. “I mean, uh, I appreciate you coming by.” 

Your tongue presses into your cheek as you regard him for a moment. He might consider your silence as negative because he quickly sidesteps to allow you into his apartment. 

You give Jimin a smirk. “I think you should at least give me a tip.” 

“O-oh, I mean… oh, um,” he stutters, and you can’t help but laugh. 

A rush of air escapes your nostrils in a low-energy, nearly silent laugh. While coming to Jimin’s place might seem like a lot of effort, the truth is that you’re bored, and lately, you’ve been seeking anything to get your mind off the loneliness you feel when your apartment is dark and Hoseok is with Yoongi. 

So, even though part of you chastises yourself, you’re willing to risk looking pathetic or desperate if it means you can have someone to smoke with and get some time away from your too-quiet apartment. Not because Jimin is the most attractive person you’ve ever seen in your entire life. 

Jimin’s pretty eyes widen, and you quickly wave your hand to brush off his sudden panic. 

“I’m kidding,” you confess as you twist your backpack around your body to pull out a small glass mason jar. It’s cute how concerned he is. 

No, not cute. Naive. You shake yourself out of the feeling. 

”Well, come on then.” You walk through Jimin’s apartment into the living room. It’s your first time making a delivery with him, so you’ve never been to his apartment. Yet you walk through the building with unearned familiarity. You’ve got manners; sometimes, you choose not to use them.

“How have you and Hoseok been?” 

“Prepping for finals. And that fucking oral argument Kim’s got us doing,” you groan. School talk wasn’t something you had in mind when you showed up, but in the months you’ve spent getting to know Jimin more, you’ve learned he’s a total nerd. He’s probably excited about the assessment. 

“Sometimes I think he’s trying to kill us,” Jimin says with a slight grin. “Is it ethical, moral, or legal to terrify your students to the point of throwing up before evaluations?” 

“Don’t tease Yoongi like that! You know he has public speaking anxiety!” 

Jimin does a little half-skip to avoid your attempt to slap his chest. Although you know the both of you are drowning in student loans and law school tuition fees, the apartment is much nicer than expected. You wonder if Jimin has a roommate. He’s never mentioned one before.  

“Don’t tell him, or he’ll beat me up.” 

Eyerolls aren’t a commitment to anything, but you know Jimin knows you wouldn’t dare repeat his words. 

Plopping onto his couch, you scoot the coffee table between your knees and set the jar down. Beside the jar, you place everything you need to roll for Jimin, including a grinder and swishers. You could have rolled it all in advance, but you don’t like to feel rushed. Prepping is the best part. It relaxes you.

Jimin slowly slides into place beside you on the couch. He leaves enough room between the two of you to be respectful, although something tells you it’s less about his desire to make you feel comfortable and more about his discomfort. 

He’s nervous, but you don’t know why. He keeps dragging his palms against his thighs, roughly rubbing his jeans. Every once in a while, he lifts his hand to touch his bottom lip. Then, when you sneak a glance at him, he quickly turns away. There’s nothing of note to look at in the apartment, but he seems engrossed in something for those fleeting moments before you’re sure he’s looking at you once again. 

“I should probably learn how to do this… Like, properly… I can’t remember everything you did the first time,” Jimin mumbles. When you look up, his cheeks are dusted a light pink. 

“Sorry, I probably went too fast that time.” You give him an apologetic look that makes his face redden even more. “It’s not as hard as people make it out to be. Just need a good teacher.” 

If Jimin expects you to be his teacher again, he doesn’t say so. You could be. You can’t stop yourself from giving the guy free weed; you might as well add comprehensive rolling lessons in the mix. 

By this point, rolling a blunt is about muscle memory; you don’t have to use an ounce of brainpower. Your eyes can wander, sweep over the contents of Jimin’s living room, your thoughts floating off to wonder about the little details of the man’s life you aren’t privy to. Who are his friends? Where is his family? You look for photographs on shelves or hanging on the walls, items that are a staple in your and Hoseok’s apartment. Would Yoongi be in any of his photos? So many people in the city come in like ghosts.

“Do you, um, would you like to stay?” 

Jimin’s voice pulls you back to the living room, where your hands have already finished two blunts without you realizing it. 

“Isn’t that what you meant when you said I could smoke with you?” You question around the blunt you’ve brought between your lips, pausing to light it.

Jimin shakes his head, not as an answer to your question, but to himself. “Yes, of course.” 

“You wanna share this or smoke your own?“ You can keep working on rolling the rest in the meantime.

Rather than answer your question verbally, Jimin does something that makes your heart fall into the pit of your fucking stomach. The supposedly shy, naive man parts his lips and juts his chin toward you. 

The meaning behind his action hits you in the chest immediately. You let your eyes drift over his mouth, and you try not to react when his tongue swipes across his bottom lip while he patiently waits for you to give him what he wants. And you’re gonna do it, too. No questions asked. 

Pinching the blunt between your middle finger and thumb, you twist on the couch to face Jimin with your legs tucked beneath you. Of course, if your fingertips brush against his lips when you place the blunt between them, that’s no one’s business, and you fucking plead the fifth, thanks. 

Jimin’s eyes never leave yours when he wraps his lips around the blunt and inhales. He takes the hit like a champ, not coughing once despite the smoke’s thickness when he exhales. It’s been a few months since he started coming to you for weed. You shouldn’t be proud of his improvement, but you are anyway. Even if it’s weird to be. 

“Thanks.” Jimin looks like a droopy-eyed dragon, eyes heavy and narrow when he expresses his appreciation. His voice is low and thick, and it makes your stomach swoop. 

You nod your head and take the blunt from him. “No problem.” 

Time is hardly discernible in normal circumstances for you, especially when you’re high. So you can’t imagine how long you sit with Jimin on his couch, watching smoke billow in the air and talking about how unfortunate it is that Frank Ocean and Rihanna ghosted the music industry. 

For a while, the two of you fall silent. You lean your head against the couch and close your eyes, content with listening to the music Jimin put on until another thought enters your mind. One you can’t bring yourself to ignore.  

“You ever fucked while you’re high?” 

You ask the question once you and Jimin have finished the first blunt and move on to the second. The lighter you’re using is hot pink with blue and purple flowers printed on it. Something feels fitting about that. 

The question takes you by surprise even though you’re the one asking it, unsure why you’re asking it aside from knowing the weed will make you more likely to speak your mind. Jimin, though. The poor guy is even more startled. As he should be, you think. 

His hand trembles slightly when he passes you the blunt when it’s your turn to take a hit. “Uhh, um, have I— what?” 

You roll your eyes and blow a smoke ring in Jimin’s direction. You wait for his coughing to subside before you repeat yourself. 

“Have you ever had sex while under the influence of marijuana, Jimin-ssi?”

“No…” 

“Hmm, you should. It’s really fun. Feels good.” 

“Oh.” 

“Do you wanna try it now?” 

It’s comical how Jimin gulps, literally gulps, like a fucking cartoon character. “Now?” 

Marijuana is an aphrodisiac. It won’t make Jimin want you, but it’s clear from his suggestive behavior that he already does. The weed will simply, hopefully, make him less nervous about it. 

You pretend you don’t notice how he shifts to press his thighs together on the couch. 

“Come on,” you encourage him. “Stop thinking so much.” 

You know you’re too forward and sudden, but it feels justified because you’ve been thinking about Jimin for months. The buildup over the past few months has been stifling. 

Giving consent is what finally unlocks something in Jimin. One moment he’s staring at you with wide, timid eyes; the next, he’s got his hand around your throat. 

With a light squeeze, Jimin pulls you into him to slot his lips with yours. Holding back a moan is nearly impossible when his tongue pries your lips open. It’s wet and hot, and your skin tingles when you taste the smoke on him when his tongue curls around your own. Smoking always makes you feel warm, but you feel like you’re on fire when Jimin whimpers into your mouth. His pace is unrelenting. You feel like you’re tripping over yourself as you attempt to keep up with the quick work of his lips. The effort has you practically straddling his lap. 

Tightening his grip on your throat, Jimin uses it to tilt you how he wants you. A pleased hum vibrates against your mouth when he hears you moan from the pressure of his fingers digging into the soft skin of your neck. It’s only when you start to get lightheaded, and your lips slow that Jimin finally pulls away. 

His eyes’ heavy, sensual look remains, but you’re surprised to find his slick lips forced into a frown. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You could ask why, but you assume Jimin’s forwardness isn’t typical behavior. The good thing is that it is for you.

Rather than address the unnecessary tension, you let your lips do all the work and pull Jimin in for another ruthless kiss. 

“I don’t wanna hear any apologies from you,” you murmur against his mouth. “The only thing I want your lips doing is eating me out.” 

Jimin lets out a high-pitched whine that sets something dangerous off, buzzing through your body. “Please.” 

Maybe you’re pathetic with how quickly you strip yourself of your clothes, but Jimin doesn’t seem to care. His eyes never leave your body as you toss the clothing onto the floor. “You’re so beautiful…” 

“Yeah?” You lean with your back against the arm of the couch, scooting down slightly so you can let your legs fall open. 

He nods sharply and is silent momentarily as he rubs his palms down the length of your legs, settling between them. 

"I’ve always wanted to talk to you,” Jimin speaks with a hushed tone. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. “I just get nervous. I’m sure that seems pretty lame." 

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. Every touch sends goosebumps pebbling across your skin. It’s exhilarating. You feel like your entire body is a hot wire, sparking and buzzing at a dangerous frequency. 

"Yoongi said this would be a good way for us to get to know each other. The weed, not this this!” It’s shocking to you how adorable he can be at the same time he sucks the skin of your inner thigh into his mouth, swirling his tongue around after biting down hard enough to make you gasp. 

Your head falls back as you feel the tip of Jimin’s tongue drags along your clit. He swirls it around, drawing small circles in a steady rhythm. Every time his tongue pulls back, you can hear a soft smacking sound of his lips. He’s likely swallowing the drool collecting in his mouth. You’re sure he’s probably getting a bad case of cotton mouth from the excessive sound. 

It makes you smile knowing he’s that sensitive. It takes much more weed in your system to start feeling dry in the mouth, but you’ve been smoking more years than Jimin and at a higher frequency. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan out a misshapen puff of smoke when Jimin’s tongue returns to your clit. 

This time he wraps his plush lips around it and suckles lightly, using his tongue to flick from side to side. His little grunts and moans make your pussy vibrate, sending a tingling sensation through the inside of your thighs and down to your toes. 

Your hand shakes as you bring the blunt back to your lips. A whine tries to break through, but you force it back down your throat as you inhale more smoke. It’s hard when your body feels like it’s burning up. 

Every gentle touch of Jimin’s lips and tongue on your skin feels like a punch to your stomach in a way that is so deliriously delicious you can hardly take it. Wetness drips down your pussy and smears against your thighs, either from your arousal or Jimin’s drool or both, but you don’t care how messy it is when Jimin pulls back enough to spit more onto your clit. 

You let out a surprised sound, lifting your head slightly to see a string of saliva connect Jimin’s pouty bottom lip with your skin. 

Fuck, you didn’t think Pretty Boy had it in him. 

Using two fingers, Jimin spreads his spit around your clit, pushing it down until he slides into your pussy with ease. You didn’t need the extra lubrication, but you groan at the wet sound that echoes through Jimin’s apartment as he thrusts his fingers deep inside you. He brings his lips back to your clit, sucking harder and massaging your skin with his tongue even faster to match the pace his fingers take. 

When he finally locates the spot that makes your legs shake, hitting it repeatedly, you dig your fingers into his fluffy hair and yank his head back. 

“H-h-here,” you stutter, pressing the blunt against his lips. They’re shiny, and the idea of sticking a wet blunt between your lips makes you want to cringe, but you don’t care because his lips are shiny with you. 

Jimin doesn’t stop thrusting into you, but his pace slows as he concentrates on taking another hit. 

“I’m so fucking hard,” he groans. With the blunt between his lips, Jimin’s hands fly to unbutton his jeans. Another groan sounds around the blunt once he’s freed himself of the retraining pants. 

You let out a quiet sigh as you try to collect yourself while Jimin smokes. “I told you it feels good. It’s different, isn’t it?” 

“Mhmm…”

There’s a large wet patch staining the front of Jimin’s briefs. It makes the fabric stick to his cock, clearly outlining his length and girth — big enough to make you drool but small enough that you won’t go home sore and regretful. 

“Lemme ride you.” You use your free hand to push Jimin into the back of the couch. He plants his feet on the floor and spreads his thighs as you get comfortable in his lap. “Wanna smoke the rest while we fuck.” 

Your head is in the clouds, your body melting like butter as Jimin skirts his hands along your sides. He eventually pauses to squeeze your hips, and you swear you can feel him all over you. 

It’s quick work, tugging down the final article of clothing separating the two of you. It’s hard not to stare, especially when Jimin twitches and shivers with every light touch of your fingertips along the ridges and veins of his cock. 

Your clit drags against the head of his cock when you adjust in his lap, and you let out a ragged moan. 

“Soaked,” Jimin murmurs, “You’ve got me all wet.” 

It’s true. Jimin’s thighs glisten from where you’ve leaked all over him. Your clit throbs so much it’s beginning to hurt from the sensitivity. 

“Condom,” you practically wheeze out. “If you go in raw, you’re probably gonna bust a nut immediately, and I’m not interested in that for many reasons.” 

Jimin’s face turns even pinker. 

“O-okay, give me a second, please.” So fucking polite, and for what? 

He holds you at the base of your spine with one hand as he leans forward to snatch his jeans with his other hand. There’s a condom in his wallet, so you assume your classmate isn’t all innocent. 

It’s quick work rolling the condom on. Uninterested in teasing yourself further because you feel like you’ll die if you don’t orgasm soon, you push Jimin hard against the back of the couch. You slip down his cock with ease, with no stretch or sting, from how turned on you are. 

“I feel like I’m already gonna come.” Jimin throws his head back against the couch. 

His lips fall open, and you quickly snatch the blunt from them so it doesn’t fall and burn one of you. He looks beautiful, angelic even. His lips are puffy and pink, his cute little mismatched front teeth peeking out. His tongue flicks around his mouth as his breathing grows heavier. 

You squeeze one of his shoulders with your free hand while your other keeps the blunt pinched to your lips. As you take a drag, you lift your hips and quickly bring them back down, your ass slapping Jimin’s thighs as you engulf his cock again. Your skin sounds wet and sticky, but Jimin’s whine drowns out the sound. 

“Shit,” he hisses. Blunt nails dig into your skin, but it doesn’t hurt; it only feels good. Everything feels so good. 

You hardly notice how hard you shake as you slam yourself down on Jimins’ cock again. Your head is too spacey to go fast, but you do your best to set a steady pace of bouncing on Jimin’s cock. It doesn’t matter if he’s already going to come. You feel your orgasm building up with every squeeze of his fingers and the pathetic moans from his mouth. 

You lean forward to latch your lips to the base of Jimin’s neck when he again drops his head. Pulling the skin into your mouth, you suck hard. You know the shock the discomfort will send across his body, pain that quickly morphs into pleasure and makes his cock twitch inside you. 

“Jesus Christ.” Jimin reaches up to brush his bangs away from his eyes. Sweat makes the hair remain in place, pushed up, making him look as wrecked as he sounds. His cheeks are bright red now, and the color bleeds down his neck, where you’re sure his chest is bright red, too. 

Fuck, why didn’t you take off his shirt? It feels like a quick and dirty fuck, although you’re not sure you want it to be. You’re unsure what you want this to be or mean. Or how you want it to feel. 

All you know is that you feel like you’ll come at the sight of Jimin’s toned stomach and chest when you pull the hem of his shirt up to bunch it right above his nipples. 

Holding onto the fabric gives you more leverage to pick up your pace. It’s needed because Jimin is a puddle beneath you. His arms are tossed to his slides like they’re made out of rubber, flopped onto the couch cushions. He can barely lift his hips. He only makes a few weak attempts to thrust into you before he’s whining again, head lolled to the side with furrowed eyebrows. He looks so fucked out. 

“Please, ahh, fuck, please,” Jimin begs, though you’re not sure for what. 

“Wanna come, pretty boy?” You squeeze his t-shirt harder and yank it slightly, just enough to pull Jimin’s back a few inches from the couch. “You’re gonna have to work harder. I already gave you so much.” 

Jimin’s eyes roll in pleasure when you clench around him, little “oh’s” and “ah’s” punched out of him. “Okay, yes, yes, fuck, yes, I’ll be soooo—”

You bring his hands back to your waist as he babbles. The contact must give him a bit of clarity because he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and begins to thrust into you hard. 

“I’ll. Be. So. Fucking. Good.” Every word is punctuated by a mind-shattering thrust as Jimin pulls you down onto his cock. 

If you were on the edge before, you’re falling by the time he picks up the pace and thrusts into you even harder. The buildup was long and hot, yet your orgasm hits you so hard it might as well have been a surprise. 

You curl into yourself and press your face into the crook of Jimin’s neck while he continues his unforgiving rhythm until he comes with a choked-out moan of your name. 

The silence should be uncomfortable. How awkward and irrational was it to simply… tell Jimin that you wanted to fuck? And for Jimin to go along with it? Casual hookups aren’t really your thing. Pretty Boy Jimin seems to be the exception for everything, though. 

Heavy breathing fills the silence as the two of you try to calm down, your chests rising and falling in tandem. It’s comforting to lean all your weight on Jimin, despite how his bunched-up t-shirt presses uncomfortably into your chest. Even the feeling of his cock softening inside of you doesn’t bother you any. 

At some point, Jimin had placed the blunt in the ashtray on the coffee table. It’s shocking that he had the mind to do so; you would have accidentally burned a hole into his comfy, expensive-looking couch. It’s a good thing you had the mind to use a condom. Imagine burn marks and cum stains. Sheesh. 

The kiss Jimin presses to your temple when he turns his head feels way more domestic than you deserve. You smile, teeth pressed against his skin, despite yourself. You can blame the giddiness you feel on the weed, and not whatever Pretty Boy Jimin has done to trigger warmth inside your chest. 

“I think I gave you more than the tip…” 

With narrowed eyes, you lift your head from Jimin’s neck to look him square in the face so quickly that you’re worried you might pull a muscle in your neck. “You’re not fucking funny.” 

Jimin lets his head fall back to laugh hard enough that his eyes squeeze shut. It’s so endearing that you overlook such a bad joke. Pretty Boy Jimin seems to get away with a lot. You don’t mind it as much as you act like you do. 

See, he doesn’t even realize that he’s in the wrong fucking apartment until he hears someone screech, sharp and high-pitched, accompanied with the clatter of dishes crashing onto the floor. Only then does he stop clutching onto his chest wound and look up to examine his surroundings.

And yes, indeed, this is not his apartment. Instead of video game posters and superhero comics pinned to the wall, there are a bunch of vinyls and abstract paintings instead. The room is also way cleaner than this, but that’s not an observation he’d like to admit out loud. There’s also a cute little rug on the floor, along with some pieces of… broken ceramic? Odd.

His eyes follow the shards and eventually find their way to...

Oh.

He blinks a few times, fighting blurred vision and the possibility that he has lost so much blood that he’s hallucinating.

But it’s really you.

His classmate. The one who also happens to be the only other scholarship student at his university’s specialty science program aside from him. Who would’ve known that you lived only a floor above him? 

You’re in a pink loungewear set, hair in a kind of sock-curl wrap thingy, and your face is covered with some white, thin sheet. Maybe it’s a face mask or something. Whatever it is, he has clearly intruded into your private time.

You stumble backwards, making blubbering noises with your mouth and pointing at him shakily.

“Y—you—you’re that Spider-boy!”

He can’t stand up. Great.

“Uh, yeah,” he starts very professionally and heroically, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crash in here. The window was open, so…”

You furrow your brows. “You’re bleeding.” 

He wants to say something snarky like, ‘Oh really? I didn’t notice,’ but he bites his tongue. No need to take out his frustrations on you. Sure, he wasn’t planning on getting slashed in the chest by some gnarly bank robber today, but at least he’s here.

Alive. And he has a superhero reputation to maintain, okay? People expect Spider-Man to be cool. Mysterious. Competent. Not some idiot who accidentally breaks into a classmate’s bedroom while actively bleeding out.

“Nothing new,” he says, pitching his voice lower to sound more stable and manly or something like that. “It seems like I’ve uh—” he struggles for a bit, “—I’ve made a miscalculation.”

“A miscalculation,” you repeat slowly.

“Yes.” Thank goodness secretly being a superhero has made him a particularly effective liar. “This is totally normal. Just overexerted myself a little bit.”

“Uh-huh.”

Okay, maybe he isn’t as good of a liar as he thought. Still, do you need to have such an all-knowing look on your face? 

“You’re hurt, Spider-boy,” you say, voice soft.

“Man.” He coughs twice, very obviously struggling. “Spider-man.”

“Sure, Spider-man.” You cross your arms. “So… do I just let you bleed to death in my bedroom, or…”

“It’s fine,” he chokes out, stumbling towards the window. He just needs to climb one floor down. He can manage. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Wait!” Your sass is replaced with panic as you jolt towards him, tugging down on his arm before he can escape through the fire exit. “You’re obviously way too injured to leave on your own.”

“It’s fine, pretty lady,” Jungkook says, attempting to sound suave, “Nothing I can’t handle on my own.”

You sigh, a tight grip still on his arm. “Sure you can handle it on your own. Doesn’t mean you have to.”

With that, you drag him into your room and make him sit on your criminally fluffy, pink bed. He worries that he’ll stain it with blood. 

“You really don’t have to—”

“Hush,” you say sharply. “I’m going to be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

The air of finality in your voice keeps him glued to his spot, watching as you leave the room and slam the door shut. When you return a few moments later, you’re armed with a first-aid kit and a comically large bottle of saline. 

You look at him, eyes firm.

“Take off your clothes.”

Realistically, he knows what you mean. He knows that you’re trying to stitch up his wounds or something and that you have no inappropriate intentions. But still, you’ve always been so… composed. Like you know exactly who you want to be in life, and what you have to do to get there.

You’re the girl who comes to class thirty minutes before everyone else to get the best seats. The student who actually goes to office hours. The friend that has bandaids and ibuprofen in their purse. The one that doesn’t drink at parties but still has a hell of a good time and makes sure everyone gets home safe. 

That’s the kind of person he knows you as, and he wants to see if you’ll remain that way if he teases you a bit.

“Damn, why don’t you take me out on a date first?”

You slap his face with a towel.

“Not the time for jokes.” Okay, so you really aren’t the kind of person to play around. Noted. “Off with the clothes, mister.”

He finds that your assertiveness kind of turns him on. Cool. Totally normal. Great timing hormones!

Yeah, he hates himself. He’s honestly just trying to distract himself from the fact that he’s really fucked up—getting hurt, swinging into the wrong window, and now jeopardizing his secret identity by spending time with someone he kind of knows in his personal life. But again, going to the hospital isn’t really a viable choice either, so…

The clothes come off. 

He unzips his suit from the hidden side collar and starts tugging downward, trying not to openly wince as he peels the skin-tight nylon from his wound, careful to wipe any rebellious drops of blood before they can stain your pink bed sheets. When the gaping cut is revealed, the dry air bites into it; the motherfucker got him good. Who would’ve known that bank robbers  nowadays arm themselves with pocket knives?

You hiss sharply at the sight. He looks down and has to regretfully agree that it’s not pretty. The gash isn’t deep, but it’s wide, spanning across the length of his upper chest to the end of his ribcage. Dark blotches and bruises are already starting to form from the multiple collisions he made swinging here, making his torso look even more colorful in addition to the blood.

As he watches your gaze linger on his body, self-consciousness creeps upon him. He wonders for a brief moment if he should flex his abs now that you’re looking at him so deeply, but decides against it. That would probably make him look even stupider.

“I’ll clean it first,” you say quietly, flopping your first-aid kit onto your bed and unzipping it with a few urgent tugs. “You might need stitches after this, though.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “No can do. This arachnid has to keep his identity a secret.”

You furrow your brows as you dab some saline onto a cloth. “I really suggest you go to the hospital,” you say, firm but kind. “You could get a life-threatening infection from this.”

“I’ll manage, I promise.” 

You decide to drop it, for now at least. “This is going to sting.”

Without further warning, you start cleaning his wound, dragging the saline-drenched cloth across his skin. True to your word, it stings like a bitch and Jungkook regretfully flinches away with a less-than-manly yelp.

“Stay still,” you order, glaring. 

He lets out a strained breath. “Okay, sorry.”

He grits his teeth and tries to pretend like every touch doesn’t nearly set him on fire. To distract himself, he tries to think about other things by scanning your room.

His eyes first land on a picture of you and (presumably) your parents at the bedside table. You’re at Disneyworld, wearing Mickey Mouse ears with chocolate smeared all over your mouth. You’re sitting on your dad’s shoulders and your mom smiles up at you, wearing a matching set of Mickey ears. You can’t have been older than five years old. He can’t help but find it quite cute. 

Across the room, there’s a huge bookshelf, and he notices that your books are organized by genre and color, with each shelf looking like its own version of a rainbow. The vinyls on the walls tell him that you love 90’s RnB. Your favorite color is definitely pink. You like to draw. You collect pop-mart figures. It’s funny how much he can learn about you just by looking at your bedroom.

Then, something catches his eye.

An old firefighter’s helmet sits at the top of your shelf.

It looks strangely out of place among the pink bedding and carefully arranged books. The orange is faded, the surface scuffed and scratched, and there’s a thin layer of dust settled into the ridges. It looks old. Really old.

He stares at it for a while before forcing his attention back to you.

You press onto the wound with firm, but gentle pressure, letting the last few drops of blood soak into the cloth. Then, you take out a container of ointment—probably some kind of gauze—and start smearing it across the wound. Jungkook can’t help but let out a shaky sigh as relief floods him.

You giggle a little at his reaction. 

“All done.”

That was quicker than he thought it’d be. He hesitantly assesses his body again, and to his pleasant surprise, with all the blood gone and his wound covered with gauze, things don’t look as bad as they did before. And after sitting for a while, he feels much better too. 

“Woah,” he breathes out, tracing his wound with his finger. “You cleaned it up really well.”

A triumphant smirk graces your face. “I did, didn’t I?”  You start packing up the first aid kit. “I’d still recommend you to get stitches at the hospital anyways. Can’t have the friendly neighborhood Spider-boy die of an infection, can we?”

“I suppose we can’t,” he says, laughing, but he has no intention of actually going. “It’s Spider-man, by the way. Not boy.”

You stare at him like you can’t believe he just said that. 

“How about a ‘thank you?’”

“Oh. Sorry.” He flushes. Where have his manners gone? “Thank you, uh…”

“Y/N,” you supply.

“Thank you, Y/N. It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Sure, sure, whatever.”  You shrug him off as if it’s just another normal day for you, saving a superhero, that is. “Do you need anything else? Water, pain medicine, money for a cab, or—”

“I’m good,” Jungkook quickly cuts you off, grateful for your hospitality but not wanting to risk his identity being uncovered any longer. He wonders if you’d recognize his voice if he talked to you at university. “I’ll head out now, duty calls and all.”

“Right.” You look like you don’t believe him much.  

He tilts his head in mild confusion as you throw away bloody tissues and cloths. Not to be egotistical, but Spiderman is pretty well known around here, and usually, people want to take selfies with him or ask about his identity. Hell, there’s even an app that tracks his sightings.

There’s none of that with you, like you’re simply… indifferent. Treating him like any other plain old citizen.

Jungkook lifts himself off your regrettably soft mattress and trudges to the window where he came from. He tugs up his suit in the process, zipping the collar shut once more. Steels himself for one more swing across the building, up the roof, and down to the correct bedroom window.

“Well, stay safe, Spider-boy,” you say softly. “Don’t do any more saving for the day. You could get hurt again.”

He whips his head around to you, then chuckles softly as he opens the window and feels the cold air nip his skin. Maybe you do care a little bit.

“Worried about me?” He ignores your nickname for him, convinces himself that he finds it endearing.

“Right, how could I forget?” You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Superheroes don’t get hurt and don’t need saving.”

He raises a brow. “Well, I never said that.”

You avoid his gaze. “Sorry,” you mumble, picking absently at the first aid kit. “It’s just that…”

“It’s just that what?”

 “I don’t like the way people are treating you,” you reveal, not meeting his eyes.

“The way people are treating me?” he echoes, confused. He stands up to face you properly.

People treat Spider-Man pretty damn well, as far as he knows. New York loves him. There’s an official fan page for him on every social media platform, and he’s pretty sure he saw Spider-Man Halloween costumes being sold at the airport last week.

“What’s wrong with the way people treat me?”

You let out a dry laugh. “You really don’t see it?”

He shakes his head.

“Everyone sees you as the guy who will swing in and save the day no matter what happens. As an invincible, masked entity they feel comfortable putting all their hopes and dreams on when something goes wrong.”

“That sounds like my job, alright,” he jokes, but he feels that you’re digging deeper. Somewhere even he doesn’t dare to look. 

“But what if you can’t?”

Jungkook furrows his brows.

“I can. I always can.”

“Are you sure about that?” 

There’s no accusation in your expression. If anything, you look almost sad.

“You were bleeding all over my bedroom ten minutes ago,” you say quietly. “And you were still trying to convince me you were fine.”

“I was fine.”

“You nearly collapsed.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Okay,” Jungkook relents, “maybe a little.”

You smile despite yourself at the tiny triumph.

“That’s what I mean.” You chuckle, stepping towards him again. There may be a mask covering his face, but Jungkook feels like you’re looking right at him.  “I know you’re just a kid—probably not much older than me—and no single person should ever have the weight of a whole city’s safety on their shoulders.” 

It comes to him in flashes. The nightmares of failing to save people. Of accidentally injuring someone. Of property damage,  broken hearts, and children declaring that Spider-man is no longer their favorite hero. 

He thinks about the comments online when he slips up. The ones that ask: ‘Where was Spiderman?’, ‘Why wasn’t he there sooner?’.

It’s the  part of the job he has chosen to ignore in favor of, well, everything else—the glory.

You shrug, concluding with, “Or at least, that’s just my opinion.”

“You think people are using me,” he says eventually.

You shrug again. “I think people are asking a lot from you.”

“That sounds pretty similar.” 

“Well,” you gesture to the firefighter’s hat sitting at your bedside table, “My dad died trying to save someone, so... I’m not really a fan of the whole, uh, superhero thing.”

Jungkook freezes.

For a second, he genuinely forgets what he was going to say.

There’s a breeze coming through the open window, stirring your hair around your face. Somewhere below, a car honks. Someone laughs on the sidewalk. The city keeps moving like you didn’t just drop a bombshell into the middle of his evening.

“Oh,” he finally manages.

Brilliant.

You seem to realize what you’ve just said, too, because your expression twists awkwardly.

“But, uh…” You clear your throat. “I’m still proud of him, I guess.”

Jungkook nods slowly.

“Yeah.”

Another silence. He desperately searches for something better to say.

Yeah?

That's it?

Jungkook's gaze flicks toward the firefighter's hat. Then back to you. Suddenly, he understands why you sounded so worried. Why you seem so unimpressed by his heroic persona.

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You fiddle with the zipper of the first aid kit once more. “Thanks.” You clear your throat. “And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

“You didn’t, don’t worry.”

You mumble into yourself. “I definitely did.”

He thinks for a moment. “Okay, “ he admits, “maybe a little bit.”

You turn to him, offended. Jungkook forgets that the mask only hides his facial expressions, and not his scoffing as well.

“Wow.”

He allows himself to laugh, finding that your pout  is actually really quite adorable. “But hey, I don’t mind,” he replies, voice softening.

You roll your eyes, packing up the first aid kit once and for all and shoving it inside your bedside table’s drawer. There’s a small smile on your face, though. He sees it. 

“Uh, well,” you choke out, standing up hastily, “Shouldn’t you get going now, Spider-boy?”

“That name’s really sticking, isn’t it?” He jokes, teasingly but tentatively. 

“I mean, if I ever see you again, then yes,” you answer, a warm smile returning to your face. “Is it a part of your job to stop by civilian apartments?”

Jungkook chuckles, heading towards the window once more to brace himself to swing away despite his gashing chest wound.

“Not at all. It’s not everyday that I accidentally crash into a pretty girl’s apartment.”

“Hm.” You hum. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Um—”  He stops dead. Fuck. He doesn’t think enough before speaking out loud, does he? “That wasn't—”

You burst out laughing, the sound filling the room as Jungkook’s face reddens so much it could blend in with his mask. 

“I’m kidding.” 

He clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the window. “Obviously.”

You smile, watching as Jungkook drapes a leg over the window’s edge, dangling above the bustling night of the city. “If I see you again, though, I hope you’re not half bleeding to death.”

“Noted.” Jungkook chuckles and gives you a two-fingered salute. “Thanks again for fixing me up.”

There’s honking and chatter and the buzz of a metropolis underneath you. He turns to you once more, and although he knows you can’t see his face, he hopes that you sense his grateful smile.

“No problem,” you salute back to him, playful lilt in your voice. “See ya, Spider-Boy.”

Jungkook shoots a web outwards, sticking it onto a nearby rooftop fixture, trying to fight away the warmth in his cheeks.

“Goodnight, pretty girl.”

And he swings into the night, a stupid, stupid grin on his face.

“You can have some but I cant?” You ask in a haze, climbing up onto his lap. He sits back— not expecting you to be this bold.

“Yeah.” He confirms, knowing it would stir more of a reaction. “Its mine.”

Your eyes are unfocused, unable to think of much other than the way he just wet his lips. You kiss him just to taste the alcohol. He lavishes in it.

“Mh.” Jungkook relaxes, eyes closed. Your hands sneak under his shirt; expected behavior from you.

What he doesnt anticipate is how you keep going, leaving him panting for breath between kisses. He settles both hands on your hips and grips you tighter the second you tug on one of his lip rings a little.

“Baby,” he begs when you give him the chance. “I gotta breathe, honey…” he turns his face from you.

“But ‘myou taste good,” you slur, pressing kisses to the moles on his face and neck instead. One of your hands is on his pecs, the other is trying to figure out a way under his waistband.

“Relax,” he grows flushed— more than he already was from the soju. He tries to move you in his lap so you wouldnt squirm so much. “Hands up here.” Jungkook scolds softly, dragging your wandering hand back up to his chest. He wasn’t about to initiate anything with you wasted.

“Ugh,” you complain, pressing another kiss to his lips that ends with a pull on his rings.

“I know,” you were driving him nuts. “Trust me baby, I know.”

“Can… you jus’ kiss me… m’stop bein hot…”

He smiles against your lips. The alcohol is finally settling in for him. Jungkook’s eyes are lidded, his skin is hot.

The two of you make out so long his lip rings start to make your bottom lip ache. You’ll definitely get bruises— it didn’t matter to you now.

He gets too warm and pulls his hoodie off. You gain more access to his skin this way. excited, you dip your head to continue kissing all the little spots you missed along his collarbones and a bit near his shoulder.

“You’re so pretty,” you mumble, so attracted to him it was overwhelming. “Take this off too.” You’re groping his muscles now.

“You want the shirt off?” He muses. Cute. “Alright, alright.. you gotta let go of me,” he gently moves your head back.

“Yesss……” you hiss, drinking in the sight of his bare torso. You look between the two of you to see if there was enough room for you to sit between the couch and the coffee table. An idea comes over you.

SPECIAL DELIVERY ⟡ VOYTER

getting a new job as a newspaper delivery boy to earn some extra cash wasn't exactly ideal for jungkook's busy college schedule. but the MILF he delivers papers to every wednesday? absolutely essential.

⌗ paperboy!jungkook. fuckboy!jungkook. milf!reader. age gap. infidelity. smut. college au. 2000s au.

RELEASE DATE — 01.23.26 @ 12 PM PST

CULT CLASSIC ⟡ PJMINII

you were just renting your usual blockbuster from the stupidly hot guy at the video store, when it turns out you’ve been handed a tape you really shouldn’t be watching. are you an intruder, or did he give it to you on purpose?

⌗ fuckboy!jungkook. voyeurism. slight age gap. sex tape. smut. 2000s au.

RELEASE DATE — 01.24.26 @ 12 PM PST

TASTE THE CRUSH ⟡ VOYTER

it's been years since you've been home. years since you've seen jeon jungkook — your brother's childhood best friend. what you don't expect is for him to look like a completely different person. and you definitely don't expect to spend your whole summer with him either.

⌗ fratboy!jungkook. brothers best friend. summer break. smut. college au. 2000s au.

RELEASE DATE — 01.25.26 @ 12 PM PST

HANDYMAN ⟡ PJMINII

your new neighbor is just numbingly cute, but it’s hard getting his attention. so when you find out he’s handy, you decide to sabotage every single item in your home, trying to lure him in.

⌗ handyman!jungkook. voyeurism. smut. neighbor au. 2000s au.

RELEASE DATE — 01.26.26 @ 12 PM PST

before you both decide to turn in, you take it upon yourself to initiate your little prank, oh so sneakily opening your camera app. “baby,” you whisper sweetly as you start the recording, “we’re gonna do this cute tiktok trend livi sent me.”

he just hums, doesn’t open his eyes. you lift a hand to pat his warm cheek, then tilt your head and kiss it. your eyes flick to the camera, nose scrunching at how hot you two look together.

but then you notice your nipple’s kinda poking out of your bra from when he lazily shoved it back up earlier after sucking on them for a little. oop. you adjust it slightly, aim the camera a bit higher, and keep the recording going.

“hiiii guys,” you bite your lip to stop from laughing at how stupid you sound, “today my current boyfriend and i are going to do the ‘guess what i’m thinking’ challenge-”

you feel him tense behind you before his eyes even open. in the reflection of the screen, his expression is puzzled, but then he blinks and realises you’re filming. so you quickly go into salvage mode, chucking the phone down on the blanket and pretending to struggle.

“oh, fuck.. i don’t- what, um, let me restart, sorry baby-”

jungkook shifts behind you, a frown now forming on his pretty face. “the fuck,” he mumbles, pulling back slightly. “what?”

you shake your head quickly. “baby, i accidentally- i don’t know what that was, uh... i think i saw something earlier… let me just-”

you reach for the phone, but he instanly covers it with his bigger hand. you glance down and see it’s still recording, very pleased and still trying to bite back a giggle.

“current boyfriend?” he repeats incredulously, moving to sit up properly now. the blanket slides down his big, yummy torso, and you almost bite your lip at the delicious sight before remembering the task at hand.

“baby, no, i didn’t- uh- i-” you pull your best fake stutter, and god, it even sounds fake to your ears... but somebody hand you your fucking oscar, because your boyfriend doesn’t seem to recognise that right now.

“current boyfriend.” he laughs under his breath. a low, dark kind of laugh, a delectable mixture of amusement and anger.

he reaches for the phone to delete the video, and that’s when you all but launch forward, grabbing it first and leaning back out of his reach. you’re just trying to keep it recording, but your furious man interprets the action as you attempting to hide your phone from him. and now, he’s fucking pissed.

his jaw locks. “y/n,” he says like he doesnt know your passcode and the passwords to all your socials. “give me your phone.”

you pout, shake your head, turn slightly away from him. you can feel him fuming behind you while you try not to laugh, the edge of the camera still catching his hard face as he glares.

he presses his chest to your back again and reaches for the phone once more causing you to squeal and switch hands, hanging it off the bed like a menace.

“no baby!!! you’re not going through my phone! i just misspoke-”

“i wasn’t even going to,” jungkook spits, scoffing as he grabs your bare stomach and easily drags you right back into his grasp. “but now i fucking am.”

he’s still cussing behind you while you wiggle and giggle like a lunatic, stretching as far as possible with your arm off the bed. he grabs your wrist and now you’re both wrestling, your ass grinding against his very much now-present dick through his briefs while you cling stubbornly to the device.

“give it to me,” he growls. “give me the phone before i fucking smash it, y/n.”

you can’t stop laughing. you know he’s mad - like mad mad - because even when you turn in a last ditch attempt to distraact him by smushing your lips together (which always works...) he barely lets your tongue slide into his mouth for half a second before pulling away. oh how rude.

he flips you onto your back with a scoff and snatches the phone from your hand like its a loaded gun. you grunt into the mattress as you flop over, hair a mess, bralette twisted and boob nearly out again.

he sits back against the headboard with the phone, about to scroll through it like a sexy psycho.

and you know there’s no fucking way you can get it back from him. his strength is fucked. and when he’s mad? unearthly fucked. so you try your final card… because if he deletes it, your entire struggle was for nothing!

“wait, baby!” you cry. “wait, tigerlily!!”

your boyfriend freezes instantly, thumb hovering over the X button before his head turns to you in confusion. you’ve had sex one thousand and fifty-seven times, and you’ve only used your safe word once before.

you exhale when you see the video still intact. “it was a prank, baby...” you say, voice soft as you crawl into his lap.

your bralette is still misaligned and giving him a full show, but you’re too focused on defusing the nuke in his hand. “don’t delete it, pleasee baby. i wanna watch it back. you were so sexy, my love...”

he just shakes his head at you slowly, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek while you gently pull the phone from his grip. once you see it’s still recording, you grin happily and climb over to prop it up against the bedside lamp so you’re both in frame.

then you mount his big, beefy body again, hands sliding up his warm chest. “or...” you whisper sultrily, leaning down to rub your nose against his pretty one, “we could take the video in a different direction?”

his hands come to your ass, gripping both cheeks over your little panties with those inky hands. he’s pulling you against his now half hard length - honestly, jungkook’s default state whenever you guys are in bed - and his eyes haven’t left yours. they’re still searching, still confirming whether or not he believes you.

you hum and brush your pouty lips down his jaw, letting them trail to his neck as your big bratty eyes flit to the camera. “can show them how good my current boyfriend fucks m—”

you don’t quite get to finish your sentence.

your forever boyfriend has you on your back instantly, panties torn off like wrapping paper, his black briefs shoved down just enough to reveal your forever cock.

you grin merrily through the hard fucking in missionary, through the getting flipped onto your tummy and both asscheeks spanked raw while drilled doggystyle, through the cumming twice on his dick before he makes you beg him for his load, punching your abused g-spot with every snap of his big hips.

when he barks at you to tell him who the fuck this pussy belongs to, you cry out his name with a capital J. when he orders you to tell him who the fuck he is - and because you are nothing if not a little brat - you cry out my fucking husband...

you relish in the loud grunt he lets out at your words, savour the hot cum he instantly paints your inner walls with, moan in dazed delight as your greedy pussy sucks up the reward she so desperately yearns for.

and best of all, the recording stays on for the entire thing.

he would do this for hours while you entertained yourself; either catching up with emails or as much as you hated to admit it, probably doom scrolling on social media. your conversations over the span of a couple of hours usually consisted of you calling out his name, followed by a distant but acknowledging grumble, you asking him a question which he would answer with another disengaged exhale.

today, however, he seemed particularly irritated. not easily discernible; but you could tell by the way he shifted in his seat, the abnormal number of frustrated exhales, and the moment he suddenly thrust himself back and cursed under his breath, pressing his head into his hands. it was difficult to fight off the urge to ask "are you okay?" which was threatening to escape your lips, as you knew he'd just glance at you nonchalantly and utter a succinct, blasé "yes."

you were reclining on a couch not too far away from his setup. his long, dark hair was neatly swept back by his headphones, except for a few odd strands which draped over his forehead, occasionally sticking to thin veil of sweat beginning to coat his skin. his eyes just wandered the screen intently, although there was a tired glaze over them.

"can you do me a favor?" he asked softly, casually, turning his head toward you. you blinked. that had to be his daily word count used up all in one go.

his eyes were soft, mouth slightly ajar with a subtly curve to his lips. you didn't know why he was smiling, especially when he looked so frustrated just moments ago. maybe it was the way you looked: lazily sprawled out on the couch, limbs wrapped around a blanket, sleepily scrolling through your phone.

"hmm?" you murmured softly, unaware of how tired you had become. though grateful for the break in silence as you were probably only moments away from unconsciously dropping your phone from your hand and falling asleep.

there was a slight chuckle in his voice. "can you give this a listen?" he asked softly, a faint rasp coloring his words; likely from hours of silence, and maybe the fact that he hadn't taken a sip of water in just as long.

yoongi removed the headphones from his head, shaking his hair back into place as he did, lightly grasping them in his hand. he blinked at you again, letting out a gentle exhale that bordered on a laugh, eyes crinkling when he noticed you hadn't even budged.

being a night owl, it didn't bother him that it was creeping into the early hours. the sun had set long ago. you, on the other hand, had gotten far too comfortable on his couch and were only just managing to stave off sleep.

"come here, bring your blanket." he mumbled, his eyes still crinkled with amusement, the corners of his lips pressing into his cheeks in a tender smile. yoongi continued to watch you fight your way into an upright position, his attention unwavering.

if you hadn't of been so tired, the way he was staring at you so intently would have made your hands sweat, but you were too focused on standing up; which you eventually did, slowly pottering over to his side as he slid the headphones over your ears, gently adjusting your hair with his slender fingers so they didn't get in the way.

"why are you asking me? i'm not a producer," you sleepily quipped, adjusting the blanket that you had draped over your shoulders. "why don't you send it to pdogg or something."

"no, you're not," he stated softly. yoongi gently placed his hands to your waist and guided you to sit on his knee, pressing his chin onto your shoulder as he leaned forward, hovering the mouse over the play button, "but your input is important to me. you don't have to understand music to know if it sounds good."

you could've sworn you could feel your cheeks flush with heat, either that or you were getting too warm from the blanket.

he pressed play, and the silence of the room combined with the almost audible pounding of your own heart was swiftly replaced with bass.

sleepily, you found yourself subconsciously leaning back into the warmth of yoongi. he didn't pull away or resist. one hand rested gently on the side of your thigh, whilst the other affectionately hooked around your waist, holding you comfortably on his knee.

the song had so many elements that screamed yoongi, while still feeling fresh and different. it was the kind of track you'd listen to with headphones on, back against the mattress, eyes closed.

it was so immersive, you had almost forgot how close yoongi was, until you felt his warm breath on the side of your neck, his chin resting comfortably on your shoulder as he cocked his head ever so slightly to the side.

eventually, the song came to a stop. he used the hand that had been softly resting on your thigh to pull back of the cup of the earphones from the ear closest to him. "well? what did you think?" he uttered softly, a hint of apprehension in his tone.

"yoongi - i, i mean, it's just incredible-" you started, before feeling a short gust of warm air on your neck as he softly exhaled in a laugh. he eventually pulled away, reclining back in his seat, and the immediate loss of closeness and warmth left you feeling a little hollow.

"you don't need to be sarcastic," he mumbled, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

"i'm not. friend to friend," you said, almost tasting the bitterness of the word friend on your tongue, knowing how giddy and anxious you felt around him at times. "this song is beautiful. i, i have nothing else to say. it's perfect."

you turned to look at him, feeling a little uneasy under his intense, affectionate stare. "that snippet at the end - the rain and the laughter," you started, "is that from when-"

"we were at hangang park," you both said at the same time, laughing softly.

yoongi's hand unconsciously made itself comfortable on your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly grazing back and forth. "even though i told you to bring an umbrella. you were so soaked. i mean, we both were..." he spoke fondly, stumbling on his words slightly as if he was just now remembering that he got wet too; like you were the only one who really mattered in that moment.

"i didn't realise you still had that video. that was a while ago." you chuckled, reminiscing on yoongi almost keeling over belly-laughing as you were absolutely sodden, sat on a picnic blanket trying to shield yourself from the rain in between laughter. he had his phone out recording you as the heavens opened from above and a torrential downpour assaulted you both. yoongi, however, was under the luxury of an umbrella 'this is what happens when you don't listen to my advice.' he said between ragged giggly breaths.

with perfect comedic timing, the wind swept the canopy of the umbrella inside out and he lost his grip, it rolled down the grassy bank and hurled itself into a nearby bush. and this was the point of the video you heard overlapped on the song; you laughing at the wind taking revenge for you, and yoongi laughing at the absurdity of it all. you both laughed until it hurt, absolutely soaked through, cold, damp and filled with a euphoric sense of happiness.

"you always notice the little things," he murmured, brushing astray strand of hair from your face. his voice quiet, almost reluctant before he added with a subdued smirk. "maybe that's why i keep you around."

you smiled, feeling your heart flutter but saying nothing, letting the moment hang between you for a beat.

"what's the song called?" you queried, smile lingering on your lips as the memory remained in the forefront of your mind.

“Stretch your hand out and pinch,” Jimin instructs, his face hidden behind his phone as he positions it just right: You with the moon placed between your fingertips.

You giggle, brushing the hair stuck in your lipgloss away from your face, the strands rebelling in the wind and blowing across your face yet again.

Behind you, there’s the ocean, the stretching horizon, and above lies the sparkling night-sky. You stand on your tippy toes, your bare feet sinking into the sand below while cold waves splash against your calves. In one hand, the one by your side, hangs your heels, the ones you tore off the moment the two of you left dinner.

You’re a bit tipsy, so you wobble ever so lightly as you try doing as you’re told, reaching out for the moon with your thumb and index finger. It’s a task proven to be harder than you thought, and you accidentally snort when tripping over, water splashing up your legs.

“This is impossible when you have no coordination whatsoever,” Jimin groans, letting his phone drop to his side. His eyebrows curl on his forehead, his head tilts to the side, disappointed by your horrible attempt.

You shake your head, trying to pull yourself together, “Nono—get that camera out. I can do this.”

“I don’t want you tripping over and drowning.”

“If I drown in water this shallow, I’d say it’s skill-issue.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, begrudgingly picking his phone back up. The two of you have always been equally bratty, making it hard for you to do anything but bicker. That is of course when he’s not all over you. When everything else seems to fade away, and the only constant is him, his crooked smile, his warm, soft lips against your skin.

You try again, stretching as far as your toes will let you, looking directly at the camera while your fingers reach for the skyline.

“More to your left,” Jimin lets one hand reach his pocket, fumbling with something you can’t quite see as you try your hardest posing for his picture. “Widen your pinch.”

You do exactly as he says, smiling brightly in his direction, waiting for him to capture the moment on film. The wind blows in waves through your soft dress, tiny goosebumps blooming on the exposed skin of your arms and thighs. Your hair gets everywhere, in your eyes and across your shoulders, but it works in terms of giving Jimin’s photo momentum.

Before you, Jimin smiles behind the camera, an expression you can’t really see as he’s halfway hidden. But you can tell he’s giddy, his eyes creasing as he watches you stumble on your arched toes.

“Perfect, now… stay still…”

It’s impossibly hard to not move in your position, but you try, straightening your posture while still pinching the moon… hopefully. You can’t really see if you’re doing it right from where you’re standing, but Jimin seems satisfied, therefore you are.

“Now, look surprised.”

You don’t even question his demand, you just abide, your mouth opening in a gape, your eyes widening. You don’t even still when you see Jimin’s hand retreat from his pocket, something shiny catching in the moonlight perched between his fingers.

He angles his hand, and holds whatever it is that glistens in front of the lens. You stay balanced on your toes, arm stretched out, fingers pinched just so, still reaching for what you think is the moon. From where you stand, all you see is Jimin’s silhouette against the dark, his phone lifted, his other arm raised high.

What you don’t see is how carefully he angles his hand. Lining the glistening silver between your fingers. From the camera’s perspective, it’s perfect: your hand reaching, almost touching.

Behind the phone, Jimin’s breath is shallow. He watches the screen, not you directly, but the image of you: barefoot and glowing before the ocean, the moonlight spilling over your frame.

“Okay,” he whispers. “More surprised.”

You abide, lips curving without effort, eyes bright as you look toward him. The wind lifts your hair at the exact right moment, strands framing your face like something out of a dream. You try ignoring Jimin’s hand, which you believe is covering the lens, but as you look closer… you see a diamond catching in the light.

Click.

“Got it,” he says, voice tight as he lowers the phone quickly, the diamond disappearing inside Jimin’s palm before you can notice anything strange.

You immediately drop your arm, relief flooding your muscles, and before he can even react you’re already splashing your way toward him, water kicking up around your calves.

“Let me see, let me see,” you insist, grabbing for the phone.

“Hey—wait—” he laughs, but you’re faster, fingers closing around it as you nearly slip on wet sand. He steadies you by the waist for half a second, then lets go.

You step back, phone cradled in both hands, screen lighting up your face.

And you go quiet.

The picture pulls you in instantly. There you are: framed against the night sky, balanced on your toes as the ocean curves behind you. And right there, hovering just above your fingers, is a ring. A big and shiny diamond ring. Leaves curl delicately along the band, tiny diamonds tucked between them, glistening in the moonlight.

Your eyes water immediately. The girl in the photo stares back at you, blissfully unaware of Jimin’s plan, just a girl reaching out for the waxing crescent.

“Jimin…” you breathe.

As tears start forming in your eyes, you tilt the phone slightly, studying it closer, your thumb brushing the screen. Your heart starts to thud, slow and heavy, each beat sinking deeper into your chest.

Behind you, Jimin says nothing.

You don’t notice the sound of him stepping back, don’t notice the way the sand shifts underneath his loafers. You’re too focused on the image, “Jimin… is it a…?”

There’s no way it is. You’re still staring at the screen when something changes in the air… when the ocean feels quieter somehow, when the wind slows.

“Hey,” Jimin says gently.

You turn, and your breath leaves you all at once.

He’s on his knees in the sand, trousers already darkened where the tide kissed them, one hand holding the ring for real now, not a trick of perspective, not an illusion. Before you, he’s kneeling, looking up at you with earnest eyes and a smile that’s shaking at the edges, offering you everything.

For a second, your brain refuses to catch up.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Jimin’s next breath comes out shaky, swallowing hard before his words, “[Y/N]… just let me speak.”

You stand gaping before him, the wind blowing through your hair, your dress, and you’re not sure if you’re shivering because of the cold, or the man before you. And like clockwork, tears start falling from your eyes, covering your cheeks in wet glisten.

It warms you that something similar is happening to Jimin, his eyes watering at the sight of you, framed by the moonlight, looking down at him through clustered, wet eyelashes.

“I love you more than my heart can bear,” he breathes, his words coming out as soft gasps. You wince, as if hearing him saying these words slowly breaks you. He continues nevertheless, fighting his own tears. “I never imagined that I’d be so—”

“Yes, yesyesyes,” you shake your head, you nod, you cry out. The tears are stinging against your skin, and you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Wait—” Jimin laughs breathlessly, panic and joy tangling together in his voice. “No—no, you have to let me—”

But you’re already moving.

You sink down into the sand in front of him, knees pressing into the cold grains without a second thought. Your heels fall forgotten at your side. You’re laughing and crying all at once as you reach for him, hands cupping his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks where tears have already escaped.

He lets out a broken sound, half a laugh, half a sob, still stubborn even now. “I practiced this,” he insists weakly. “I had a whole thing—”

You kiss him.

It’s messy and desperate and entirely unplanned, your lips crashing into his mid-sentence. He makes a startled noise against your mouth, the words dissolving immediately. You feel his smile anyway, feel the way his hands come up to hold your wrists like he’s trying to ground himself.

“I love—” he tries again when you pull back for half a breath. You kiss him again. “—you so much, I just—” Another kiss. He gives up with a laugh that shakes through his chest, resting his forehead against yours, eyes red and shining. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs.

“Just get to the point already,” you whine, pressing one more kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He exhales, preparing to speak, accepting defeat, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you say instantly, without hesitation, so impossibly happy that you can’t even think straight. “Yes, yes, yes, you big idiot.”

He laughs, but that’s about as much of a sound you let him produce, as you lunge forward. Kissing him yet again. It’s desperate and breathless, hands everywhere, the world narrowing down to the two of you kneeling in the sand while the ocean rushes in approval behind you.

Eventually, he pulls back just enough to breathe.

“Your hand,” he whispers. You offer it to him, still shaking. His fingers are trembling as he slides the ring on, silver cold against your skin, leaves curling around your finger. When it settles into place, something in his expression breaks entirely.

“There,” he breathes. “You’re—”

You kiss him again, harder this time, not letting him finish. Jimin lets out a sound halfway between a groan and a sob when your hands slide up his neck, fingers curling into his hair. His lips part, and you take him in deeper, tongues meeting, breath hitching as the kiss turns wetter and more desperate.

His hand slips to the small of your back and presses you in close, until there’s no space between your bodies. His other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek, even as another one falls. He’s crying too, you can taste it in the kiss, feel it in the way his lips shake against yours.

You’re done. Over it. Your spine hurts. Your knees ache. You want stillness. Maybe pour black vodka over that lemon ice cream someone left on the back of your fridge and call it dinner. Maybe take a long, hot shower and then stare at the smog-laced skyline until it blurs. 

But your hand freezes on the doorknob.

There’s light inside.

A flicker. Warm and low.

You didn’t leave anything on.

The air shifts. The hair on your neck rises.

Was it that mobster’s nephew you tailed in Blüdhaven? Or one of the undercovers you blew last week? Gotham is known to hold grudges like it holds haze, thick and choking.

Keys slip quietly into your palm. You curl your fingers around the one with the sharpened tip. You’re tired, but you’re definitely not careless.

Door creaks open. The scent hits you first—savory, spicy, familiar. Garlic, gochujang, and creamy butter.

Your pulse stutters.

You exhale sharply. “You broke in, again.”

He doesn’t even look up at first. He’s at your stove—hair damp, hoodie rolled up to the elbows, tattooed hand stirring something thick and bubbling. Like he lives here. Like this is normal.

“I used the key you gave me this time,” Jungkook says calmly. Then he glances over his shoulder, eyes soft but shining, that smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Technically, it’s not breaking in if it’s romantic.”

You toss your keys onto the counter harder than necessary.

“It’s not romantic. It’s borderline stalker behavior.”

He shrugs. “I made carbonara tteokbokki, your favorite. Plus, you say that every time, but you never kick me out.”

You walk back toward the entrance to take off your boots and your coat, “That’s your new favorite, JK, not mine.” You're not even sure your apartment carried the sound of your voice back to him as the city is still so loud outside. Gotham has teeth, at all hours of the day—especially at night. 

“And you’re late by the way,” he says when you show by the kitchen again, then nods toward a plastic bag with a smiley face on the counter. “Makgeolli and… Snickers. A vending machine broke on my way here. I did not break it. I just—happened to be nearby when it cracked.”

God he’s insufferable—

This is the bastard's peace offering. 

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, cardigan still clinging to your damp skin. Your voice is quiet but sharp. “You know what I saw on the news tonight?”

Jungkook turns off the stove and finally turns to face you fully, spatula forgotten. He knows. You can see it in the way his shoulders roll back, slow and wary.

“Explosion in Blüdhaven. Chemical warehouse. Unmarked trucks. Five people hospitalized. Nightwing sighting right before the blast.”

Silence stretches between you.

“I was fine,” he says, voice low.

“That’s not the point.”

You move into the kitchen now, slow and calculated, like approaching a bomb you’re not sure has stopped ticking. You stop right in front of him, chin tilted up.

“You can’t keep showing up here with a full body count of bruises and a bag of snacks like that makes it okay.”

His eyes flick across your face—scanning. Measuring. He’s good at that. Too good.

“You worried?” he says, too casually. Too amused, if the way the corner of his mouth starts to tilt up is of any indicator. That sets a fire ablaze inside your ribcage. 

“I’m pissed,” you lie.

He smiles, just a little. “Because I didn’t call, or because someone almost caught me?”

“Because someone will, eventually,” you snap. “You’re a detective in Blüdhaven by day and a vigilante by night. You don’t even bother separating them anymore. You’re too visible, Jungkook. People aren’t stupid.”

“I’m careful.”

“No, you’re not. You’re fucking obvious.”

That gets him. His smile fades.

“Taehyung? No one would ever look at Kim Taehyung and think ‘Batman.’ Because he plays the part of a rich playboy. He’s got a mask on and off. He’s the opposite of what he really is. But you—" You shake your head. “You walk around with your fists clenched and a busted lip and a badge that screams ‘I’m hunting the same people at night that I interrogate by day.’ It’s reckless.”

He steps closer, eyes darkening. “You think I don’t know how to play the part?”

“You don’t want to. That’s the problem.”

Your back hits the counter. You hadn’t noticed him moving until you felt him against you—warm and charged, rain still clinging to his hoodie like static.

“I told you who I was,” he says quietly. “You’re one of the only people I ever told.”

“And I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t walk away either.”

Your breath stumbles. The weight of him—so close, so Jungkook—crowds the space around you. He smells like soap and rain and your undoing.

“I told you this wasn’t serious,” you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

His hands plant on either side of you, trapping you. You should step away. You don’t.

He leans in, breath brushing your jaw. “And yet I’m here. Making dinner. In your kitchen. After nearly dying.”

“Oh so now it was ‘nearly dying’—” a snort escapes your lips. “Flirting with death turns you on now?” you murmur.

“No,” he whispers, “you do.”

You don’t have time to bite back before he kisses you.

It’s never gentle with Jungkook. At least not at first. It’s desperate, a little angry, soaked in that slow-burn tension that’s been building since the first time he smirked at you across a crime scene.

You fist his hoodie, dragging him closer. His tongue slides against yours, and you swallow the sound he makes. Your hips roll into his without thinking, and he groans into your mouth, hands finding your thighs, lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing.

“You should be fucking resting,” you breathe between kisses.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” he mutters against your skin, lips trailing down your neck, tongue hot and wicked. “Right now, I need you more than I need sleep.”

You laugh—low, breathless, already lost.

Something faint stirs in the room. A ripple of static, you think, a thin thread of sound that tries to pull him away. But it dies against the crush of his mouth on that soft spot behind your ear. 

You feel it again as a moan escape your lips. A buzz in some distant part of your brain, like a match sparking underwater. 

But then there’s a soft thud as your head falls back against the cupboard and his teeth catch your skin—sharp, reverent. Jungkook’s hands squeeze at your hips, greedy, before he rolls you onto him again, fully, body nestled between your thighs like it’s where he always belonged. Your cardigan slips off one shoulder and his mouth is on yours again, hungrier this time. Not just kissing but consuming. The kind of kiss that tastes like apology and anger and every word you two never say.

And you can’t think. Don’t want to.

But then you slide your palms up beneath his hoodie, over the hard lines of his waist, and he hisses against your mouth—his hands tremble, just barely, like he’s holding it together with string and spite. 

You tug at his bottom lip, meaning for him to stop but gaining another throaty moan from him instead. Your hands still. 

“Jungkook,” Your voice is but a dazed whisper. You can’t muster the will to push him, not when his lips go immediately to work their magic on your jaw, on your neck. 

He doesn’t answer at first. Just breathes against your skin. You feel it though, the war in him. He doesn’t want to stop. To aknowledge what you’re about to point out. 

“Jungkook,” you insist, this time firmer, fingers tugging at the hairs at his nape. He finally looks at you. “You can’t keep doing this. Let’s just— Let’s just rest, how ‘bout that?”

He lingers on your mouth, too long, too openly. The kind of stare that feels like a thumb pressed to a bruise.

Then he leans in, nudging your nose with his, breath slipping against yours in a soft, stolen overlap. He sighs when you tug him closer, his left hand sliding beneath your cardigan—warm, unapologetic, claiming skin he already knows too well. You let him. You even huff a laugh against his ear, the smallest peace offering you’re capable of tonight. A truce wrapped in breath and proximity, despite the anger that still thorns under your ribs.

Then— that sound again.

A faint, electric crackle.

Stronger this time.

You go still. Push gently against his chest, searching the room for a threat you can’t name. But it’s him—of course it’s him—touching his left ear, eyes sliding away from yours like he’s already guilty.

A comm, you notice.

Seriously?

“Nightwing. We’ve got movement in the Narrows. The Bat isn’t available. We need you.”

Your heart drops like someone cut the cord holding it up.

Jungkook closes his eyes, jaw tightening.

“No,” you say. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I have to—”

“Jungkook, I can’t even touch you right now without you flinching. Are you seriously going to pretend you can swing one or drop off a building right now?!”

“They need me.”

I need you rises up your throat like a flammable rocket, but you swallow it, grinding your teeth instead. You meet his gaze, sharp, unyielding. If you weren’t so tired, so frightened in ways you refuse to name, you’d toss him off the balcony yourself.

He sees it, the fight in you. So he hesitates.

A tiny, devastating pause.

And you see the want in him, the pull toward you, the ache to stay. That’s somehow worse than him leaving outright.

“You told me you were ok with this— When we met—” He’s scrambling, reaching for the version of you who let him in, trying to scale emotional walls you didn’t even realize you were rebuilding brick by brick.

But your arms cross before you can stop them, defensive instinct locking into place to shield the soft, trembling part of you that threatens to spill out every time he looks at you like he’s breaking in half. “Yeah, I told you a lot of stuff, including that I suck at this.”

His comm crackles again, impatient, but he doesn’t even flinch this time. He’s restless now, caged, pulled taut between two impossible choices. For a heartbeat, he’s still here. Still yours. Still something like safe.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He steps back like your words slapped him. “What are you saying?”

“That maybe this isn’t working anymore.”

He takes another step, forward this time, stumbling toward you with something close to panic. “Wait— Are you serious?”

You can’t look at him. Not when he sounds like that. 

So you slide off the counter, the cold floor biting your feet as you retreat toward the sink, grabbing the nearest object just to give your hands a purpose.

“Just give me a second!” you hear him barking into the comm—raw, fraying.

“Just go, JK. They obviously need you and you’re obviously not done for today so–” Your voice doesn’t land where you meant it to. It slumps.

Exhausted.

Defeated in a way you hate.

You feel him behind you, hovering. A shadow with a heartbeat, uncertain and heavy.

And then the weight of it licking your spine disappears.

He leaves without another word. 

The front door clicks shut, merciless, like a gunshot. 

Silence swallows the apartment, leaving only the ghost of rain on his clothes and the lingering sweetness of tteokbokki hanging in the air. You stand in the middle of it all, suspended in the space he emptied, and wonder whether you should want him to return, or worse, whether he ever will.

You had refused to eat alone.

Ten minutes after Jungkook left, you recomposed yourself, cleaned the kitchen, and downed two Snickers and the bottle of Makgeolli. 

It only made you worry for him in a way that hurt.

You showered after. Let the hot water steam the worry from your skin. Let it bead down your spine, sluicing over your collarbones, your thighs, the place between. And yet even then, you could still feel him—not physically, but in the ache behind your sternum. The ghost of his fingers on your waist, the phantom of his mouth at your neck.

The kind of missing that bloomed in your bones.

And then sleep came not all at once, but slowly, like a wave dragging you under. You collapsed into bed in only your panties and a dress shirt, partially unbuttoned and clinging half-heartedly to your damp skin. The windows were still open. A breeze drifted across your bare legs. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed and faded into the hush of the city.

You didn’t know how much time passed.

Just that the bed shifted.

The air changed.

And then a hand—warm and calloused—slid over your hip.

You knew it was him before your mind could even form a thought. Your body already knew the shape of his. His chest, bare and solid, pressing to your back. His thigh sliding between yours, parting them slightly, possessively. He smells like the night—leather and metal—and the clean soap he uses when he doesn't want to smell like blood.

His breath hits your neck. Deep and slow. Exhausted.

Then he nuzzles you. Presses a kiss to that curve just beneath your ear.

You let him hold you.

You always do.

"You can't keep breaking in, JK. Especially not when I'm mad at you." Your voice is soft, hoarse with sleep, but the edge of irritation still clings to it.

Jungkook chuckles, low and sinful in your ear. “You won’t kick me out. You’re too sleepy.”

"Watch me." You make to shift forward, to put even an inch of space between you, but his arm locks around you, firm as a shackle.

He has always been stronger than you; than anyone really. Not because of powers—he doesn’t have those. Just grit and muscle and years of training, the kind of body built to survive. To shield.

You resent how safe you feel in it.

His mouth finds your neck again. This time, much slower. A kiss, then another. A breath. Then teeth—just enough pressure to make you gasp quietly, to make heat unfurl low in your belly.

"I didn’t go, baby. They covered for me." Jungkook’s voice comes out ragged on your neck. “It just took me a while because I was showering and patching myself properly… Bam also needed to eat.”

You still at that. Your fingers brush the tattooed arm he has wrapped around you. A sigh leaves your lips, part relief, part frustration.

"Still, you—" you begin, but then his teeth graze your ear, his hand sliding up to palm your breast through the white dress shirt.

You moan softly, involuntarily, hips rolling back into him on instinct.

He chuckles again, a sound that drips down your spine like honey. “Still…?”

You bite your lip, keeping your eyes closed. “You just—you can’t—”

But this time, his hand drifts low. Fingers skating down the soft plane of your belly, slow, unhurried, until they slip under the elastic of your panties.

He groans against your neck the second he feels you—warm and slick.

His fingers move gently, teasing your folds, brushing the bundle of nerves with maddening precision. Your breath catches in your throat, and your hips tilt into his touch with a desperation you haven’t given yourself permission to feel.

“You’re already so fucking wet,” he murmurs, kissing the shell of your ear. “God, I missed you.”

You don’t answer.

Don’t need to.

You are still half-asleep, half-aching, floating somewhere in the thick of sensation and feeling. Jungkook’s fingers stroke you with the kind of familiarity that makes you burn. He knows exactly how to make you tremble. How to pull the sounds from your throat that you try to swallow down.

Then you feel him shift.

He pulls your panties down, just enough to free you, and you hear the soft rustle of fabric behind you as he pushes his boxers low.

His cock presses against your ass, thick and ready.

And then—

He pushes in.

Slow, deep, deliberate. You gasp at the stretch, fingers fisting into the sheet as he fills you.

He doesn’t stop until he is seated fully inside, his body flush against yours, breath hot on the back of your neck.

Then he starts to move.

Not rough. Not rushed. But deep. Steady. Measured like a vow.

You whimper, hand searching blindly for him. He finds it, threading your fingers together, squeezing once before letting his free hand slide back under your dress shirt, up your ribs, to roll your nipple between his fingers.

Your whole body trembles.

"You make me feel like a madman," he whispers, thrusting again, slow and devastating. “I fucking needed you— I still need you bad.”

You press your face into the pillow, barely able to speak. “You’re such an asshole,” you murmur, flushed and breathless.

He kisses your shoulder and laughs. “But you let me in anyway.”

warnings: faint silent treatment, emotional distance, relationship problems, anxiety, swearing, jealousy, possessiveness, fluid dynamic — dom/sub, nipple play, fingering, handjob, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), raw sex, teasing, edging, mention of threesome and cuckold.

note: hi my bubbas i’m sorry for being mia :( i was dealing with lots of mental health stuff, work was too much, i had two fics in the works that got me in a writers block in the end and yesterday i had too much to drink and right as i was slowly waking up, this is what i fantasized about sfhskfjslkfsjlkfjs. it’s kinda trash, but i just needed to WRITE, so that’s what i did. i hope you somewhat like it, let me know your thoughts! this might be my shortest smut fic? :O

Jungkook was mad at you, silently. 

There was no fight. No exchange of words that would part the ever so incandescent dynamic between the pair of you, one that would even inflame the onlookers, igniting them with a fire so bright that it would burn them with either jealousy, envy or a passion so intense, they would leave your presence with a bubbly, buoyant feeling that there is still some good in this world. And in their curious, concerning wonder, you admitted to yourself that something was different.

Because despite his dissatisfaction, he still treated you with the same respect and love that you were used to. 

Home-cooked meals three times a day with snacks in between. Water bottle ice-cold and filled every night. He slept facing you, and whenever heat crawled low in his abdomen, he would let you know by lightly touching your ribs, a physical language well-known and well-loved by you. You would arch your back and perch your bum against his groin in response, and he would take care of everything else. Slide down your pajama bottoms, take himself out of his own and slip it in, only to pull your body back to him by grabbing your neck because he can’t bear any distance. Skin to skin always, with his lips busy with some body part of yours. 

Physical distance—there he never lacked, but in terms of the emotional one? 

He fucked you good every night, but during the day, between the little hours you had for each other, you forgot the feelings that would pepper your chest whenever he would tell you he loved you. You forgot the kind of colors your flesh would flush with whenever he would mindlessly touch you just to touch you and not to initiate sex. You forgot the baritone of his voice whenever he would check in with you, talk profoundly and straightforwardly with you or the tenor whenever he would simply baby you. You forgot everything, and for the longest time you ignored the gnawing feeling that your relationship was sinking. 

Until your friends spoke up, and their worriment tangled your thoughts into a dusty chaos of confusion, sparking up darkly a bundle of anxiety that made your body tremble throughout the day. Why wasn’t he acknowledging the obvious problem with you, coming to you as he invariably did, discussing things as if he were your boss and you were his employee? And why did you insist on wearing your rose-colored glasses, being as trained as you were? 

When that regular night out ended, you didn’t sleep a wink. You untangled, as much as you could, the strings of your thoughts, pried away the large fluffballs of dust from it, and while Jungkook slept soundly beside you, you prepared yourself for the long overdue confrontation. Emotionally first, physically second. You wrote your new, night-scented thoughts down in your notes app, forcing your eyes open as they became heavy with tiredness, erasing and typing, thinking deeply. And when the sun rose and spilled its golden ink across the darkness of his room, you lost the war and let your eyes close, dreaming, without sleeping, of each step you were going to take. 

What you didn’t expect was Jungkook’s manhood stirring you awake. 

His arm has found your sternum during the sun’s voyage to the sky, pressing you tightly to the heated snugness of his body from behind. His cock digs right into your tepid heat as he’s positioned lower on the bed than you, his face buried in the nape of your neck. His heavy breath fans across the sensitive skin there, quickens the process of your sleepiness wearing off and arousal coming up to the surface, and it becomes shallow when your hips instinctively rock against his. 

And then, silence. He stirs awake, too.

You become attentive to every morsel of the moment. Of the stuffiness of the room’s air. Of the warmth of his little breath against your neck, of the movement of his chest against yours, of his hand placed beneath your breasts, which now begins to function. 

It slides up, brushing over both of your nipples that immediately perk up for him, tingles scattering down your body with a faint wave of pleasure. 

You let out a soft whimpery noise, the confrontation slipping out of your mind. Especially when he maneuvers you by drawing you to your back, still against him, his other hand sneaking around your waist, joining the first one after it pushes down the covers. And Jungkook uses the same momentum to drag you down, your head beneath his, and bunch your sleep shirt up to your neck. 

No eye contact, no words—until he comes across an obstacle. 

You left your phone on your chest. Face up, notes open, sleep mode disabled. But you’re calm because for any other guy, your plan would be bare for his eyes to see, but not for his—not for his sleepily star-dotted eyes, not fully awake, not fully functioning. He discards the phone carelessly, throwing it somewhere out of your view, and you soon know where by the noise it makes when it hits its destination. 

Oh, he’s horny. And there’s something different about the foreplay this time around. 

Jungkook turns back to you and takes your face into his hand. While he leans down to kiss you, his other hand finds your nipple—his lips enclose around your top lip simultaneously as his fingers gently squeeze your nipple, and as your whimper deepens within his mouth at the feeling of him, of his cold piercings, of his hands, he grunts back in appreciation, zapping your clit with life. The hand that held your face travels down your neck, his tongue working its way into your mouth after a couple of mind-numbing, harsh kisses, and you let him. You let him squeeze your neck, you let him pinch your nipple, and when you gasp for air and he lets you breathe, you allow him to sink his fingers into your mouth and gather your saliva. 

And that’s when you gaze into each other’s eyes for the first time this morning, and it’s as though you were looking through a portal of utter dystopian, upside-down realm. 

Darkness swirls around his black irises, a whirlwind of emotions swooshing past, his disorganized eyelashes reflected in them—all beneath a coat of sleepiness across his eyes. Emotions of many names, of passionate origins, but none of which you know as intimately. There’s anger, there’s resentment and there’s pain, but none of them call out for your name. 

And it hits you. His dry hand drags down your bottoms, your legs kick the covers all the way down, and his wet fingers graze along your swollen clit. Up and down, up and down, while your mind comprehends that he solves his problems by fucking them into you. 

Which isn’t working very well. Hasn’t been. 

And just like you erased your points in your notes app all night, you erase your plan altogether and begin writing a new one. Its complexity opens in your mind like the autumn sun across the canvas of the morning sky and develops as he slowly rubs your clit in lazy circles. You moan and he responds by deep hums and heavy breaths that hitch in his throat whenever you squeak as he puts a little more pressure. And when he can’t take it anymore and dips both of those fingers into your hole, the tightening of your walls against them takes the plan to utter completion. 

You don’t let him make you cum. You rise from the bed. 

“No.” 

You don’t listen to his protest; you don’t yield to his ever consuming dominance, pushing against his hold and crawling between his legs. 

His manhood stands tall and achy, stretching the black fabric into the air, a wet patch on his tip darkening it so deliciously that your saliva wells in your mouth. Jungkook rubs the sleep away from his eyes, and you can tell that a small twinkle of light parts the darkness in the middle—the very unbelief that your intimacy has taken a different route after such a long time. And when they finally function like the rest of his body, they soften. 

Its darkness trickles into your own, and you use its potency to help him. 

You move the fabric out of the way, sticking your tongue out to wet your lips. The sight of him up close takes your breath away, precum rolling down the veiny side of his fully hard shaft, and you can’t wait any longer. You catch the drop with the flat of your tongue, retracing its trail up until you can wrap your lips around his head. 

Jungkook rolls his eyes back, growling, the noise melting into a soft moan of your name as you swallow him more. You can’t remember the last time you did this, and you don’t let yourself be led by your experiences, but by your intuition, which guides you to double-fist him and make up for the more than a half of him that you can’t take. Your hair shrouds you from him, but Jungkook is quick to fix it, gathering your hair in his own fist. His eyes narrow in an intense arousal when you spit on him and let your hands do the work, moving up and down, focusing on his tip to make his chest shudder, and the satisfaction you get when his chest does just that makes your pussy drool on his bedsheets. 

And you can’t help but take him back to your mouth, throating him until you gag and light erases the rest of the darkness away from his eyes. 

You straighten your spine and straddle him, attuned to his panting. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing down your veins with its ichor, and Jungkook holds his cock steady for you as you begin to sit down on him and—

Oh. 

The feeling of him entering you from this angle, your mouth falls open at it, your eyes getting lost somewhere in the back of your mind. Jets of pleasure paralyze your body when you bottom out, your bum against his thighs, and the sensation of being so wonderfully full propels you to lean down and brazenly kiss him in a personal thankfulness before your plan takes place. 

Your hips lift and sit back down roughly, coaxing out his grunts. You play with his new piercing for a little while, tracing it with your tongue in circles before nibbling at his bottom lip, teasing him, getting him to a state of frenzy, in which you already swim. You bounce on him, straightening back up, letting him watch your breasts collide against each other. And when you speed up, high on his cock, his pheromones and the little dominance you’re experiencing, you begin to play with your tits. 

Which drives him crazy. 

He grabs your hips and takes charge. Fucks into you. Makes you scream, squeeze your eyes shut and knead your breasts a little more harder—but briefly. You peel his hands off, taking back what was stolen, slowing down the pace, but Jungkook furrows his brows, digging his nails into the high tops of your thighs on his way back to your hips. 

And before he can catch a hold of them, you tightly grab them, and using the space above due to his low position on the bed, you pull them over his head, and laugh in his face. 

“No,” you say, mimicking him, brushing your lips against his, the new piercing provoking you, your laughter ricocheting off the blush blossoming across his cheeks. “I want to fuck you.” 

He’s stunned, speechless, swallowing thickly. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, his cock twitching inside you, and you begin to grind your hips. He inhales sharply, his blush deepening and staining your own cheeks when he complies and intertwines his fingers with yours. 

Butterflies kick against your stomach. 

The frenzy absorbs your entire being, taking control of your mind, your mouth and your movements. You grind harder but slower, mewling as you move to his ear and search for his soft spot. Right there beneath his earrings, next to his seven tattoo. Your tongue laps the sensitivity there, your ears eager for his response, and Jungkook sucks air through his teeth, his moan but a whisper, an echo, but it’s enough. 

“You woke up all big and hard,” you purr softly, pecking his soft spot before sucking it. He groans, squeezing your hands, his hips instinctively bucking up into you. Your chest flourishes with delight, but still you slow down the pace even more in punishment. “What did you dream about, huh?” 

He scoffs inconspicuously, a noise not meant for your ears, but you heard it, curiosity tensing your muscles. He takes after his instincts and slowly, ever so slightly, he rolls his hips against you. “You.” 

Fuck. You stifle your moan, leaping over to his neck, to his biggest weakness. More to pleasure him than to punish him. 

“What did I do?” 

He waits until your heart beats once. To prepare you or to trouble you. 

“You don’t wanna know.” 

You pepper a few kisses on the side of his neck, bothered by his response. You clamp down on the skin, using a little roughness laced with careful gentleness, and you decide to speed up your pace. 

You decide to kill him, in fact. 

Facing him, you begin to bounce on him hard and fast until his eyes roll back. Your tits swing in his face, and you can vividly see his desire to take your nipple into his mouth. As you stop at his tip, per your killing plan, and squeeze around him, you circle the nub around his mouth, never letting him catch it. 

And you repeat this until he growls and sternly calls you by your name, the promise of his climax dripping off of him. And you use this very moment to unfold your original plan. 

“Why are you mad at me?” 

Your nerves broil, your own orgasm reaching the edge of paradise. Tingles nip at your fingertips squeezing his hands, and the adrenaline pumps harder in your system when he furrows his eyebrows even deeper. 

“I’m not fucking mad at you,” he snaps, trembling, glistening with sweat, breathing irregularly, and this is perfection at its finest—him, letting his emotions out without hesitation, without his usual coping mechanism. 

You stop at his tip again, your nipple at his mouth, and he closes his eyes to catch his breath. Calls you by your name again. Swallows. Croakily moans. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he warns, his lips skimming over your nipple, sending shivers down your back, and you’re done for. The gravity of how much you love him dawns on you, and you yearn to help him, to make him cum, but not until he speaks up. “You’re so fucking tight, baby, I can’t last like this.” 

“Tell me what’s going on and you won’t have to,” you say, lowering down your elbows as your arms begin to ache. 

Jungkook doesn’t let your heart beat once before he speaks. 

“Don’t move,” he orders, and you stay still, easily slipping back into your submissiveness as the feverish atmosphere offers it. You realize he would maneuver you to his liking if he could, but he can’t, and that brings a smile to your face. 

One that just as quickly fades away. 

“It bothers me how my friends look at you,” he reveals, his lips tightening in a straight line, dimples on full show. Your heart drops to your stomach. “Hobi, Yoongi. Fucking Mingyu can’t take his eyes off of you and would probably eat your leftovers if you threw them at him like to a dog. It pisses me off.” 

You cock your head to the side, and it’s your turn to furrow your brows. Is this why he barely spoke to you? Is this what he fucked into you every night?

His jealousy? 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” 

But Jungkook continues. 

“Whenever you speak, their eyes light up and they blush. They don’t even have the fucking decency to hide it in front of me. Fuck, they don’t even care that I’m there and that you’re mine,” he spills, fuming, red in the face, and you can only part your mouth in absolute disbelief. “And last night I dreamed about Hoseok fucking the shit out of you while I watched. I wanted to tear his head off but you wouldn’t stop looking at me. I didn’t know if you liked it or wanted me to step in or if you just enjoyed me watching you.” 

You gasp. The imagery of his dream passes by your brain like a cloud, and your walls squeeze around him, your essence moistening him even more. Before you know it, your hips move back down again and Jungkook swears. 

His possessiveness has always been a stronghold in your relationship. A thing that made you so wet that you oftentimes couldn’t wait until you got home and you left your regular night outs early and Jungkook had to finger you in his car. And the idea of it cracking, of him sharing you with his friends—

Jungkook rolls you over. Grabs you by your neck with both of his hands with precise gentleness and starts fucking you properly, his strokes a sharp, biting contrast to it. 

“You like it? You like the idea of him fucking you?” he checks against your lips, kissing you roughly, just once, and your mind is swept clean. Numb, pleasured, cock-filled. 

Cocks-filled. 

“Is this how he fucked me in your dream?” 

Jungkook bites his lip before he snickers, bitterly. He squeezes your neck, just a little. “No, he had you up in the air facing me. He was fucking you from behind, baby.” 

You moan, arching your chest into his, writhing on the mattress, so close to your orgasm. His cock drilling in and out of you makes a wet, squeaky noise, accompanied by his now loud groans, and you need to cum, you need more. 

“And it made you hard.” 

He nods. “Yes,” he admits, despair radiating off of him like a wine-drunk perfume. “It made me rock fucking hard.” 

His cock twitches, and it triggers your own orgasm. The rope tethers, an ecstasy bursting through the bond that connects you to him. Your vision fills with dots of stars, redolent of those in Jungkook’s, your body convulsing, and being lifted in the air and sat on his lap. He continues fucking his cum into you like this, and when you come down from the high, you bounce on him, milking him until he convulses just like you. 

And then he kisses you. And he kisses you so nastily, all tongue and roughness, that you’re ready to go again, but you can’t. Not until you talk to him. 

You rake his hair back with your long manicured fingernails, holding him like that. “You can’t do this to me.” 

“What?” he asks, still dazed, heart-shaped stars drifting back and forth in his glistening eyes. 

“You can’t not talk to me when you’re dealing with something like this,” you begin to explain, suddenly very aware of his cock being still anchored inside of you. “First of all, you should’ve brought this to me first, and then you should’ve talked to them.” 

The corners of his lips drop down. “And tell them what? Stop looking at my girl like this?” 

You blink at him and cock your chin to the side, furrowing your brows. “Yeah?” 

He laughs, humorlessly, letting his eyes stray away before lifting them back to yours. “Nothing would’ve changed. It would’ve only made it worse.” He lays you back down on your spine and slowly pulls his shiny length out of you. His cum streams out of you, a rivulet of thick white—the liquid of his love, and he collects it with his fingertips and pushes it back into you, entering you. “It would be a form of provocation for them and next thing I’d know you’re being fucked in the air. Not happening.” He curls his fingers and sets a killing pace, fucking you so hard that you fist the sheets, a payback for your own killing technique. “Only I get to fuck you how I want, arasseo?” He leans down to your clit. “Say it.” He lays his tongue flat against it, sucks it briefly, before he begins to flick his tongue deftly. 

You come so vivaciously that your body screams out the word he wanted you to say. You squirt, sprinkling him with your essence, and Jungkook laughs in delight, at last. Closes his mouth over your clit, humming as he kisses it. You come again, a mini orgasm zapping you.

And with your essence running down his lips, he kisses you deeply. “So, no. I won’t talk to them, but I’ll better myself and talk to you.” 

You nod your head, satisfied. The baritone of his voice echoes in your brain, rooting in your every nerve ending, and the colors you forgot come back to you. The flush, the feelings, the warmth, it all returns to you at full speed, and you’ve never been happier. 

And while Jungkook washes away the drops of cum from your thigh in the shower, all you can think about is how much you look forward to the next night out. And you know you need to ask him to cum on your panties to make the experience more fun. 

Because fun is what the pair of you needs. 

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

★ skaterboy!jimin who grins with blood on his teeth like it’s a flex, the painful aftermath of a stupid fight.

★ skaterboy!jimin who drives a beat-up hand-me-down car that smells like weed, sweat, and cinnamon gum. it’s a mess inside—burnt CDs everywhere, ripped seats, duct-taped glovebox—but it’s so him.

★ skaterboy!jimin who once kissed you in a gas station parking lot while Nirvana blasted from his car stereo. it tasted like peach vape and rebellion. you swore you wouldn’t let it happen again. It happened the next day.

★ skaterboy!jimin keeps a polaroid of you in his wallet, maybe half-naked. when you ask, he just shrugs and says, “you looked hot. why wouldn’t I keep it?”

★ skaterboy!jimin who once showed up at your window completely drenched from the rain, hoodie soaked through, bruised and breathless. no explanation. just, “i needed to see you.”

★ skaterboy!jimin who climbs through your window like he’s never heard the concept of a door.

★ skaterboy!jimin who keeps his helmet covered in stickers. you put a sparkly heart one on it once. he pretended to hate it. never took it off.

★ skaterboy!jimin who’s flicking a cigarette off the curb one second, the next he’s curled up in your lap like a cat, nuzzling into your tummy with his busted-up knuckles holding your thigh. “only sleep good when I’m with you,” he murmurs.

★ skaterboy!jimin who loves when you’re laid out on his bed in his band tee, legs over his shoulders, his grip bruising your hips as he devours you—eyes dark, lips slick, hair messy from the way your hands gripped for dear life.

★ skaterboy!jimin who had crawled in through your bedroom door at midnight on a school night. his excuse? he just “missed you”. bullshit. he had you laying down on your own bed, chain dangling from his neck as his arms propped himself up form either side of you.

★ skaterboy!jimin who was very obviously hated by your parents.

★ skaterboy!jimin who is kinda dumb in other subjects, brilliant in art class.

★ skaterboy!jimin who will doodle on his desk, your hand, or his jeans—skulls, roses, hearts with your initials in them.

★ skaterboy!jimin who would turn the world upside down for you. mention someone giving you a hard time? he’s already cracking his knuckles. doesn’t care who it is—he’ll throw hands and come back grinning with a split lip like it was worth it.

★ skaterboy!jimin who steals little trinkets just to give them to you. a cutesy keychain, a lighter, a lollipop. he offers it to you like it’s precious, saying, “this made me think of you,”

★ skaterboy!jimin who only shows face at school so he can be around you. carrying your things for you, doodling you from the other end of the classroom, begging you to skip class with him—only for you two to sneak into an empty bathroom stall to makeout.

★ skaterboy!jimin who is a little rough around the edges. not everyone’s cup of tea, but he was yours, and that was all either one of you cared about.

lulu speaks (pt2): ok it’s official i’m in love w this loser. cai bot coming soon bc unfortunately i’m such a slut for him 💔

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who replies to ALL of your texts in your groupchat. replies with hearts, texts of his own (that no one asked for), or by saying something like “this was funny hahaha take me back pls🙏🏼”

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who is a hugger. OH, HE’S A HUGGER, ALRIGHT. everytime you meet up, everytime you leave, he clings on like he’s a koala with trust issues. full-on arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder type of hug. he sighs and smiles like he belongs there.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who will turn to you, casual stare, lips puckered at you like he’s just expecting a kiss. you shove him off, rolling your eyes and hiding the beginnings of a smile.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who brings you flowers every time he comes over. even if it’s a group hangout at your place, if he showed up unannounced, or if you called him because you were crying or lonely. wax paper-wrapped bouquet hand-picked by some florist who was under the impression that he was picking that up for his girlfriend.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who remembers everything about you. everything. the cologne he wore that you always complimented, your favorite movie, color, food, songs, all of it.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who will drop everything if you ask. he’ll literally leave work early if you text him you’re not having a good day. you call him at 2AM? he’s out of bed and starting his ignition right then and there.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who is so annoying when your friend group goes out to eat. he plops himself down in the seat next to you without asking. he slides his drink towards you to try first. tells the waiter when they got something wrong with your order before you even have the chance to do it first.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who still has you saved in his contacts as “wifey 🤍”. you broke up 6 months ago.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook whose friends go “give it a rest, bro.” to which he replies, “what? we’re friends 😊” while literally staring at you like you harnessed the moon from the sky.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who shows off when you’re around. he flexes his arms with his tongue poking at his cheek, wiggling his eyebrows like he knows you’re secretly ogling.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who texts you the literal minute after you leave the hangout. “you get home safe?” “miss you” “had fun. u looked beautiful as always”

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who still drinks out of your cup, borrows your lip balm, offering you a bite of his food and taking one right where you just bit.

ᰔ exboyfriend!jungkook who steals and wears your hair ties around his wrist everytime he comes over.

lulu speaks pt2: thank u anon!! he’s soo annoyinggggg omggggg 😘🥰😛 stawp he’s weirddd☺️😘🥰🥰ughhh you just can’t shake him offff🤪🤪😝🥰🤪😍😜😘😛

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who taught you how to light a cigarette once a few years ago, and ended up liking how the smoke curled out of your mouth just a little too much. now, he always lights them for you without warning—placing one between your open lips mid-sentence, flicking his lighter, watching you like it’s art.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who calls you “bass bitch” when he’s being annoying, but if someone outside the band even utters an insult your way, he’ll come back grinning with a busted lip.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who bites back a laugh whenever you make a joke. he thinks you’re hilarious, he’s just got a reputation to uphold.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who insists on sharing cigarettes with you because it’s “half the lung damage”. it’s really because he likes the taste your lipgloss leaves on the head of the cigarette.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who lounges around your house after rehearsal. see, it’d be normal since your other bandmates do it—jungkook curled up in the living room couch, yoongi petting your family cat, taehyung rummaging through your pantry—but of course it’s not normal. because jimin insists on sitting on your countertop…shirtless.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who hates when you flirt with other guys, which he makes half-apparent with little comments like “he looks like a douche”, “does he even know what real music is?” later that night, he plays his drums harder than he ever has before. he can’t meet your eyes. callouses form on the parts of his hand where he grips his sticks.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who almost missed his starting cue when you wore ripped fishnets and combat boots to a gig. after the show, you muttered “what the hell was that?”. he didn’t talk the whole ride home. wouldn’t look you in the eye, either.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who will say things like, “that’s an ugly ass shirt,” and then proceed to stare you down like you are the only woman on the planet.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who once got caught sketching you in the margins of a setlist by yoongi. he didn’t even look up, just said, “you better keep your mouth shut if you wanna keep your hands.”

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who carved your initials in his nth pair of drumsticks. he took care of them like they were made of gold.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who smudges his eyeliner just right.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who insists on burning you new CDs every few weeks. they’re full of songs that are inside jokes, sprinkled with some of his faves. sandwiched in between songs are short voice recordings of him either yapping your ear off or mumbling lyrics he thought of when he was stoned.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who always smells like that shitty, stupid cologne he stole from his older brother.

𖤐 bandmate!jimin who silently admires the way you manage to play the most toe-curling guitar solo with your bare fingers—sometimes with fresh, short acrylics on.

lulu speaks pt2: hi i don’t like this ok bye