kooooook !

Sungjin watches a group of teenaged girls giggle like twinkling bells as they pass some teenaged boys who are trying to look cool as they wait in line for food. He chuckles to himself when he watches the boys start to nudge each other when they spot the girls, the boys instantly straighten in their posture as their eyes follow the girls quietly. The way they all dance around each other makes him laugh softly at their antics as he remembers being that age, young, dumb, convinced the world revolved around him and that looking cool was the most important skill a man could possess. He watches the boys’ eyes follow the girls, watches as they puff themselves up with awkward bravado, and he shakes his head fondly at the memories dancing in his head.

“Idiot.” he mutters to himself though his smile is soft.

Just then loud happy bright laughter rings through the air and Sungjin automatically turns, his eyes sweeping across the area until he spots you standing behind the kissing booth and his heart flips in his chest while his stomach tightens with anticipation. His mind goes foggy as he watches you toss your head back as sunlight lights up your face while you laugh at something the nervous teenager in front of you said. Pretty, his traitorous mind supplies unhelpfully. 

Another group of kids run past him and Sungjin shakes himself out of his fog before walking closer to the front of your booth, his eyes dart around the line of people waiting for their turn at your booth and he smiles softly to himself with a smidge of pride swelling within him. You had come up with the idea of kissing booths placed throughout the Lovers’ Festival set up for every donation to go to a certain charity that JYPE supports. When you had first pitched the idea at one of the planning meetings Sungjin had immediately gone into logistics mode, staffing, spacing, crowd control, and safety measures. He had even personally volunteered to coordinate support for each booth, just to make sure nothing went wrong which had made you absolutely light up from within with happiness to have his support.

Thankfully nothing had gone wrong during the day, from what he’d been overhearing on his radio every booth was a hit. High donations, no incidents, and happy participants. It was a successful day, yet a very long one. Every so often, Sungjin had to step in by either redirecting foot traffic, gently reminding kids not to run, reassuring an anxious parent that everything’s monitored and safe. And while it was tedious and boring at times every time he passed your booth you would flash him a grateful smile which made his brain reset like a malfunctioning computer. 

And now as the sun begins to dip lower in the sky and the crowd thins, the festival doesn’t end abruptly it seems to exhale as if it was a living breathing thing which in reality it kind of was he mused. The music that had been a steady constant soundtrack to the day softens in light background noise. Families drift out, tired parents try to herd their sugar high excited children back to their cars. Couples linger, smiles soft on their faces as they’re reluctant to let the day go and return to their normal every day routines. The line at your booth shrinks until, eventually, there isn’t one at all. Sungjin checks his watch as he makes his way to your booth, his eyes dart around to nearby booths and watches as staff members start closing up. Their laughter through the air as they clean up any trash and pack signs away to put into storage. You stretch widely before rolling your shoulders as you glance around with a soft smile on your face.

“I think that's it right?” you question him as you look over at him expectantly with that pretty soft smile on your face.

“Yeah,” he says as he nods his head while idly listening to his radio squawk with chatter of people requesting clean up crews to their areas. “You did great today.” he tells you as his eyes dart back to you.

“So did you,” you reply easily as you begin unplugging cords and packing things away into the storage containers. “Thanks for babysitting everyone.” you tease him and snorts out a laugh as he moves around the booth to help with cleaning up.

“Someone had to.” he replies teasingly and you laugh, the sound of it ringing like light twinkling bells reminding him of earlier with the teenagers.

“Well I’m glad it was you. You’re the best for the job.” you tell him honestly and he stares at you for a moment feeling his chest warm with affection. The two of you continue to clean up your booth and pack everything away together in a quiet camaraderie. The booth is empty now, no line, no curious onlookers. Just you, Sungjin and the soft hum of festival lights flickering on as dusk begins to settle in. He sees you look over at him with a slight tilt of your head out of the corner of his eye and he wonders what’s caught your attention. “You never took a turn.” you say suddenly as you study him quietly.

“Huh?” Sungjin asks as he turns his head to look at you before blinking in confusion.

“At the booth,” you clarify as you wave your hand to your booth and Sungjin’s eyes widen slightly at your words. “You’ve been running around all day making sure everyone else was safe and happy but you didn’t get to take a break and enjoy the festival too.” 

“Oh.” he laughs out as he rubs the back of his neck in slight embarrassment. “That’s-no, I didn’t need to. I was happy to just help you out today.” he explains softly but you raise a brow which makes his stomach tighten once again knowing that you see right through him. His eyes rove around everywhere else but at you and he wondered idly when you had picked up on his feelings for you.

“Sungjin.” you prompt him softly and his eyes dart back to connect with yours. What he sees there is nothing but warmth and soft affection that makes him melt like molten lava, you’re not teasing him or trying to be cruel, in fact you have your own look of quiet want written on your face that makes his breath stutter in his chest.

“Okay, but-” he blurts out before cutting himself off quickly and your responding smile is small and encouraging. “I didn’t want to make it weird.” he finishes lamely and you chuckle softly as you step closer to him.

“It wouldn’t be weird.” you insist. 

“How long have you known?” he asks quietly as you take another step closer. Your eyes are pools of warmth that he can’t help but fall into.

“Probably about a month after meeting you. You’re not subtle.” you say teasingly and Sungjin jerks back for a moment as his eyes widen and his mouth drops open.

“A month after meeting me?! That was so long ago!” he gasps out and you laugh softly at him.

“You’re quiet but not subtle. Like at all.” you tell him honestly and he groans loudly at your words which makes you grin. “Kinda reminded me of when boys liked me when I was younger. Also trying to step up and impress me.” you reminisce out loud causing Sungjin to groan loudly again.

“That’s so embarrassing.” he says and you laugh once more before you tug on the hem of his shirt causing him to refocus on you. Sungjin panics for a quiet moment before he leans in, slow, careful like he’s afraid of doing something wrong. His hands hover at your sides, not quite touching until you step closer and his hands fall to your hips before dragging you in close. When his lips meet yours, the kiss is gentle, almost shy but there’s a tremor there, it’s honest, warm and real. Something unfurls in his chest and he’s easily deepening the kiss as you tilt your head up to him and your lips slide against his. Your hands slide up his chest and he sucks in harsh breath when he feels your fingers curl into the material underneath them.

When he pulls back he laughs under his breath in disbelief as his eyes crinkle with relief and affection. You’re gazing up at him in a warm slightly dazed manner that makes his heart thud heavily in his chest. Pretty, once again comes to mind and he chuckles softly at himself before his thoughts come to a stop.

“I need to donate for that kiss don’t I?” he asks softly and you quickly shake your head.

Grumbling anytime you lay down on him ~ You were curled up on top of him, seemingly content. But your sounds were the complete opposite as you huffed and grumbled in displeasure, especially if he shifted a little bit underneath you. “I’m not making you lay here, you know that, right?” He smiled, not touching you so you wouldn’t move. You grumbled again, frowning. “You’re completely here of your own volition.” His smile somehow got even bigger every time you proved him right. “Shut up…”

Random bites, of course ~ Just like every movie night, tonight you were on the couch with him, leaning against his side, hugging his arm, and trying to focus on the movie. But your gaze kept straying to his arm that was right next to your face. You could see the contours of his bicep, the way the muscles flexed each time his arm moved a little bit… Without thinking about it much, you leaned closer and sunk your teeth into him. “Ow- hey!” He looked down at you with furrowed brows and you looked up at him through your lashes, your teeth still firmly on the meat of his bicep. When he tried pulling away, you grumbled and hugged his arm tighter, pulling it closer, refusing to let go.

He’s the only one who can “put you in your place” ~ It’s more subtle than the way that you have him wrapped around your finger, but one flash of his puppy dog eyes and you fold immediately… It doesn’t matter how fired up you are— it’s like your own damn kryptonite.

Speaking of being a brat… ~ He’s so good at drawing out whatever tiny sliver of obedience you have buried deep inside you. It’s manipulation is what it is— but you fall for it every damn time. “Where’s my good girl, hm?” Cue his puppy dog eyes… “C’mon, baby… I wanna give you a reward but you know I can’t when you’re like this.” … “You could…” You muttered, averting your gaze so you wouldn’t break as easily. But eventually you always did.

💞

Practically vibrating with excitement every time you get home ~ He was good at reading you so if he knew you weren’t exhausted from work, then he’d immediately shower you with hugs and kisses, telling you all about his day and eagerly asking about yours. If he knew you were extra tired, he’d do his best not to overwhelm you, but he couldn’t help it— he loved being close to you.

Big, not-so-scary dog privileges ~ He never looked overly scary with fluffy hair and glasses, but he was tall and if anyone looked closer, they’d notice the muscle hidden beneath his clothes, and the sheer size of his frame. You could walk anywhere at any time of day with him. Though, you were usually the one ready to fight if the opportunity arose…

Acts of service ~ Always the first to volunteer to do anything for you. A broken cabinet? He already has his tool box out. Need help bringing a heavy package inside? He would bring it in and even open it and breakdown the box to put in the recycling without you needing to ask. He didn’t even think twice about any of it— trying to make your life better and easier just came naturally to him.

You looked like a princess.

It was the first thing that struck the man, how much you looked like a sleeping princess from the fairytales he’d read as a boy. So peaceful and pretty and perfect. 

But the man wasn’t a knight or a prince. Sure, he’d had noble aspirations when he’d been young, wanting to slay dragons and rescue princesses like you. But that’s not how his life turned out.

Instead, he’d become the villain. He was the assassin who had killed your father’s men assigned to protect you, then slit the throat of the doorman in your lobby before disarming your security system and letting himself into your defenseless apartment. 

He was the mercenary hired by your mafia boss father’s rival to abduct you and hold you hostage while the old men squabbled over power and money.

As the man stared down at your face, his eyes tracing the curve of your cheek and the dip of your mouth, the thought occurred to him that he would pay anything to get you back if you’d been taken from him. He’d burn the whole world down to find you if someone managed to take you from him. Not that he’d ever let you out of his sight if you were his…

But then he reminded himself that you weren’t his, you were a job, and his thoughts soured. It was more difficult than he would’ve liked to admit to get back to work, his movements lacking their normal meticulousness as he shoved his gun into its holster beneath his arm. 

He pulled a cloth and a small bottle of chloroform from a pocket inside his suit jacket. He didn’t normally need to watch what he was doing, but he did then, making extra certain he didn’t pour too much of the sedative onto the cloth before stowing the bottle away again.

Normally, the man was a professional. He could press the cloth so gently over someone’s mouth and nose while they slept that they’d never even know they were being drugged. They’d just slip peacefully from sleeping into unconsciousness, without any of the fear or struggle that came with waking up to realize they were being drugged by a stranger.

But the man’s mask of calm had slipped the moment he’d laid eyes on your beauty, and he could feel the darkness in the very depths of his soul stirring within him. It was seething and starving, testing the limits of his self-control, making him feel on edge. He wanted. He wanted you.

The man could picture his hand roughly covering your mouth and nose with the chloroform cloth, your eyes flying open and staring up at him. He could imagine the way they’d widen with horror, then fill with tears that slipped down your temples and into your hair. He could almost hear your soft cry of distress and your whimper of terror as you comprehended your fate.

As he fantasized about your fear, the man’s cock hardened in his pants, thickening at the thought of your pretty eyes staring up at him like the villain he was. A menacing grin slowly curled the corners of his mouth and the dark look in his eye turned positively wicked.

Then he was moving, forgoing his normal precision and letting the darkness within him take hold as he slammed the chloroform cloth over your pretty mouth and pert nose, the tips of his leather-clad fingers digging into your soft cheeks hard enough to make you scream in surprise.

When your eyes flew open, the man couldn’t help but marvel at their beauty, leaning forward to loom over your body to get a better look. The moonlight shone across your face, limning your features in ethereal silver light, making you look like an angel. You were even more beautiful when you were looking at him like he was the most important thing in the world. 

The mercenary had thought your immediate reaction would be fear, but he was wrong. He hadn’t anticipated the way your brows would furrow in confusion, sweet little lines forming between them as you stared up at him, more bewildered than terrified by his presence.

But then—then it happened. Confusion gave way to horror, your chest heaving as you breathed in panicked gasps, only succeeding in inhaling more of the drug and dooming yourself. You whimpered so sweetly it sounded like music to the man’s ears, and your eyes filled with tears. The man watched, his mouth curving into a greedy, predatory smile. 

He held your terrified gaze, using one hand to brace the back of your head so you couldn’t escape the cloth that covered your mouth and nose and you continued to breathe in the sedative. His cock ached in his pants, the full length of him pressing against the tight confines as he throbbed with arousal, his balls filling with come that he furiously wanted to spill across your face. Or bury deep in one of your warm holes… 

His attention was forced back to the present when your body jerked with dawning realization of what was happening to you. You reached for the dangerous stranger looming over you, your fingertips falling just shy of brushing against his bulge. The man’s cock twitched, as if reaching for you in return, and he had to stop himself from thrusting to meet your touch. 

Thankfully for him, the chloroform was doing its job, and your hands dropped futilely as your eyes began to close. Your arms fell listlessly to the bed and the man watched you succumb to the sedative he’d used to drug you.

When he was certain you were unconscious, he pulled the cloth away and stowed it back in his jacket pocket, ensuring he didn’t leave any trace of his presence in your apartment. That was the job, he tried to remind himself, but the darkness within him was louder, and his movements were all too eager as he pulled the blankets of your bed back, baring your body to his hungry gaze.

He felt his cock throb in excitement as he stared down at you, your body clad in nothing but a skimpy little nightgown, the fabric so thin he could see the shape of your nipples poking through. His eyes roved greedily over your curves, lingering for a long moment on the way the bottom hem of your nightdress was rucked up around your hips, almost giving him a glimpse of your precious cunt nestled between your thighs.

The man wanted desperately to know if you’d gone to bed without panties, but he knew he had to ignore the creeping darkness that had slithered into his mind. Not because it would be a gross invasion of privacy to take a peek at your panties while you were unconscious, but because he knew that if he pushed your nightdress up any further, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from sinking his cock into your tight cunt while you were still out cold.

He’d never fucked a princess, and fucking you—even if it was while you were unconscious—might be the closest he ever got. You were a sleeping beauty and he was no prince charming, no honorable knight. He was the villain, and he wanted to ravage you, whether you were awake or not. 

In that moment, he couldn’t decide which would be better. Fucking you while you were soft and pliant with sleep, your body taking his cock into your tight warm hole while you mumbled incoherently against his shoulder. Or fucking you when you were awake, so he could see your pretty eyes fill with tears again, hear the desperate sounds you made while he filled you with his cock…

The leather of the man’s gloves creaked in the silence of your bedroom as he curled his hands into fists and beat back the darkness that had slipped into his head. He was a professional. He’d been hired to do a job, and you were that job. 

You weren’t his princess to steal away from the king’s tower. He needed to remember that.

The mercenary adjusted his cock in his pants, working hard to reclaim the control that had fled the moment he’d laid eyes on you. He forced his limbs to move precisely as he gathered you up into his arms, ignoring his body’s responses when he smelled the sweet scent of you settle around him, and when he felt your soft breath exhale against his neck. 

A car was waiting in the parking garage beneath the building, ready for the man to take you far away from your home and the city where your father held enough power to be considered a king. He encountered no obstacles as he carried you down to the garage and buckled you into the passenger seat of the car.

As the man drove away, he couldn’t help but feel like the villain stealing the princess from the king’s tower, and it gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction. He may not have been a prince or a knight, but he had taken the princess. And he began to think that maybe he should keep you for himself. 

Perhaps the man could write his own kind of twisted fairytale, one where the villain got to keep the princess. 

Looking over at you, your features soft in sleep and no less beautiful than when he’d first laid eyes on you, the man made his decision. He’d have his happily ever after at any cost—which meant he’d have to convince you that he was your fairytale come to life, just as you were his.

I'm talking about that usual trope of your monster boyfriend having a monster-sized cock but that there's just absolutely no way he's gonna fit and it's making you upset.

Even though you both have a multitude of other ways to give each other pleasure, you're so very desperate to make this happen, you're having almost constant daydreams about how utterly full he'd make you feel, your mouth watering and body melting at the mere thought of what would happen when you… and if he... 🫠

"I want to try!" You whine, annoyed that you sound so pathetic but you're so frustrated by his doleful eyes and the way he's shaking his head at your insistent pleas.

"No, sweetheart, we've already been over this. I'd never want to risk hurting you."

"But y-you wouldn't, I know you wouldn't, I can do it, I want to do it. We can try, please just let me try!"

"Is it because I’m not doing enough to satisfy you?" He traces his claws lightly against the side of your face, bringing his huge hand to cup the side of your jaw. His brows are knit together with concern. "You've got to let me know-"

You shake your head emphatically, placing your hands on the vast expanse of his chest. "No you do, of course you do, but I really want this."

"Kitten, just... just let me use my mouth on you, you know I'll make it so good-"

He lets out the tiniest oof as you ineffectually push him back in mild annoyance.

"This is me letting you know my love, you're just not listening to me!" You sigh dramatically, throwing yourself face down on the huge bed you share.

You hear a resigned sigh behind you, and then the tender touch of his hand on the skin of your back, moving downward to give your ass a gentle squeeze. "Well, we're gonna need a lot of lube." He concedes.

You quickly spin around, a huge, bright smile on your face. "I know, I've already been shopping!"

Now that it's about to happen, you're shaking, laid on your back with your knees up and spread wide, sweat dripping from your shuddering body and soaking into the sheets as your handsome monster boyfriend brings you to your third orgasm using one of your biggest cock toys. You've worked your way up gradually but it's still nowhere near the same massive girth of his own. Even so he was extremely insistent on spending plenty of time on preparing you properly. The rippling waves of your latest high are slow to dissipate, but that doesn't mean you aren't anxious about what's to come next.

"M'gonna leave that in there just now, you okay with that sweet girl?" He pushes on the thick base of the soft silicone, making sure it stays seated in your pussy while you're still contracting around it.

"mmhm," you hum, opening your eyes to look up at him. "Feels real nice..."

"Looks real nice." He says, in that familiar low tone that so often marks his arousal.

Your gaze is automatically pulled down his body, and no matter how many times you've seen it before, you're always left mesmerized at the unsheathing of his cock. It fills up and firms steadily, blood pumping to make it heavy and thick, so painfully thick…

He must notice the slightly apprehensive look on your face. “You know we don't have to, you can tap out any time. You know I'd be more than happy just fucking those pretty tits of yours.”

He flashes a grin that breaks the worry, your light laugh turning into a gentle moan as he palms your bare breasts, pinching your nipple between his claws.

“I told you, I want to.” you pout, and he finally grunts in acknowledgement.

“Alright princess, I'll give you what you want.”

You had already made clear you wanted him over you despite his claims that you being on top would give you more control. There was no way you could keep holding yourself up on your thighs above him after the earth shattering orgasms you'd already had, so he'd promised to go as slow as you needed and you fully trusted that he would.

He slowly pulls the dildo out of you, a wet flood of your arousal following as you murmur softly at the sensation of suddenly feeling so empty.

You're looking up at him now as his massive bulk shadows you, opening yourself as much as you're able to let him fit between your thighs. The very tip of his bulbous cock slides slowly between your folds, deep reddish purple in colour, shining as he bathes it in your slick juices eagerly nudging at your entrance.

“You ready, pretty girl?”

Even though your pussy is so engorged and puffy after all the prior stimulation, you're still tiny next to his enormous and angry looking thick-ridged shaft. He’s almost having second thoughts about if he will fit at all, but turns his attention to the bud of your swollen glistening clit, spitting right on it. It's not like you really need it with the way you're soaked with your own arousal and the generous amount of lube he'd used earlier, but your reaction as he starts to rub slow sloppy circles around it makes him sure it was the right decision.

“M’ready- unnh!” You mewl as his hips push forward again and you feel him breaching you.

“That's good, you're doing so good...” he soothes. “just relax.”

You start to pant, moaning louder as he presses in further, you already feel stretched, so full up, you don't know how much more you could possibly take.

“Ohh- oh! Is there much more? It's so big!”

He's not even got past the thickest part of the head yet… but he's not gonna worry you with that.

“Just a little more, take a big deep breath for me sweetheart, you can do it.”

Your tight little cunt flutters so maddeningly around him as he starts to rub your clit faster and firmly. He listens to you breathe in, then, as you exhale, he punches forward, growling as the fat head of his cock finally pops inside you with an obscene squelch. You squeal, writhing uncontrollably beneath him, back bowed up from the bed as your body tries to accept the blunt intrusion. You've never felt so incredibly stuffed and overwhelmed, thinking you've really bitten off more than you can chew, panting so hard, trying your hardest to just relax because you know it'll make it easier but he's just too much, he's too big…

“There we go, that's it baby, just breathe. You're such a good girl, you know that?”

You have to force yourself to gulp in more air, blowing it back out in a slow shuddering breath. You nod even as you whine with the effort, your wide wet eyes blinking up at him in adoration.

“Okay, m’gonna give you a little more now. Nice and slow, hm?”

More?! There's more?? It can't be possible, it feels like he's reached right up inside to your navel already, like there's just not any space left for him to go. Your eyes are starting to sting from holding back tears, more of frustration than of pain. Your hands are clasping and gripping to hold onto the small part of his massive shoulders you're able to reach, and you're aware that you're whimpering constantly now.

You wanted this, you remind yourself, as he reaches for the large bottle of lube and drizzles a generous amount on to where his monster dick disappears into you.

He draws his hips back slightly and then gives another small thrust forward causing you to moan out his name long and loud. It's a lot, but as he gives your body some time to adjust it's also beginning to feel good, your walls clenching repeatedly around his girth.

“Mmn… y’like that, huh?” He husks close to your face. He holds himself so steady with his immense strength above you, it must be difficult for him to reign in his desire and enact such patience, that's he's holding back from just letting fully loose and fucking you hard and fast. The thought drives you wild. A squeak escapes as you feel him twitching inside.

“Sorry baby, can't help it when you're so tight and feel so good like this.”

He leans down towards your chest, eyes glinting and tongue emerging to lick around and over your pebbled nipples. You arch again, this time due to the fact your sensitivity has increased tenfold, the movement dragging his cock so much deeper within you, easily probing against the sweet spot that makes you lose your shit. He's still only halfway in, pushing the backs of your thighs back closer to the bed allowing him to squeeze another fat inch inside.

“Uhhh fu-ck!” your voice breaks as you think you just might explode. He tries another short thrust, more lube squishing out from your stretched hole as he nudges in even further, your nails digging deep into his skin as you whimper with increasing pleasure.

“That’s it princess, almost there…” he grunts through gritted teeth. “so perfect, doing so well.”

He starts slowly moving his hips back and forth, gradually working that massive dick in and out of you, the sensation of fullness making your eyes roll back into your head. You feel the soft weight of his heavy balls against you each time he pounds into your weeping pussy, your mouth hanging open, every forward thrust punching loud desperate sounds from you.

“S-so goood!” You mewl up at him, and he smiles as he leans down to kiss you. As he licks into your mouth he reaches between your joined bodies, a gentle finger brushing over your slippery throbbing pearl yet again.

“Oh- ohhhh!”

He draws tight focussed circles as he fucks you, and before you can even warn him, you're coming hard, crying out as your poor stuffed cunt clenches over and over.

He doesn't stop. Just rolls you both over so you're sitting above him now, thighs spread so wide you think you'll break in two. You're surrendering as you tire, you want him to use you as his own personal little fucktoy.

As if reading your thoughts and feeling your body adapt he starts to fuck you faster, holding your hips, taking your weight in those big hands, bouncing you up and down on his cock. Your cream coats his length every time he withdraws, making slick wet sounds so loud yet you're not embarrassed by them, it only makes your next orgasm more intense, your come dripping down to his sac. Those huge balls bounce up against your ass as he keeps on going, drawing up and tightening as he gets close.

“Such a good girl, you can give me another one, can't you sweetheart? Yeah I know you can…”

Breathing is difficult, nevermind trying to talk, you're only capable of gasping and whining as he toys with your overstimulated clit. Could you even come again? You don't know, your body feels so wrung out, but the thought of being able to have him come inside you for the first time gives you the boost you need to carry on. You slide your hands from where they rest on his stomach up to your breasts, knowing how much he adores watching you play with them. You're clutching and pushing them up, teasing and pulling at your nipples as you moan, eyes locked with his. The way he's looking you can tell that he's almost there, even before you feel the first powerful throb of his cock.

“Fuck-…” his growl reverberates through every nerve of your body. “You ready, baby?”

Pleasepleaseplease you beg, and he hisses through sharply clenched teeth, spearing you on his giant shaft again and again, the thick, raised ridges of it stretching your cunt wide every time it forces its way inside your warmth.

Another twitching pulse within your tight walls has you wailing, the wave of feeling inside you crests and you fall forward, clinging on to him as it seems his cock is swelling even larger still.

Then it happens, your fifth orgasm rips through your entire body like a tsunami, your mouth opening to set free your little uh uh uhhs when you finally feel the hot rush of his seed as he unleashes with a magnificent roar.

It gushes inside forcefully, filling you up in thick spurts until it physically can't anymore. You obviously had experience of his ejaculation before, but this was different, his pulsing cock wasn't showing any signs of stopping, come leaking out in thick, viscous rivulets down your quivering inner thighs.

Instinct drives him to keep it deep inside you, pulling you close to lie flush against his body, hot grunts puffing against your neck as his hips snap up sharply, trying to push it all back inside. When he finally slows his movements and stops, his cock still throbs for a long time after. Mine, he purrs with a possessiveness that makes you feel so loved, snuggling you close and kissing the top of your head as you both wait for it to soften. When it eventually slips free you're on the verge of sleep, woken when you feel the flood of your mixed fluids trickle out of your sensitive core.

“Mm, I knew I could do it.” You murmur, nuzzling into his chest. You're very sore but satisfied, even a little bit proud of your achievement .

He grins, carefully scooping you up, carrying you to the shower where he is amazingly gentle and soft whilst cleaning you up. “You did, sweetheart, you were incredible. Never felt anything as good as when I'm with you.”

When you're done he kisses your sleepy face, on your forehead, your eyelids, and finally, a small kiss on your lips as he gets you warm, dry, and tucked into a cosy clean bed.

This was it. You were drafting your obituaries in your head — local woman perishes after sending unsolicited boob pics to the most pure adult male alive.

A buzz from your phone nearly has you whipping it, you shakily look down at the thread.

[6:05PM] You: Blue or purple?? You: [4 Attached Images] [6:18PM] Clark Kent: I think the blue one looks lovely on you. 🙂

You're staring at your phone like he'd send you a response in a different language. Lovely. He said you looked lovely, with a freaking millennial smiley face. Your insides do a somersault. Did he like it? Or was this a pity 'lovely' like he was trying to be nice?

You dial Cat's number before you spiral any further.

"Kill me," you breathe out all at once. Clutching the mannequin next to you, staring face-first at the green crotchless underwear in your eyeline.

"Hello to you too," there's an amusement to her voice, replying coolly like this was a regular occurrence, "what did you do this time?"

"I messed up. Big time."

"Easy, babe. What'd you do? Need me to bail you out of jail or something?"

"Worse. I sent Clark Kent boob pics."

There's a beat of silence across the line, and you yank your phone away from your ears when a loud cackling rings out. "No, you didn't."

"I so did!" You whine loudly, resting your forehead on the mannequin. "And it wasn't even hot. I look like….like I'm posing for an overtly-sexualised pudding commercial — CAT. STOP. LAUGHING. Tell me what to do!"

"Okay, okay. Breathe," she's still wheezing between syllables, "what did he say?"

You pull your phone back to squint at the text, and then hold it to your ears. Biting on your thumb. "He said I looked…lovely."

Another round of shrill laughter explodes through the speaker, "girl, GIRL. DO NOT tell him you sent them by accident. Don't you break his cotton candy heart."

"He's gonna think I'm some stupid over-eager slut, Cat!" You're pacing back and forth like a crazy person, gripped around the mannequin for emotional support.

"Oh please! He's still a man. Just roll with it. Let him think you sent them purposely."

"That's insane." You mumble, thumbs already hovering over the keyboard.

"That's how you're gonna get laid."

You're about to argue, but you type out a draft message, thinking more through your pussy than your mind. And then…you click the send button.

"Did you do it?"

"Yeah. I'm just gonna wai—"

Your phone buzzes damn near in seconds.

[6:38PM] You: You really think so? [6:38PM] Clark Kent: ues you look perfecft Clark Kent: perfect.

You're frowning at your phone at the uncharacteristic typo, and then you screenshot the thread to forward it to Cat.

"Oh hon he's one hundred percent typing with his dick in his hand."

"Shut up," you manage through a grin, "okay, bye bitch, I'm gonna go pay for the blue one."

"Over-eager-slut."

You roll your eyes, hanging up while you're smiling your way to check out.

Clark had been palming himself for the past five minutes. Or at least, he was, until it got way too painful to just rub at his hard-on. He fully had his cock in his palm now, pumping himself slow, with the picture of you on full screen, splayed on his device.

It wasn't a sexy picture — not really, you thought. But the half smile on your lips? The soft curves of your chest he'd been fantasizing seeing, in a lacy blue fabric?

You devastated him.

He tried to type something sweet back, something that wouldn't expose the fact that he was stroking his cock silly like some easily excitable hormonal teenager. He settles for something safe, because that's what you looked like to him always, lovely. Oh..so lovely.

Clark's thumbs rub at the leaking tip of the slit on his cock head. Eyes unfocused, he zooms in on your tits, noticing a glimpse of your areolas. "…!"

He could feel you on his tongue, rolling the shy nubs until they hardened. He wanted to suck around the fat and….And…it's too much. It was too much.

"Oh…mygosh —" He clicks the side button of the phone. Nothing but the black screen reflecting his still throbbing cock, now bubbling over with thick spurts of pent-up cum. It dribbles over his thumbs, landing onto the device. Clark's panting roughly, rubbing it clean clumsily with the waistband of his pants.

And because Clark Kent was the way he was? With restraint barely carved into his DNA? He does the only thing that's sensible. Especially after violating your likeness.

[7:10PM] Clark Kent: I'm sorry. Clark Kent: I can't make it to dinner tonight.

His pulse was hammering in his throat. Leaning back in his armchair to set his phone down. He couldn't face you like this, not when just the sight of you now was enough for him to want to pounce on you and fuck you senseless.

Clark's phone began to ring the tune of one of The Mighty Crabjoys songs. He froze at the incoming call that flashed a picture he took of you, smiling while holding one of your very first articles making headlines on the paper.

He hesitated for a second, but picks up after the second ring.

"Hello?" His voice was terse.

"Clark? Why'd you cancel? Did I do something wrong?" Clark's groaning internally at the worry in your voice. "I — It's not that, It's not you, I just —" His voice is faltering, hesitating.

Your brows knit into a furrow. Something was wrong. With the way he was stuttering at every word, "Clark." You repeat, softer. Heart racing with Cat's teasing words from earlier.

He grits his teeth, head rested on the edge of his chair, your voice settling in his ears like honey. His hand moves downward to idly rub at his still half-hard cock. "Y..Yeah?" He grunts softer and his tip twitches beneath his palm.

Your breath hitches, "…am I interrupting something?"

Clark goes radio silent for far too long and you hear it — his breathing, slow and strained. Inhaling, then exhaling like he was pained.

Finally, he speaks, low, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Ever since you sent me those pictures — I-I'm such a sleaze. It's not anything you did wrong, I swear."

Your lips part with a stuttered breath. Cheeks warming instantaneously at his admission. You're setting your keys down by the doors.

The silence stretches uncomfortably, and he's calling your name, hesitant.

You swallow thickly, the words spilling out before you could consider them.

"You jerked off looking at me?"

There's a sharp inhale at the other end of the line, and then he cuts the call.

You stood there for a solid minute and a half. Staring at your phone.

He hung up.

He hung up in your face.

Offence prickled potent in your chest, but it doesn't last all that long. Your thighs squeeze tighter at the ringing revelation that he'd jerked off to you. Looking at pictures of you. It feels far too hot and heavy in your entryway suddenly.

Your screen lights up with another text.

[7:15PM] Clark Kent: I know an apology won't cut it. Clark Kent: I violated your trust. Clark Kent: I understand if you no longer wish to see me. [7:20PM] Clark Kent: I'm sorry.

You hadn't replied, of course you hadn't. Why would he have thought that pathetic apology would've cut it? Nearly thirty minutes had passed since then. Clark lay face down in his sheets, mumbling to himself, mostly things about how he'd let down his ma by treating a girl he really fancied like this.

Idiot. He was such an idiot. You probably thought he was disgusting, and probably regretted ever even giving him a chance.

Bzzztt.

Clark shot up right like the vibration from his phone had shocked him. He sat up on his thighs, palms flat down on his bed with his phone between.

A message notification, from you.

He's clicking on it with shaky hands. Ready to see you sending a text to end things with him officially.

But it wasn't.

[8:02PM] You: [1 Attached Video]

It was blurry at first, shaky. The frame tilted like you were fumbling trying to prop it against something. But the moment it eased? Clark was zeroing in on you. You, in that blue set, perched on your bed.

You were looking into the camera, biting down on your lips with a shy smile. Head tilted to look down as you smoothed the lace on your thighs. Then, you hook your fingers at the thin band of the thong to adjust it higher onto your hips.

Clark's hand snapped to his mouth. Muffling a curse he'd never say out loud. All blood rushing down south when you pick up the camera, angling it down to run your fingers over the thin lace covering your tits, shy areolas peeking through from the near translucent fabric.

He thought the picture alone was enough to wreck him. But this? This was you saying, it's okay, use me.

Your phone rings even before Clark can finish the video you'd sent him.

The first thing you hear isn't even a hello, it's the muffled click of his door, followed by a slow exhale.

"I don't deserve you."

Your lips twitch, fighting back a slow smile at the way his voice trembles. You drag your fingertips down your belly. Toying with the heart-shaped charm attached to the seams of your underwear.

"Did you like it?" You finally say, featherlight. Clark audibly groans at your voice. There's a pause, and then a laugh tumbles out, breathless at its edges. "I — I did. — Yeah. Gosh, I did. You're unreal. So…so insanely stunning."

He hears a rustle on your end. You shuffle up your bed, wetting your lips, "…are you hard?

Clark hums a stuttered mhm. You hear him adjust, and he's rubbing at himself again, sighing, "I feel like some teenager. It's so…embarrassing."

There's a slow boyishness to his tone, and you're giggling, tracing your fingers over your nipples. "I really…liked how you sounded earlier." You admit.

"Yeah?" He laughs, palming his bulge a little harder, "you liked hearing me sound all pathetic, stroking myself for you?

You let out a stuttered breath, fingers rubbing down and beneath the lace covering your pussy, the sound of his voice teetering you over the edge to slip your fingers into you. Clark's listening to the dull schlick's of you touching yourself. He shuts his eyes, timing his idle rubs to your soft moans.

"I wish…you were here."

There's a sudden silence after your honest whisper. "…Clark?" You frown, looking at the line that wasn't hung up yet.

And then, there's a pounding at your door, like whoever behind was about to rip it off its hinges.

You jolt. Fumbling to grab the silk robe abandoned over your chair. The knocking all but grew more impatient, knocks reminiscent of someone trying not to break the door down. You barely make a proper knot at your hips as you open the door — eyes widening.

Clark Kent stands there, hunched over in your hallway. Panting like he'd just run a goddamn marathon. His hair was messy, glasses sitting crooked on his nose. His white shirt clung to him, sweaty particularly at the chest, wearing what seemed to be printed plaid pyjamas.

"Clark," you breathe out, hands stunted at your door frame. "I was just on the…phone with you. How did you get here so qui —"

"I was already in the area." He blurts out all too quickly. Chest still heaving with effort.

You look at him suspiciously, obviously still in what seemed to be sleep clothes, and sounding far too much like he was lying. But then you see how he's boring holes into you, at your robe. Gaze turning feral by the second as if he could see what was underneath the maroon silk.

Before you're able to press a little further, Clark's figure hunkers in. Forcing you to stumble backwards as he shuts the door behind him with a resounding click.

It's quiet, other than the sounds of his still-heavy breathing.

"You said…you wished I was here." He says, voice cracked and barely restrained.

"…I did."

The air whizzes at the speed of him closing the distance before he's on you — mouth crashing into yours, desperate and messy. His glasses bump into your nose, but he readjusts quickly. Kissing you like a man starved, hands trembling as they cup your jaw. His thumb steadied, feeling the way your cheeks hollow to keep up with him. When your tongue grazes over his lips, he doesn't pull away this time.

Instead, he groans into your mouth. His tongue licking into yours, and then over the softness of your lips. Clark walks you backwards and then lifts you up, like your weight didn't even matter. You squeak into his mouth, arms clambering to hook over his broad shoulders. You knees lock around his hips and he's walking ahead, not knowing his destination while he kisses at your neck.

"Where's — where's your bedroom?" He mutters low, the need in his voice sinking deep into your skin.

Your nose bumps into his glasses, chasing his lips. "D-Down the hall. Second door."

His hair feels wild beneath your fingers. Within barely a second, the walls blur, and he slams your room door open. Your breath catches in your throat at what seemed to be a crackling noise when the door hits your closet. You aren't able to see how the wood splintered beneath, and the hinges now creaked raw.

Thankfully, you're far too hazy to question it.

Clark tumbles into your bed, kissing down your collarbone and down to your sternum. "Mmh—…" He sighs into your chest at the sweetness in your satisfied hums. Your robe snaps open, and you jolt. Staring down at your exposed body and up at Clark, who was pulling back, looking down at you with a slow shake of his head.

"The real…thing…far..far better." He mutters more so to himself. Clark pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid movement, letting you marvel at his body. He smiles shyly, lifting your hand up. Looking at you now, he finds enough control in him to savour the sight.

He kisses at your knuckles, soft pecks travelling up your palms as he twists your wrist slightly. Trailing kisses up to your elbows. "I've been wanting to do this with you…for far too long." He admits, breath ghosting your cheeks when he leans over.

You're squirming at the sensation, curling your head into your neck. "I-It didn't seem like it.."

Clark's shaking his head, burying his face into your pulse. Your fingers card through his curly locks. "That's not it. I've been going insane." You raise your brow at his exaggerated hand gesture, "I want to touch you, all the time, every time."

He pulls away, gazing at you. "But then you send me something like that…how could I not?"

Your eyes are wavering, looking at the scrunch of his features. You drag your fingers down his dimples, and he tilts his head to kiss at your fingers once more.

"Mmm. It wasn't meant for you." You say softly, with a teasing edge. Clark's expression twists, grabbing your wrists.

"Don't even joke about that. I'm barely holding back as is."

"I still don't get why you're trying to be gentle, Clark. I-I want you. Can't you see that?" You finally huff out, a slight resentment building in you at how long it took for you to get to this point.

"I don't want to hurt you." He finally admits after a beat.

"Hurt me how? I want this."

Clark exhales slow, and his hold on your wrists loosen, to guide you to rub at the length of his cock. Your breath stills, and you squeeze at the girth.

"Ngh—that's…that's why." He grits, seeing the way you were rendered silent just by feeling how big he was.

"O-Oh.." You murmur. Clark lets your wrists go, but you don't release him. Watching his lips press taut as you curiously venture, squeezing and rubbing at his more than impressive length in your softer hands. It wasn't a reaction he'd anticipated.

"You're okay? With this?" He manages through a strained pant. Hips bucking to your steady strokes of his clothed cock.

"Are you kidding? Why the hell would I not be? My boyfriend is hung, I'd be an idiot to complain."

Clark groans and lets out an embarrassed laughter, covering your mouth with the expanse of his palm. "G-Geez... Don't…say stuff like that." He mutters, head falling flush onto the sheets. You smile into his hand, and your hand wanders beneath his waistband.

He lets you touch him, rubbing his thick, throbbing length. Clark groans the second your fingers roll beneath his balls, "…o-ohmy— g-gosh." His head goes dizzy, and he's blinking at you. "Where did you learn how to do that? Wait — no. Do not tell me." He warns, tugging his pants off quickly.

You grin, pecking at his jaw, ghosting a whisper, "college boyfriend."

Clark pulls back slowly, expression turning all serious. He didn't utter a single word.

Your bed frame groans when he flips you to your tummy all of a sudden. You gasp, perking up to look back at him, not seeing much but the intense look on his face. Clark's palm lay flat at your lower back, dragging his fingers over the pretty lace that curved around your hips and thighs.

You let out a shudder, trying to peek a glance at him. "Clark?" You try, growing worried that you might've upset him for real.

He doesn't answer you, and you soon understand why.

Your hips jump when he presses a kiss on the inside of your thighs. Then, he licks a stripe dangerously close to your puckered hole. "Mmn?!" You all but let out a stuttered gasp when he probes his tongue into your ass. Lips curved around it entirely, sucking and licking. The grunt that leaves you isn't something you recognise.

He holds you in place, tongue flicking over the ring. You don't fully process it, still breathing heavy at the aftermath of a pleasure you were not familiar with.

It's simple in Clark's mind though. He wanted to have the remainder of all your firsts.

He feels your hips tremble, and he soothes around the fat, head dipping lower to tug at your thong. You whimper at the string rubbing at your clit. He nudges his nose up your slick pussy, already wet from the stimulation so far. Your hips lift when he licks up your folds, his tongue poking into your pussy nice and slow.

"D-Didn't think….you had that in you."

Clark laughs, the vibrations sending an electric sensation of desire in you. "Yeah…" And he sucks at the softness, tongue grazing your clit. Your eyes roll back. You're close.

"Clark…" you whine, he hums in response, already aware —diving back in. "Give it to me." He mutters, continuing to tongue fuck your pussy with a blinding pleasure. Your hips are writhing, but he keeps up, knowing you were so goddamn close with just how your pussy was trying to clamp down on his tongue and nose.

He must've been there forever, but he doesn't rise up, not even once, not even to take a breath. It was insane. It's like he didn't even need to. That man was giving your vibrator a run for its money, and you were feeling the full force of his apparent expertise in pussy eating. Something you didn't even anticipate him to be this frighteningly good at.

It takes you a second to register the strange shift in sensation, more importantly, the temperature. His mouth felt so hot — and suddenly, there's an icy chill. Grazing your pussy in a way that has your cunt clench. A startled shiver takes you, and you look over your shoulder.

"W-What the hell was that?"

Clark flinches for a second. Lifting his head. "I — uh…" he begins, brushing his messy curls away from his face, "…I was chewing mints earlier. Do you feel uncomfortable?" he manages, voice strained.

You blink at him, not sure what to actually say. But it felt….good. "No…d..do it again."

His lips quirk into a smile, seeing the curiosity on your features. Clark leans back down.

"O-Oh my—..fucking…god, Clark!" You scream out, muffled into the sheets.

He takes his time, and like clockwork, you feel the familiar build. Your hips are nudging backwards, rubbing, grinding back into his face. And you cum. Hard.

Clark doesn't relent, licking you even as your thighs spasm through your release. He's suckling at your folds, kissing, flicking at your clit until you've pulled all stops, palm slapping onto the sheets.

He pulls away then. Licking his lips, watching you shake beneath him. Clark hooks his arm around your hips to turn you on your back. He leans down to kiss you, sucking your tongue with a gentle ease until you taste yourself. A heavy palm steadies on your head, soothing your hair down. "Easy, easy, baby. You're okay."

You're muttering incoherently into his neck, thighs shaking still from your come down. "I c-can't..s'too..much. It's—…can't.."

Clark rubs at your hips, humming. "Mmhm. I know. I know." He peppers kisses down your cheeks, picking you up in his arms, rubbing you nice and slow. For a second, you actually think he would give you a break. But instead, his own legs pushes yours impossibly apart. His cock rests idly on your pussy.

You blink at him confused, and Clark guides your hand to rest at your belly. "I promise you." He murmurs, interlocking his fingers where it lay on you.

"You won't ever need to think about your college boyfriend when you're with me."

The possessiveness in his tone catches you off guard. "H-Hrrk!" Clark notches his cock into you, and then pushes in, slow, inch by inch. You grab at his forearm that rests beside your face, the other, glued to your belly. He's watching you, watching as your expression turns to utter shock when his cock presses, pokes where he held your palm steady.

Clark looks at you, panting heavily. The suction of your cunt, squeezing at his cock with a pleasure unmatched. "You're so…incredible.." He mutters, burying himself into you to the hilt. You groan loudly, fingertips tracing over the bulge on your belly. Clark presses down on it further, and your eyes roll back.

He leans down, breathing against the column on your throat. His hips pick up the pace, starting off with slow, yet hard rocks into you. "Mm—..myg-gosh…so…tight." Your thighs squeeze around his hips, rocking to his movements. "N-No other…no other guy will ever…have you like this. You..hear me?"

You're nodding, through the tears prickling at the side of your cheeks. He was fucking you so full, so deep, you aren't sure if you'll ever be able to recover from this man. Your grip around his arm turns into a claw. You're about to cum again, you feel it.

But Clark tuts, his hand moving off your belly to hold your jaw in place. "Don't…cum." He mutters with a punishing edge, licking up your jaw slow. Your expression twists, and you clench instinctively around him.

"W…What?"

He groans when you somehow get even tighter around him, and he slumps over you. Grinding slow and deep into you. The wind is knocked out of you by the weight on your chest. But the sheer suffocation of his heavy body only served to drive you even more dumb.

You bite at his shoulder, arm slung loose around his back. "Claaark…" You whine his name out, muffled. Tasting the saltiness of your own tears at his relentless thrusts. He's nosing at your jaw, thumbs tracing over the lace on your neglected tits.

"Gosh..even wore this..all…for me.." His thumb rubs over the band, snapping it apart, earning a shocked gasp from you. You'd be angry at him for that later, but now? Now you were far too fucked out with how your pussy was throbbing, begging for release that he didn't allow you.

Clark leans down, massaging the softness he'd been fantasizing ever since you'd sent the pictures to him. His nose drags over the already hardened nubs, groaning into it, groping them with both his palms. His balls tighten when you mewl as he suckles around the fat.

He breathes your name out, reverent, panting until he tenses. Clark pulls out at the very last second. You blink hazily to see his thighs at the other side of your chest. He pumps himself once, then twice. Hot cum sputtering over your tits in jolts.

You're transfixed at the pearlescent white land on your chest. Wincing when some lands on your cheeks. Clark's eyes are fluttered shut, stroking and squeezing at the head, resting his cock on your sternum until the rest of his spend dribbles onto your collarbone.

He looks at you, with his head tilted. A lazy smile creeping on his lips when he spots you gathering some of his cum off your cheeks to lick your fingertips.

And if behaving means he’s got his hands all over you?

He excels.

The whole walk to the beach, he’s got his arm around your waist - you swat his hand any time he tries to grab your ass - and he’s got a permanent smirk on his lips. You were used to your husband getting stares; he was undeniably handsome, but this time the stares were on you. Each one got a smug nod from Jungkook, his face saying it all: yeah, all mine.

The whole reaction makes you giggle, rolling your eyes playfully at your husband. “Jungkook,” you try to chide him, but he’s only grinning even bigger as he looks at you.

“Want me to put sunscreen on ya?” His eyebrows wiggle with the suggestion, and you’re finally joining your group of friends. “I’ll make sure you’re all covered, my love.” He goes as far as standing right behind you when you bend over to lay out your beach towel. Cheeky bastard. You both greet your friends, hugging whoever was closest to you, before taking your spots a little to the left of your friends. Your husband leans over you from behind, the same cheeky grin on his face, “offer still stands.”

And if Jungkook can’t resist you, well, you’re not much better. While your friends spread out to your right, all Jungkook had to do was give you a charming smile and a wink, and you were lying on your back on your beach towel. Looking up at Jungkook, you gave him a smile that brought him to his knees. He straddled your hips, and you giggled. “Koo, I can do my front.” You mused, but Jungkook waved you off.

“Nah, Baby- lemme take care of ya.”

He started on your face, forcing you to close your eyes as he softly rubbed sunscreen over your cheeks, nose, and ears. It made you giggle, amused by his antics as his hands worked lower. He lathered sunscreen over your neck, your breathing turning heavy when you felt his hand on your throat. “Your heart’s racing, Sweet heart.” His words came with a little huff of a laugh, and you peeked your eyes open to scrunch your nose at him.

“Hush-”

Jungkook laughed louder, sneaking a glance at your friends to see they were all occupied. Half of them were in the ocean, two were napping, and one was engrossed in a book. Perfect. Jungkook watched your eyes close again as he made quick work of lathering your arms and stomach, kneading your soft tummy, his cock hardening again as you relaxed under his touch. “Heh, tell me, did you wear these little scraps you call a bikini to tease me, my love?”

His fingers took initiative before you could respond, your breasts practically spilling out of your tiny top already, he pulled the little triangle to the sides and exposed your nipples to his greedy eyes. His thumbs brushed over the peaks, your nipples puckering to the cool air and making you gasp. Your eyes flew open, meeting Jungkook’s hooded ones in shock. “Jungkook!” His smile, smug, grew bigger as he pinched and pulled your nipples. He knew all of your soft spots, how to rile you up, and make your thighs squeeze together. Your arousal flooded between your thighs as he groped and squeezed your breasts. And when Jungkook had your cheeks flushed, your eyes glossy, and your pussy drooling with need, he got off you. What a fucking tease.

“What’s wrong, wifey? Just making sure you’re nice and covered.” His smile was dark, his eyes glimmering as you whined so cutely for him. “Turn around, gotta get your back, Pretty.” With a few grumbles from you, he helped you turn on your stomach. His warmth comes back to straddle your ass. His bulge presses into your soft, round ass as he massages sunscreen into your shoulders.

“Jungkook,” your plea for his name is pathetically needy, a moan slipping from your pretty lips as he massages down your back. He kneads your lower back, taking all the tension out and making more moans slip past your mouth. “Uhn- oh- feel s’good, Koo.” Your words slur, and Jungkook can’t help but rock into your ass, rubbing his hard cock through his swim trunks.

“Yeah?” His body moves to kneel by your side. His large and warm hands caressed down one leg, lathering it in the sunscreen before doing the same to the other. “You feeling good, mamas?” His leg hooked over one of yours, spreading your thighs wider as he leaned his body over you. He gave another glance to make sure no one was looking before smirking again.

He was quick, swiftly pulling your bikini bottoms to the side. The scrap of fabric barely covered anything, anyway. He could see your glistening pussy practically falling out from the sides from the start, and he had had enough. 

“Lemme see how good I made you feel, hmm?” And his fingers cup your drooling cunt, your sweet juices soaking his fingers as you whipped your head in the direction of where your friends were, mere ten feet away. Jungkook groaned softly, his lips ghosting the curve of your ear as you gasped. “Yeah, keep watch, tell me if anyone can see how wet you are f’me.” His fingers dragged your sweet juices down to your sensitive clit, making your thighs twitch as he rubbed the pretty little nub with his thumb. “You’re always so wet f’me - heh - look at you hiking your leg higher f’me. Such a needy little thing.”

His words read you to filth. A shiver ran down your spine as you blinked heavily, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip to keep in your moans. “P-please-”you gasped, curling your fingers to hold onto the beach towel beneath you.

None of your friends were evening looking at you but it still made you blush darkly. And when Jungkook plunged two of his long and thick fingers into your weeping cunt? You bit down on your forearm to hold in your scream.

“So wet, mamas.” His teasing lilt sent tingles throughout your body, your pussy clenching his fingers as he curled them deep. “Better stay quiet if you don’t want to get caught.” His fingers swirled, stretching and filling you up over and over again as he covered your body with his partially.

He knew each spot that would drive you crazy. Turning your mind into mush as he easily slipped another finger inside. Your pussy slobbered his hand in your slick, dripping profusely, it dripped to his wrist and he couldn’t get enough. His eyes focused intently where your pretty pussy sucked his fingers back in deeper and cried happily each time he stuffed you full. “You’re hiding those pretty noises f’me but you can’t stop your pretty pussy from crying?” Jungkook taunts right into your ear and you’re struggling to not close your eyes.

He feels so good, your eye threaten to roll to the back of your head, drool already sliding on you arm as you tried to keep quiet. No one knew what Jungkook was doing to you, but the thought of anyone looking over had the heat in your belly burning brighter. Your pussy throbs a heart beat of its own around his fingers and even you can hear the lewd squelches of your pussy with each thrust of his fingers. “Mm, right there, Koo- yes, yes, right there!”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his cock throbbing, jerking against your hip and still covered by his swim trunks. He twisted his hand, thumb drawing messy hearts into your pretty clit as he hit the sweet spot inside you over and over again. “You’re gonna cum f’me.” It was an order, breathed onto your neck that had your thighs shaking. “Make a mess all over my hand, wifey. Mmm, and when this trip is over you’re going to the backseat of our car later or I’ll take you right on the hood for everyone to see what that little bikini does to me - what you do to me every day.”

Your orgasm flashes through you as he whispers in your ear. A white hot warmth that spreads through your entire body and makes your toes curl, your muffled whimper buried in your arm as you cum hard on his fingers. Your pussy convulses, pulsing around his digits as your juices gush out, dripping as far down as his forearm and onto the beach towel below you.

And your husband doesn’t stop, his wrist flicking to stuff you again and again, riding out your high. He keeps going until your body goes limp, your legs shaking in the aftershocks as he slips his drenched fingers from your quivering pussy. He puts your bottoms back in place, slapping your cunt lovingly and smirking when you jolt with a yelp before he’s lying on his side next to you.

You blink heavily, turning your head slowly to your husband as you pant. He’s made you a mess, and you can’t even pretend to glare at him, not when he brings his hands up to his mouth, keeping eye contact as he slurps your sweet honey on his hand all up, making your pussy throb - you want more.

-

A/N: As always, love to see your comments, kudos, feedback! Hope you enjoyed reading this!

Blinking, you gaze up — away from the cup and into the cool noon sky, shielding your dry eyes from the drier wind. You squeeze one lid shut until you’ve adjusted to his bright sight once more, much like your palms have adjusted to the cup’s fading heat and late November’s chill.

He’s cocking a perfectly shaped eyebrow; all smile and sweetness. The forefinger tapping on the table, as if knocking on a door, or, as if waking you up, is playful, and one might almost not assume that in his heart of hearts, he’s plagued.

You prop your face in your hand, attempting to find something in Taehyung’s indecipherable gaze. You’ve been trying to ascertain his tells, wondering whether a permanently worn poker face proves healthier than crashing under the world’s weight.

You tell him, “Just want you to know that Jungkook said he was really sorry.”

Taehyung waves it off. “You told me already.”

“Oh… Damn. I wasn’t sure if I said it out loud.”

Dang it. You’re not too surprised.

Your mind has been all over the place lately, never a straight arrow shooting into one direction, or following one thought at a time. Lives, plural, have changed over the course of the last months; to the better and to the worse.

The range of emotions extended, and the more you explore this flawed world, the more you see its nuances. This isn’t high school anymore; the drama might resemble what you used to know, but its depth is more unique now, not as easily resolved as issues once were.

Not that you’d ever downplay your or anybody’s or a high schooler’s experiences, but… real life does fall and rise like a rollercoaster.

Jungkook was called to work this morning. Something Namjoon needed help with, or a discussion to be held, or other business that requires urgent attention. These two have a billion things going on anyway.

The art fair is close, a gap of a couple days left, and the gallery will follow shortly after. Jungkook assures you every day that he isn’t nervous, that, in truth, neither the fair nor the gallery are humongous events.

But they sound big to you. And you know that deep inside, they are to him as well. It’s a thing of near impossibility to stay calm in the face of nearing success.

And then, almost immediately after the gallery showing, Namjoon and Jungkook are indulging in that little trip they have been planning for a few weeks. Lately, Jungkook has been excited about it again.

When the Gureum-incident still lingered and the effects still burned, he found himself unable to work — that is, until he drowned in it, found solace in it. To cope, to move on. Still yours, but as distanced as somebody grieving gets.

The only way is up, though. Things are getting better; and Bam helps. Always a ray of sunshine, chocolate brown eyes similar to Junkook’s, and he loves the two of you so much.

Honestly, you can’t help it; your mind wanders back and forth, always settling on Jungkook. You know he’s thrilled about the trip, however, even though it leaves you slightly bummed that you’ll be faced with brief loneliness.

But you also know it’s necessary to grasp what he’s striving for. You will never stand in the way.

Taehyung regards you exploringly, as if you’re the one mourning the loss of a relationship, and says, “One of the first things you said.” You hum your approval, remembering. “But— it’s not the only concern you have, is it?”

You sigh. You’ve been talkative over the past few minutes; but reality dawned on you, and now you’re unsure. Whether you’re doing the right thing, whether it’s what Taehyung — what they — need.

“I mean,” you then admit. It takes a moment, but then you spit, “I guess it’s just odd. I feel guilty being here with you.” You gesture vaguely at him; more so at the situation. “But then again, I know I shouldn’t because you’re Kook’s friend. And because you’re my friend, too.”

Of course he is. You owe him a ton.

Despite rejecting the deal that his landlord offered to you, Taehyung was there for you diligently. Even when you felt like shit; even when Jungkook left your side for a while.

It’d be unfair to desert Taehyung now.

But he’s still sporting a rather neutral expression, shrugging as he states, “That’s the thing about mixing groups.”

“I know, yeah. And you know that I love and respect you so much, Tae. I just—”

“Feel like a traitor.”

Not a question, but the ending to a sentence you hesitated to complete.

“Yes. No.” You clear your throat. “I don’t know. I guess it’s more of a sad feeling. And—”

When you look up, his eyes seem changed and his lips moved by a tiny inch. There’s something darker in his pupils, a place you know he’s visited far too often over the weeks, but won’t openly show. Not here, not to you.

You shake your head, pressing your lips together. “You know what. Gosh. I’m sorry for even talking about it. I don’t know where you stand or how you feel about this topic.”

He smiles. It’s genuine, you think, possibly concerning your emphatic approach — but the corner of his lips still twitches a bit, enough for you to catch. As though he is veiling his true emotions in order to not undermine his efforts of keeping himself solid.

It’s funny.

Eun, alone with you on her couch, felt complete freedom to express her thoughts, sobbing and stuttering. She coloured your shirt darker, damp spots, as much as on her own pillow. Taehyung won’t do this here; not in a café, but perhaps also not this soon.

Not that he controls it as perfectly as he thinks he can.

Because you see pieces of despair flashing across his face; as if he is itching to say something that he can’t, or waiting for a spark of hope that might bring him back to her. Or maybe, you’re projecting because you knew how you felt.

Thinking back, you probably caused some distress among your and Jungkook’s friends group, too. Did they, too, resist the urge to dig their nails into your shoulders and to shake you, as you are now?

Because if you could, without fearing the risk of being dragged away and to the nearest police station, you’d ask and dig: why he isn’t admitting to his pain. Why he isn’t fighting for it, or why he’s sitting here with you instead of returning to her if he wants it all back so much.

But of course, adult issues need more to resolve than this, and you know. Of course you know.

It still sucks.

You, and a few million other people in this complex world, once victims of painful and dramatic break ups, know that harsh pleas are the last thing he needs to hear. And the last thing, you, as a compassionate friend, should be uttering.

“So,” you start instead, “how are you, anyway?”

But Taehyung hasn’t moved on yet.

“Listen, I—” He leans forward. “I don’t mind. But you know, if this feels wrong to you, you can absolutely go. I have been talking to Kook and Yoongi and… even my mom…”

Your heart burns. He says it so calmly, so softly, and when his eyes fall to the table, you want to hold his cheeks and tell him it’ll be okay, how crazy Eun truly is for him.

“It’s not like this at all, Tae,” you promise; it’s true. “It’s convenient and actually great that Jungkook cancelled. I’ve been wanting to see you anyway.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sure. Or I would’ve told him to reschedule — done deal. No,” you begin, barely shaking your head, “I’ve been wanting to see you and ask you how things have been. And maybe even offer another perspective to you.”

“Another perspective? What does this include?”

His tone is telling, as if to say, Do I really want to hear it?

“Don’t misunderstand,” you tell him, “I don’t want to give you advice… rather just. Tell you about her in case you want to ask.”

He pauses. Understands, processes, nods. You see him swallow, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter than before yet a clear and firm, “I do.”

Thought so.

If he’d said no, you would’ve dropped the topic immediately. But you have to try even a bit.

“Eun,” you go ahead, as if to remind him of her name, “she misses you, too.”

He breathes in. Blinks. There’s a moment when you doubt how well he might keep himself whole after all, even if he quite isn’t inside — but then he does, angling his head, and asks, “Did she tell you that I was ready to give up what I wanted to stay with her?”

Your eyebrows furrow; you’re surprised. She did not say any of this. You can imagine why.

You tell him she hasn’t.

He argues, aligning with your thoughts, “Because she knew you’d encourage her to come back to me.”

Or at least, you know she’d fear that. She knows you inside out, is well aware of what your true reactions would have entailed; but of course, she still feared it.

You deny it right away, “I think you’re wrong, Tae, I mean… I’m not a fan of you guys being apart, but— you’re free to make your own decisions. I know you’re in love with her,” he flinches, as if you’re breaking news to him, “but giving up on something you always wanted can lead to much more resentment later on. I wouldn’t want to be the one forcing you guys into more pain.”

He opens his mouth, looks to the side, and then blows a raspberry. Whatever composure he had, he’s failing at maintaining it eventually; desperation seeks through as he questions, more himself than you—

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

“I wish I could tell you. Truly. But I know that either way, it will be okay at some point. Let life happen and things will become clearer.”

And yes, it sounds easier than it might ever be. But what else are you supposed to say? If you could lead them into each other’s arms with the snap of your fingers, solve their problems effortlessly — then yes, that’s what you’d do.

But you’re just present as possible, here to offer your thoughts, but to never push them towards choices they aren’t fully comfortable with.

You know because when you were hurting, you didn’t want to listen to anybody. You didn’t want to hear a voice at all, period, not unless it was his.

You clear your throat, “So,” you wait, take a sip of your tea. “Are you coming to the art fair?”

It takes him a second to register the change in topic before he, matter-of-factly, declares, “Yes! To the gallery, too. Definitely.”

“Right. That’s great. I’m just asking, though, because—”

“I know,” he interrupts, back upright, the waterline dry again. “But he’s my best friend. I can’t avoid this, and her, forever.”

Then he’s better than you. You felt out of place back then, visiting Yoongi in the hospital or watching a movie in your local cinema.

“Whatever you feel comfortable with, ‘kay?” you say.

He whispers an affirmation, a nervous hand raking through his silky mane to keep himself busy. You wish you could glimpse into his mind; but you guess for now, he has indulged his thoughts enough.

You’re relieved, though‚ that he divulges anything at all. Whichever aspects of life contributed to the boys’, including Jungkook’s, unproblematic mindset, you’re grateful for them. It is rare; not a given in any way.

“And,” Taehyung begins, as if returning to an ongoing topic, “how was Jungkook today? How are you guys?”

You think back to the quiet days. Some because of Jungkook’s diligent work for the art showings and incredibly cramped schedule; some due to the slow but sure healing. The two of you are patient throughout — you need to be.

Life, you have realised, is an unhurried process; there is no point rushing it. It’s a juxtaposition of hardships that demands survival and endurance. You’ll tackle one by one.

“We’re good,” you answer, “he’s coping. But also living through daily life. I know he still sometimes remembers moments with Gureum when he looks at Bam. They don’t look alike at all or anything, but… sometimes, he zones out. And he loves Bam so much, but—”

You lift a shoulder and Taehyung completes, “A loss is a loss.” You nod. “It will take some time. You’re good for him, too.”

Another nod as you say, “I think so, too.”

Taehyung leans back, a second of silence before he grins. It looks a little like pride; like he’s enjoying the pace and trust you have built with Jungkook. With time, as the days go by, your early beliefs of being undeserving of each other have dwindled.

You, as the others always have, see clearly that this is where you’re supposed to be. Where he’s supposed to be.

“We’ll always do our best. Jungkook, too,” Taehyung states, “for himself and you and for everyone.”

You breathe out heavily, overcome with affection; you know just how true this is. “He is. And I can’t wait for the fair and the gallery and to see his effort come to life. So excited that I could even invite Nara just to increase support, I don’t care.”

Taehyung grimaces. The expression is hilarious, forcing a sudden laughter out of you; higher in pitch when he keeps ogling as if he wants to study insane brains like yours. Then, he reprimands, “You’re attracted to drama, aren’t you?”

“What?” you defend, patting his arm and still chuckling a little. “We need adrenaline kicks every now and then.”

“Go on a rollercoaster ride th—”

The last syllable coincides with a click, suspiciously close to what you remember a camera to sound like. You retract your hand, looking around, and soon catch the culprit from afar. A pap, of course, filling the Nikon’s gallery with pictures that you’re certain he wants to sell as proof of cheating.

You roll your eyes.

You’re aware you’ll catch the attention of the café guests around you, but you’re nonchalant. Calling out to him with a, “Hey,” waving, ensuring that confusion etches between his eyebrows as he takes in your friendly smile.

And just as he does, you raise a middle finger toward him, so over this. Of course, he doesn’t catch that bit. Gossip readers often celebrate when paparazzis are embarrassed, and this guy might know.

So all he does is to lower the camera — unabashed, this languidity he operates with. Never scared you might get up, chase him through the district, whip his nosy ass. He turns away with ease.

You exclaim, “This is a friend, you dick. I don’t fuck everyone I meet.”

After that, he’s walking away. You scoff; then, look at Taehyung’s unbelieving stare. He didn’t turn around, only looked at you, half in disbelief, half in admiration.

And then, he laughs. Just like some of the other guests around you, but more openly, with a wide grin and a satisfied nod. You join — times do change. A few months ago, you would’ve overthought such an encounter.

“God, it’s hard being famous,” you jest, throwing back your hair.

Taehyung shakes his head, blowing out air as he lightly mocks, “I can imagine. You poor, rich people.”

“What can I say.”

“And now Jungkook is going to be popular, too. Flying around and all.” He lifts his cup of tea close to his lips. “Hope he remembers me when he’s famous.” One sip, and then he’s angling his head, wondering again—

“How long did he say he was going to be away again?”

“I’m just bummed. Ten days might not be enough at all.”

“Then let’s stay longer?”

“No. I can’t miss this deadline.”

Namjoon kisses his lips, in thoughts as he swipes around the calendar on his phone — back and forth. Jungkook is turning in his chair, one of Namjoon’s multicoloured anti-stress balls between his fingers.

He yawns; the lack of light and generally darker colour palette going on in the studio these days makes him tired.

“But we’ll be fine,” he argues, offering reassurance to his boss for the third time, “we have a solid plan, so ten days will be more than enough. Plus, we won’t be travelling around too much.”

“Except for Nikoi.”

Jungkook throws the ball in the air and catches it again. He doesn’t understand the issue; he’s thankful for any trip he’s able to enjoy. Besides, longer vacations only mean leaving you here for a longer time, too.

“Yeah, that’s a day trip, though,” he says, “if we’re thinking of spending most of our time working, then nine days of Singaporean greatness should be sufficient.”

“Well,” Namjoon sighs, half throwing his phone onto his desk and leaning back, “I’m glad you’re not having any doubts. Next time we’ll plan for something much longer. Europe tour.”

“Hell yeah!” Jungkook agrees, letting the ball bounce on the other side of the desk that he sits in front of; it keeps bouncing and then falls to the ground. His eyes follow as he says, “And we won’t just be visiting and working. We shall be invited!”

Namjoon snickers at the solemn promise and enthusiasm, wondering, “Speaking of. How’s the art fair stuff going? And the gallery?”

“Good. I didn’t have too much time, so I might always feel like I am lacking a bit, but… it’s still not too bad. I can work with all the stuff because I’m focusing on a small but promising amount.” He scratches his ear. “Well, hopefully.”

“Ah, yeah? Not a stupid idea.”

“Yeah, I was thinking like… twelve-ish pieces? Some are older, I can use them. And then a lot of them will be part of the gallery, too. Especially those I won’t sell.” He watches Namjoon nod, optimism growing, sitting up straighter as his mentor agrees. “Right? I have a few more ideas. It should be fine.”

“You going for digital or traditional art?”

Jungkook swipes through the mental gallery of what he has created so far. He has been working a ton with the iPad — it’s a type of art that he has never neglected, never underestimated. It’s a piece of real, genuine work.

But he also never forgets what he’s learned over the years, ever since he could think and draw.

“Both? Maybe a couple more traditional ones. I know it’s unusual to show such different styles, but I have accumulated so many pieces over the years and I want to work with all of them.”

Namjoon shakes his head, planting a doubt in Jungkook’s mind for just a moment. Is he agreeing? Should he not mix genres, stick to one, increase his chances of being recognised?

But that’s not what it is. The misunderstanding immediately turns into something brighter when Namjoon, clicking his tongue, says, “I don’t think you should worry at all. It’s totally okay to do that. And it’s your art, not some one-way task.”

Jungkook sighs in relief. His eyes move to the right, catching the stress ball stranded half a meter from his chair. He bends down without standing up, groaning as he rolls the ball back and starts fidgeting again.

Namjoon remarks, arms crossing on the desk, “Do you even need that? I was just going to say that you don’t look nervous at all. Generally, you look much better.”

Jungkook’s gaze lifts up. Namjoon looks a bit worried, yet somehow glad. Of course he noticed the brief decline in mental health; it’s also not as if Jungkook hid any of his recent pain. This man might be his boss, but he regards him as his friend, too.

“Tough few weeks,” Jungkook says.

“I know. It’s gotta get worse before it gets better.”

“Or, it could just be good.”

“Well, don’t you know?” Namjoon looks out of the window, eyes closing, exhausted from the planning and the anticipation of the upcoming events. “We need to be humbled.”

“I feel humbled, alright.” Jungkook’s eyes follow Namjoon’s, registering the noon sun. It’s the weekend; they should go enjoy it, too. He stands, rolling the ball on the desk, towards Namjoon. “Do you still need me here?”

“Why? Am I being difficult?”

“Kind of. Very nervy.” Jungkook laughs and Namjoon rolls his eyes, tapping the ball he caught. “No. But I need to walk Bam, and she will be at some work event tonight, too.”

“You’re not going with her?”

That could be fun — being surrounded by fashion people who talk about fashion in a very fancy, fashion way.

Jungkook loves clothes and shopping with a passion, but ever since he’s gotten to know more about the behind-the-scenes stuff from you, he’s found more appreciation for the work you do. It doesn’t sound easy; no job ever does.

But he wouldn’t quite find his place at such an event — at least that’s what you told him when he asked.

“She said those parties are lame but require her presence,” Jungkook explains, remembering your reluctance to go, “but she said she’ll do the minimum. Be there at least and then head back around dinner time.”

“Poor her. I hope there’s good food. She should go just for that,” Namjoon declares, to which Jungkook earnestly nods, waving a finger, like he’s been telling you the same. “Also, since you mentioned Bam.”

“Yeah?”

“You should draw him, too.”

“Oh yeah. I was intending to.” Jungkook pauses, walking to the window to regard the outside situation. Wondering whether it looks too cold to jog towards the bus in just his sweater. He always runs hot. “I have been refining the Gureum drawing, too. It was just a sketch, but I expanded it, so it can turn out perfect.”

“I can’t wait to see it. Really.”

“Thank you for your help, seriously. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

And you. And his friends. His parents. So many factors contributed to his eagerness to go on. This needs to go well.

Which, apparently, Namjoon thinks, too.

Because he points to the hooks at the top of the door and the jacket hanging on one of them with determination, warning Jungkook that, “Then you better wear the jacket today. Can’t afford to get sick before show day.”

He can be very brotherly at times; Jungkook remembers these traits from his own sibling. He knows Namjoon has a sister, too — he understands how to handle younger brats.

“Can never argue with you when you’re always right,” Jungkook says, burying himself in the thick jacket.

“And,” Namjoon adds, a mention of you as he tells Jungkook, “bring her sometimes, too. We’ll have lunch again.”

The door opens with a quiet creak as Jungkook remarks, “You say that every time.”

“I like her.”

“Everybody does, huh? The competition is real.”

“Competition,” Namjoon scoffs. “She would choose you over Greek Gods. You must not know her.”

Jungkook waits at the door, doesn’t leave just yet; he lowers his gaze, smiling. Namjoon couldn’t be more right.

And as Jungkook counts his blessings, a million whizzing through his memory by the time he’s regarding his boss again, he finds the single proper doubt about the trip. Lightly floating above the uncrackable foundation made of the expectations he has for these ten days—

That he barely fathoms anymore how to prevail underneath a different sky than you.

But he knows what you’ll see. It’s the same stars, at least.

Namjoon immediately knows — because he nods. He’s heard Jungkook voice this concern before. Casually, jokingly, earnestly.

The man says, “I get it.”

Jungkook opens the door further, unbothered by the awaiting chill outside — on the other side of the autumn, there is a warm bed, cosy clothes and a goo-goo eyed puppy. And you.

“Yeah,” Jungkook responds, “but she’s got my back all the time. If I was stupid enough to not go, I wouldn’t be the only one I’d let down.”

“Well then.” Namjoon puts his palm on the ball, rolling it to the edge and onto his lap. “Up to the top we go.”

The door shuts quietly, but the delighted waddle serves as an immediate indicator for an arrival.

You could never be mad. It could be the dead of the night, a well-deserved rest after a laborious day — if this was what woke you, you’d probably gain years to your life.

“Hey!”

It’s Jungkook’s voice, half greeting, half calling out for Bam, but the latter reaches the bedroom before your boyfriend has even taken off his shoes.

You put your brand new book aside, moving on the bed until your legs are dangling off the edge. Bam is waiting in front of the bed, still tiny, staring up at you in anticipation. His tongue is out, of course, an ever-happy pup, and when you pick him up, he attacks you right away.

He nudges and kisses your face, then pulls back again to stare for a second, tail waggling. He still feels a bit cold from the weather, nuzzling into you. As Jungkook comes in, you remark, “He’s in a good mood, huh?”

“Always very thrilled about walks,” he says, “and one can only be in your presence.”

You scoff in jest, “You’re soft as a snowflake.”

“Sue me.”

He cracks his neck, yawns. Blinks away the fatigue and then shivers a little under his sweater. When a body that usually runs as warm as his shivers, you know it must be cold.

You feel a bit guilty. It’s not like Jungkook can afford risks right now — you don’t want him to get sick just before one of his surely many upcoming golden opportunities.

“You know,” you tell him, “I could’ve totally taken him out, too.”

“Sure. But you had a few tough days.”

“You did, too.”

He plumps down next to you, tickling Bam between his ears briefly. Bam lets out a gentle, comforted sound. “It’s really okay. I mean, I work from home, mostly.”

“Mmh… well, can’t argue against that.”

His shoulder nudges yours, and he chuckles before he asks, “How are things going anyway?”

You nod approvingly, symbolising success. “Now that the autumn launch is over and all…” Jungkook gets up again; reaches for the bottle on the desk. You laugh. “We have more work, of course.”

He’s not looking at you; but even from here, you can see the flushing ears, bright red painted over the usual gold. And you know exactly why while he tries to divert, “Work really never ends.”

You dig and tease further, “Yeah. But honestly. We’re doing so well… the launch has been great.”

“Ah… yes?”

“Yes! Maybe we should hire the winter model with absolute care, too.”

He sighs, a telling breath that momentarily turns into a similar scoff to yours minutes ago. Then he mutters, “As you did last time.”

You grin smugly.

Your panic at work, amidst the week-long fight the two of you stubbornly held onto, just a few weeks ago when things were busiest at Novaura.

Jungkook and you were slowly warming up to each other again, though you never truly froze; it was the first proper yet stupid couple-y argument you had and in hindsight, you find it quite amusing.

And as things cooled down, the temperature at work rose.

Jungkook did a spectacular enough job to never forget; and you’re sure that your coworkers, your secretary, your friends, you and everybody who saw the Novaura ads will ensure he remembers, too. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the attention anyway; you are well aware.

You know because the smile is always unmistakable and the reaction of all the gushing paparazzi heart eyes too much of an ego boost. Jungkook is smoking, and if he truly happened to not know before, he does now.

“I’m sure you helped with the sales,” you tell him, recalling some of the online ads, boasting his abs, his eyes, this damn shape of his body — advertised clothes forgotten. “No joke.”

“Shut up.”

You laugh, obliging even though you, once again, recognise his half-hidden smile. Then, you admit, “I mean, work’s fun and all, but I didn’t know it’d be so hectic during this time.”

Which is something you’ve said about every new occurrence. You press your cheek against Bam’s ear.

“And,” you continue, “now I guess it explains why my parents were so busy during the cold months. Wonder whether they’re worse than the summer.”

He puts the glass down, a neutral look over his broad shoulder first before he turns back to you.

The grimace he pulls doesn’t hide anything — he’s just too nice to say it. So you remark instead, “Yes, I know. It’s not an excuse.” The times you’ve said this to Jungkook about his own family; you’d think you’d know better. “I’m just saying it’s not easy.”

Unhurried steps carry him back to you, his demeanour relaxed but the way he touches and rubs your shoulder a source of firm reassurance. His digit then moves to your cheek, and he nods, “Absolutely. I know.”

You understand just exactly why such topics trigger his marshmallow side. Not that he’s ever rough otherwise — but this is different. And it’s similar to how you feel vice versa; you melt the same and protect the same when he cracks.

Life has improved. He, despite the hardships and the pressure, has found methods to deal with pain. His father and him are on the same ground level now, working their way up the skyscraper.

There is much to do and much to come, such a vast amount of affection to catch up on — but somehow, neither of you sees this as a bad thing.

Love is the only thing to ever know; he has an abundance to give, and he’s done keeping it in.

His finger is tender as it draws along your face, and when you feel that overwhelming burst of emotions in your chest again, you try to ease the moment. “And the others stressing so much doesn’t help at all. Seokjin has been so on the edge, too.”

Jungkook’s gaze darkens, but not truly because he despises Jin anymore. More so because that’s what he’s used to; sort of a joke, but sort of healthy, fun jealousy, too.

He deadpans, “I thought he was leaving.”

Everybody did. You’ve found a new manager to replace him already.

You’ve been wanting to ask, but it’s not too easy when he’s strutting around in this bad mood of his, full lips pouting a little and usual windshield laugh on pause. You barely even talk to him — he’s often busy elsewhere.

You only remember him seeing today, for a bare moment, passing him in the corridor to the break room. He looked at you briefly, nodding, a quick, “Hi. Hope you’re well. Take care of yourself, okay?”

But somehow, it still wasn’t rushed as one would expect from a fleeting greeting — more so stern, prudent.

Maybe you look a lot more overworked than you assumed. God. 

“Yeah,” you shrug a shoulder, “but he’s paranoid, so he’s been dropping by every now and then. Told him to trust me, but it might take a while.”

Jungkook shakes his head, and you lower Bam when he becomes restless in your arms. He waddles away again, probably missing his chewing toys by now.

“I will never get used to hearing Seokjin’s name.” 

You say, “Hmm… honestly, he’s surprisingly ordinary.”

Jungkook puffs out a breath, angling his head, “Well if he is…”

“…That doesn’t mean that you are. Not at all. I just meant he’s only a person, too. Money does nothing.”

He nudges your shoulder again, and you use the movement to slip back again, leaning against the headboard of the bed. Jungkook doesn’t follow just yet; barely ever climbs the bed before showering — unless you provoke him, of course.

“Okay then,” he enthuses, “easy to believe if you say it like this.”

“Should be. You’re a soon-to-be-world-famous-artist.”

There it is; the spark of passion, yet merged with fear and pressure, too. His voice is still calm, keeping up the act, but as the weekend nears, he grows a bit more fragile after all.

“Gosh, how scary. I love what I do, but I guess everyone has doubts sneaking in when things get closer. Like, will it work out? Am I doing too much traditional art? People these days do such abstract things and sell their works for thousands.”

“There’s really nothing wrong with traditional.”

“Totally not. But people already know Bruegel and Michelangelo and stuff. Maybe they’ve seen these so many times that they crave something innovative or visionary—”

“Stop. Jungkook,” you interrupt, leaning in again, grasping his hands in yours, “traditional art is not out, okay? So many find fascination in it. I wish I could do what you can.”

But you still can’t help but feel good about yourself — because your eyes drift to his arm, catching the forget-me-nots. An artist, proud of his skills, still chooses your work to eternalise on his skin; makes you feel a bit better about your own creativity.

“And anyway,” you add, “in a world where you can barely differentiate between AI and real art anymore—”

“God, don’t even mention it…”

“—what you do is really refreshing. To me at least.”

You lean back again, but his palm remains in yours. Your arm stretches a bit, so he moves in by an inch.

“And if it actually doesn’t work out,” he starts, and you’re about to throw a pillow at his face before he says, “I can still go ahead and try the fashion thing—”

“Okay, now I don’t want you to do it anymore.”

Back to the calm mask, you see.

You squeak when he squeezes your finger, and Bam returns at the sound before you can start laughing. He ogles at the two of you, confused between defending you and cuddling into Jungkook.

At the end, he decides to leave instead.

Jungkook reaches to you, body much more on the bed than you’d think he’d usually allow. Not after a walk, not after the workout before the walk. He peppers kisses on your arm, moving up to your chin, and you push him off, half-joking, “Get off. You stink!”

“I haven’t showered yet.”

“Clearly.”

“You know,” he says, “it’s the natural scent that people fall in love with. Not perfumes and soap scents and all, but sweat—”

“Right,” you affirm, “but there’s a difference between the natural scent and sweat that was collected throughout the day.”

Provocative as he is, he rubs himself more into you, soon emerging from your tummy to say, “Well, shit. Now you have to come with me.”

You push his face away, hand on his cheek. “Do I now?”

“We can wash each other’s hair and rub our backs and—”

“Rub our backs, huh?”

“What.”

Doe eyes can only fool you this many times. You reprimand, “You’re rarely ever as innocent as you look. Now get off, bitch.”

“You’re so snarky lately.”

Or more daring. More comfortable; a little more with each day.

“You mean happy,” you correct.

He reaches for you again, his palm so warm despite the chilly gust of the very late autumn outside. His mouth presses a kiss to your forehead, and he eventually retreats, adding, “Yes. Happy. Never change.”

Happy…

You’re trying your best. Beneath the recent downs, you are content, both of you. Which is probably why you haven’t broached the topic of therapy in so long either; both of you desperately need it, even though some scars have begun to heal.

But they might reopen if you don’t tackle them.

You shake your head. You will talk about this. Just not now; no distractions allowed. At the moment, you know that he’s just as scared of it as you are, even though you promised you’d do it. None of you fear commitment, but this is… a big thing.

“I’ll definitely go once the gallery stress ebbs down. I want to fully be there.”

And you decided to follow. You consider yourself brave as can be, but sometimes, you consider yourself a coward, too. Or maybe, just hesitant to dive head-first into something so important. You don’t want to do it alone. It might take time.

You sigh.

The distance becomes tangible immediately when he steps away, the air much cooler now, much like your cheeks. His nimble fingers peel the black cotton shirt off his body smoothly, and you watch for a moment; like an animated Disney character.

All sparks and fascination in your eyes.

What a sculpted man. Both mind and body.

Months and years may still pass, but you won’t ever be capable of diverting your eyes without additional, forceful help. You’re glad you don’t have to. You’re glad you’re privileged at last.

And you keep staring, still in your bubble until the goofy goodness of a boyfriend throws a last smirk at you, aware of how lucky you just consider yourself; and then, he disappears with a little—

“K. Be right back.”

The atmosphere at the fair is as buzzing as you expected. 

You guess up until that moment, you were grateful for his more or less lax demeanour. For how gently he carried himself, with an ease so familiar.

Whenever Jungkook isn’t hurting or thrown off guard by the cruelty of the world, he is a raging optimist. Or a realist. Because to him, reality is beautiful — ever since you’ve known him, he’s wordlessly emphasised how wonderful life can be.

You struggled with this bit often. Jungkook calls you an optimist, too, somebody who sees the good in others; and he isn’t wrong. But you still had trouble finding the pink hues of the world. Nobody can judge you for that.

Things seemed grey many, many times.

But, when Jungkook came out of the shower that day, he seemed more tense. He tended to in those last moments before events, more so since he worked for Namjoon and on the gallery, art fair, any future possible exhibitions and so on.

Everything seems so much more serious now, so you get it.

No matter how calm this man usually tends to be, when it comes to the work he does and loves, he battles pressure that he curses himself with.

He had been humming tunes a few moments ago, including all the Na-na-na’s and vibrato, melody dropping and rising. You’ve always been fascinated by his voice; the low register and the high pitched notes.

And he sounded so happy, so enthusiastic. So sweet.

Which is why you didn’t expect him to become this nervous already. It was clear as day.

The dropped corners of his mouth, the distant gaze, the looking around for things that were in sight. The fatigue.

He either needed sleep or entertainment. You tried the latter, “Do you want to watch another Ghibli or Disney thing?”

“Hm?” His eyes rose towards you. “Oh no, it’s okay. Not tonight.”

“Why, are you going to cry again?”

He threw an odd look at you, dripping with sarcasm, as if to mock, “Ha-ha. So funny.” Instead, he pointed at you and continued your joke, “No, you cry.”

“You forgot about Coco, huh?”

“I do sometimes forget things. Sorry.” 

“Goddamn it, Jungkook.”

He presented a grin, as if to appease you. You knew him; he didn’t want to start the same train of anxious thoughts again, didn’t want to dump them on you. He knew you wouldn’t have more to say than usually, so he let it be.

You angled your head; pouted.

Despite knowing you were running out of words, he didn’t seem to know that he could totally unload that burden on you anyway. You were there for that.

Still, he only asked, “How was lunch with Tae?”

You stared for a split second. Perhaps too hard. You were trying to find something; one slip of an expression, something that might betray him and encourage him to reveal his inner turmoil, much as you did with his friend.

But he didn’t, looking down, fixing his wet hair nonsuspiciously.

And anyway, you weren’t going to force him into talking.

So you played along, “It was… hm. He was calm. Very, surprisingly calm.”

Not that surprising, but you’d keep the conversation going. Well, only for Jungkook to answer, “That he is.”

You delivered a side-eye, skin creasing between your eyebrows, and argued, “Okay? You sound indifferent.”

“Not indifferent. I just know what he’s like.”

“Right… but he clearly misses her. Not hard to decipher or easy to hide.”

Jungkook’s eyes squinted, a forefinger wiggling in the air before he threw you a Benoit Blanc-esque look and suggested, “We should plot something.”

You sneered.

“Plot something?”

“Yeah. Come up with a plan and then watch them be trapped together and we hide in bushes and stu—”

“Do we really need to?”

You said that, but you couldn’t quite withhold the laugh either. He was obviously joking, shoving the stress under the carpet and retrieving the red nose. With a knowing look and the aforementioned finger tapping his temple, he reminded you, “They’ll both be at the art fair.”

“Yeah… maybe you should paint something that outlines the beauty of their relationship.”

Now his grin dropped, dumbfounded. “You’re joking.”

“I totally am. It just—”

“I know. It sucks.”

“Yeah. Call him, too, okay?”

He shrugged a shoulder lazily, taking a seat next to you. The drop onto the bed was heavy, like his mind and his words. You guessed some of the grief from weeks ago still weighed him down, hormones lingering, simultaneous with the current circumstances.

Jeon Jungkook was still the man you knew, but part of him was still missing. It’d take time until he could move and talk as he used to again.

And it didn’t look like he was going to create anymore today; he looked quite exhausted as he said, “I did. This afternoon after you guys met.”

“How did he sound to you?”

“Tired.”

“Of course…”

“Distance isn’t easy.”

The two of you would know too well. And despite the enormous difference in the nature of the distance, Jungkook and you would be put to test again. The conversation, somehow selfishly, reminded you of your own upcoming loneliness.

You muttered and sighed, “I know,” paused for a good moment, let the feeling return and sink in, and then admitted, “I don’t want you to go. Then again, I totally do.”

There was no need to explain any of your thoughts because he was right there with you, on the same level of chaotic emotions. So it was no surprise that he echoed, “I want to, too. But then, I also wish I didn’t have to.”

In the end, of course both of you longed for a stressfree, happy future, so no utterance of objecting to the trip would probably ever ring true. But the part where you’d be longing like a freshly married couple would prove correct, you already knew.

“Just because…” you started, scooching closer. He offered you his shoulder. “Are you going to elope with a girl from Singapore? They’re so pretty, so I am Worried with a capital W.”

“I’m not sure yet. I did think about it, but I didn’t know how to yet tell you and—”

You punched his thigh under the blanket, and he squealed at the touch, more tickled than in pain, if anything at all. In response to your gentle violence, he put his muscled arm around your shoulder, pulling you in with vigour until you melted with his chest.

Amidst a chuckle as sweetly as you’ve always known, he confessed, “I’ll actually be resisting the urge to call you every second of the day.”

Your finger drifted up and down his shirt. “How did we get here?”

“You sucked at business class.”

“You know I didn’t.”

“Well, compared to my scores—” He silenced at your side-eye, immediate amusement drawn over his face. “Or because I irritated you on purpose because I knew that one day I’d have you live with me and would want to marry you.”

You nearly screeched, “The M-wor—”

“I mean it,” his chest smushed your cheek, voice vibrating against your ear, “yeah, I had it all planned out.”

“Oh yeah, the party fuck was very romantic indeed,” you rolled your eyes, “I worry about how smooth you talk.”

The kiss he pressed to your scalp the next moment felt light, in a good way, as if you’d been able to lift some of the tension. You probably had been.

And the words that followed were just as heavenly.

“I love you so much.”

Before you could answer, another admission of affection, “Thank you for taking off on the day of the fair.”

“It’s obvious. There was never a chance for me to stay at work that day.”

He sighed. “My God. This weekend.”

This weekend. Then, tomorrow. Then, soon.

Surrounded by white walls, right under a high ceiling, stepping through a flock of keen, culturally versed guests.

Tomorrow and soon turned into today so fast.

Today.

This is a wholly new world to you; as if journeying on a carpet, Jungkook flying you to a space he so values, so cherishes. You have been part of his universe through various stories and descriptions that his words painted, but an art fair brings entirely new colours to your understanding.

This isn’t exactly the same as a museum visit.

Sure, there is artwork and the people who created it. There are titles and names and different techniques, and entering requires a paid ticket.

And still.

Not that museums and their everlasting, old charm could ever fade. In your book, that might remain one of the more intellectual experiences you often hop on, reluctant to miss out.

But museums, all curated pieces and educational purposes considered, undeniably feel different from this creative, personal and temporary chaos. Because this hall appears neverending, tremendous.

Usually, it is used for the annual medical entrance exam, or any college entrance exam, really, as well as for conventions — this time, they have modified it as they saw fit. They do so every year.

Jungkook knows this place from when he’d visit smaller, more inconspicuous yet equally valuable fairs, exhibiting fellow students’ or strangers’ artworks. He just never participated until now.

And you have never been here either.

You’re thoroughly enjoying the rows of booths instead of tables this time, each home to paintings, sculptures, photography or crafts. Jungkook told you a couple of times that in some instances, art fairs encourage certain, coherent themes — but this time, they let the artists run wild.

Simply organised the place and time, much as the formation by dividing the room into specific themes.

Under each work, there are price tags and information cards; more often than not, the artists seem to be present themselves, at or near their station, talking to people they know or to visitors.

As you stroll the hall, you overhear multiple conversations; all friendly, cultivated and respectful. Such as, “Wow, this feels… electric.”

“Thank you! I was trying to paint what music feels like to me. The sort of energy you can’t see.”

“Ohhh, and I get it, too. Did you mix the colours yourself?”

“Partly, yes. I used mostly acrylic paint. And also, they look a bit different under the sunlight because of the fluorescence, so in an open living room—”

And so on, and so forth.

You are fascinated by the competence and the professionalism. You barely even understand the language around here; technical stuff and explanations that they surely internalised during their studies. Terms, like you’ve seen in cooking, in crafting, in management.

It is truly bewildering to you, the artsy manifestation of a million things. The skills and, sometimes even, the science behind it. 

The world is a canvas indeed.

“Beautiful,” you whisper as you pass a plethora of pieces to stare at.

Each a world of its own — a portrait in neon colours, a sculpture made of broken mirrors. Theme, Dystopia. The artists are nervous and proud, hair a bit of a mess from fingers carding through them, the girls’ lipstick already eaten.

But their eyes are bright when somebody stops to look a little longer, a little closer. Everything is warm and imperfect; the place smells like coffee, colours and paper.

And Jungkook is no exception among the talent. The hall hums, but the air is more vibrant, more alive around him. When you reach him, people are still laughing as they talk to him, much as they did twenty minutes ago when you left.

And the soft background music helps. ASMR blending with the sound of sketchbook rustles when he opens his to demonstrate a method; and the click of cameras, gentle voices. All senses alive.

Somebody even brought Jungkook a cupcake earlier, an elderly lady, offering a moment of comfort.

“You look a bit pale,” she said.

Jungkook fiddled with his thumbs, nodding a little but also searching for the right adjective. Then, “I guess I am just nervous.”

“Have you eaten, young man?”

“Oh, I will soon. Too afraid to really walk away,” he told her, gesturing at his booth. “It’s my break soon, though.”

She shook her head before she walked away. He whispered to you, “She is totally judging me and damning the unhealthy, young generation,” only minutes before she returned with the dessert. Jungkook seemed reluctant at first, but then accepted the dessert with a bow and an expression of gratitude.

As you stand here now, his skin colour has come back at least a little. He is busy conversing with a small group of young friends, freshmen, if you could guess. They point at various details in paintings, and at bigger ones, such as the new version of the sketch of Gureum.

He wouldn’t sell the original.

Or — another one: the room he started painting in. His bedroom from back home. The one you saw, slept in. And! And a gorgeous grey British Shorthair he once saw sitting on a wall, calm as the sea as she looked around and at him and at her paw.

Smaller pieces, too, different in shapes: round, square, triangular. There are all sorts of stuff he prepared for today, around a dozen, and you can barely believe that this is just a taste of what he’s truly capable of. Of what you’ll see, not only at the exhibition, but also once he’s back from his trip.

Motivated and enthusiastic and ready for, what you’re sure will arrive, his very own gallery showing.

Somewhere, Namjoon is roaming, too, as well as Mr. Paik, the curator that urged Jungkook to apply with his name and pictures of his art. He is partly responsible for this fair, helping out cultural associations and universities to bring this to life.

Sometimes, like now, you just watch Jungkook more than you listen to him. You do register snippets, such as, “I used ink here,” and, “This one is about memory,” and “layering” and “retouch” and “blue.”

The voice, the descriptions, the confidence he explains it all with — it makes you stick around his booth the longest.

Perhaps also because you are biased, or genuinely taken. But his paintings truly appear glossy, magnificent under the afternoon sun that beams through the high, translucent windows and ceiling.

With what he’s been showing here, his charm and his convincing words, things seem to be working out. You never doubted it anyway. Jungkook could have stood there, ogling at the people holding their cups, wandering between displays.

You’re certain they’d still be jotting down his name or approaching him either way; you know. 

Once he’s free for a moment, you intend to walk deeper into the booth, over to where he stands; only to stop in your tracks upon noticing just how quickly he retrieves the notebook on his round, little, podium-like table.

He seizes a soft pencil, looking around until he finds you again with a welcoming beam. His fingers angle the utensil — shading-mode as you have recently learned and, honestly, often tried yourself when you were younger — and then, he starts his magic.

You don’t immediately realise what he’s doing, what he has been doing until you watch his eyes flit up and down — notebook, you, pause, stroke, pause, up to you, down again, you.

You amble towards him, gaze fixated on the notebook, and only catch a momentary glimpse of the sketch before he lifts it to his chest, greeting you with a tender, “Happy to have you back, ma’am.”

Shaking your head, you point to the book, both astonished and jokingly in disbelief. But you aren’t difficult to read, because amidst the jestful emotions, you can barely contain the enraptured quiver in your voice as you ask, “Are you drawing me?”

He shrugs.

“Best subject in the room.”

“Is this…” You attempt to snatch the notebook from him, a finger hooking into the ringed top before he presses it back to his torso. You sigh. “God. You’ll kill me here.”

“Can’t show you everything.”

Your face heats up. You’re aware of the half a dozen pieces you have never seen. Works that must be so special that he harbours the patience to postpone the revelation to a much later point in time.

You let him, imitate a fake whine and then give in — because you know that when Jungkook hides something from you, it’s for a reason. Never an evil one.

But you still poke, “Or anything, really.” You take a brief look around. “This is already a sensation of its own.”

“Yeah? Just you wait till the gallery showing.”

He’s all smile-y, restless, eyes glimmering. And while his shoulders haven’t lost the tension in them, rising up, falling down, he’s in a mood so bright that you hope for it to never dissipate.

“I barely want to wait, though,” you add, murmuring. You take in more details each time you look at the art. “You know I saw a chocolate showpiece earlier? Crazy. This is all truly beautiful.”

You gesture around the room vaguely; and he asks, “Do you like the stuff I chose and made?”

Your head angles, eyes hooded to say, “Seriously?” Instead you tell him, “You know I do. I adore it… especially this.”

Tilting your head towards the bigger painting in the middle of the wall, you once again recognise the place as the small town he took you to during the summer. The painting resembles a portal in time, as though you’re standing there, inhabiting your younger self’s flesh and soul.

Granted, the night ended in tears seemingly endless, but you have fond memories of the moments leading up to it.

Of the joy as he danced with you. The comforting food. The subtle jealousy in his eyes and his delicate touch. Of how much you thought you’d resisted him until then, just until his featherlight fingers ran up your arm, grasped your face.

You feel it and hear it and smell it.

Like, the butterflies stemming from the nervousness of a first proper and official date. The sound of his voice, expressing what he felt. The scent of the world and a bakery, and the soft, tapping pitter patter as the rain kissed your face.

And when he kissed you, too, so innately, so deeply for the very first time. Right under the floating clouds, under a dark sky. A sweet ache coursing through both bodies, spawned by affection so deep that it hurt.

No roughness, no harsh grip, no impatience. Nothing but feathers.

He has kissed you like this countless times after, but you can’t help the goosebumps forming the moment you remember it all. Your heart jumps into your throat; remains there when he looks at you again, finding your hand.

“I think so, too,” he agrees. His eyes dart around; from the reflections in puddles to the silhouettes he intended to be the two of you. “I thought you looked the most beautiful at that moment.” Then, he scans you once, clutches your hand, “You look so gorgeous today, too.”

You nudge his shoulder. “All this adrenaline, and you focus on how I look today? How superficial.”

“Mhh, you know me,” he clicks his tongue, “either the prettiest girl or nobody at all.”

Smooth-talker. Deserves an award for this before anything else.

You laugh. “The most beautiful girl and the most handsome boyfriend and the most gorgeous artwork. Harmonious.”

“You helped. This was impossible to survive alone, so… thank you.”

“No, you would’ve survived, I believe.”

“Maybe… but it would’ve been only half as fun.”

Gosh, that laugh. You want him to stay this happy.

You tell him, “You’re so winning everyone over. They keep coming to your booth and putting down your name, too.”

“Yeah… you think they’ll buy?”

“Yes, of course they will! Most of them seemed convinced. You can breathe, baby.” You step to another piece, not daring to touch it after the struggle it gave him. “You seeing this, by the way? This is the one you were most worried about.”

“Painting with oil is a hassle.”

“I think it hit people hard. It was a punch to my heart, too.”

Truly was; not because it hurts, but because it symbolises the passing of time. A nostalgic painting that combines 80s colours with what’s modern. A man standing, with his back turned to you, and a suitcase with various stickers on.

Resembling the one Jungkook owns, all anime and band and artistic stickers, collected throughout the years. A nod to his first time in town.

Needless to say that the theme around this area is so beautifully named Memory. Jungkook delivered.

You’re granted a couple more minutes on your own, visitors quietly and shyly taking everything in, and you pass the time throwing out flirts that your past selves would have grimaced to.

Such as—

“If you get any more excited, you will knock something over.”

“You’re saving me one nervous breakdown at a time.”

“Gotta keep the genius organised.”

Or—

“Don’t be so jittery.”

“Okay. Yes. Why should I? I have won either way — you’re here.”

And on and on; until you remember how incomplete your group still is. His parents are still probably walking around or snacking, but…

“Where are the others?” you ask.

Yoongi actually arrived when the hall opened, first in line and cheering with his goofy gummy smile. He went out thirty minutes ago, grabbing lunch. Taehyung was busy with a weekend noon shift and Eun and Jimin would be arriving together because the former required somebody to hype her up to go.

You and Jungkook surmise what you remember, though it doesn’t matter much — all of them arrive shortly after, all at the same time after all. You greet one after another, and then watch.

However playful and pink-tinted the moments that you and Jungkook shared… Taehyung and Eun are the complete opposite.

Perhaps they’re playing a role, or maybe they’re truly fully ignoring each other and moving on. Which you know, of course, not to be true.

But it’s odd to see the way Taehyung enters the scene with a cheer and a, “Would you look at yourself!”. His grin is bright, happy as he high-fives Jungkook. And Eun, congratulating Jungkook and then talking to Jimin, apparently about the art, but who really knows?

You mingle with Yoongi, back from his break, sharing the spring rolls he brought. The two of you observe for a second, let the small talk emerge and fade.

“How’s it going!”

“This is really nice, Kook.”

“Where’s the one you told me about?”

And at some point, you and Yoongi shake your heads. Eun and Taehyung, really…

You step away, daring to begin a conversation with an unbusy Taehyung as you ask, “You okay?” The talk falls short when you notice Eun’s eyes, Jimin having moved to his boyfriend by now, and you excuse yourself with, “We’ll talk later.”

Eun’s arm hooks with yours and she puts on her sweetest voice, sighing with her faux smile as she lets you know, “Are you interacting with the enemy?”

You and Jungkook laugh faintly; he’s right next to you. He must’ve heard easily. You question, “Is he?”

Another breath of exhaustion. “No. He’s not even my enemy.” And then she turns towards Jungkook, a hand on his arm for a second. “How’s it going, Jungkook?”

“Good! Thank you for coming, Eun. I, uh… I know it’s not easy, so I appreciate it even more.”

“Of course! I was not going to miss out on this, no matter what.”

You’re fairly sure that the what refers to a certain Kim Taehyung. He hears it. Rolls his eyes, averts them a moment later. The atmosphere is already tense with just their shared presence, but you guess it’s a broken up couple’s job to make it more awkward.

You can’t blame them. You were probably worse.

“This is really great, man. Really,” Jimin remarks, patting his back. To which Taehyung and Eun simultaneously slip a genuine, “Yeah, seriously.”

Your skin is crawling. You feel so sorry for them. It is entirely wrong… and entirely odd.

If they feel that way, too, they don’t let it show. Eun barely shows her face, close to the artwork, and Taehyung only laughs a bit, easing himself. And he’s eminently dauntless when he closes in on her, and you hear him say, “You’d like this one over there.”

To which she immediately replies, as if rehearsed, “God, don’t.”

“Hey, I…” Pause. His head falls, tongue poking his cheek. Then, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. You?”

“Eun, please—”

“No, seriously. I’m not fighting, I’m… it’s fine, Tae.”

And as if to clearly prove her point wrong, she walks away. Just like this. Away from the booth and into the world of the fair. And to your surprise… he follows.

You shake your head again. Whisper to Jungkook, “Why are they like this?”

You have half a thought to run after them, which you manifest into reality a second later, nearly colliding with a random guy that turns right away, grimacing at you. Seriously. Maybe you shouldn’t interfere, but you feel as though they’re dooming themselves. Are they?

You don’t even know what to say — and when you see them from afar, talking rushed but quietly, you understand that you don’t need to. This is not your issue to solve.

You want them to make amends, but they’re already busy doing so, in whichever way, so you should probably remove yourself from the equation.

Throwing a look back, you see Jimin and Yoongi still sticking around Jungkook’s booth, watching whatever is unfolding; and when they feel that nothing is happening yet at all, Yoongi moves.

Passes you, telling you, “I’ve already seen most of the stuff here, so I’ll go grab snacks for Jimin.”

So, they have decided to leave them be, like you. Good… 

You find Jimin at the table, raising his eyebrows as another greeting when he sees you near, joining him. You hoist your arms up onto the table, carefully putting your weight onto it. You mumble more to yourself than to him, “They need to figure it out. Makes me nervous sometimes.”

He nods a bit, and you reckon he’s in thoughts as much as you are, perhaps with his eyes absent-mindedly following Jungkook around the room as the latter talks with the newly arrived guests. You know that Eun as a subject has been on both your minds lately.

But when you look up at him, you notice that he isn’t as distracted as you assumed at all; instead, he’s giving you a side-eye, telling enough. You understand and tut; conclude, “Fuck. We were the same, huh?”

He affirms your prior thoughts, “You were… almost worse. So numb.”

Numb… yeah…

At least Eun is expressing her emotions. Not burying them, crying abundantly, asking for your help and company when needed. You… you locked yourself in when Jungkook left.

Gosh. What a palpable pang. You’d rather not think about it anymore.

But you do still say, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You guys got it together in the end,” he looks past your shoulder, into a haphazard direction, “I hope they will, too.”

“Hmm, yeah… yeah.”

However defeated you became for a moment, the vibe itself tunes your mood. You’re hopeful and happy seeing Jungkook’s world change bit by bit. Seeing how joyous the others are, too.

Whatever happened between Taehyung and Eun, neither will talk about it right now. They don’t approach you with this, so you decide to shift this topic to a later conversation — for their and Jungkook’s sake.

At least Jimin and Yoongi appear to be ecstatic. Jungkook, too.

Currently, he is still informing the same interested fair-goers, explaining how one or two of his works had been in progress for years, and that he constantly tried out various new ways of shading and blurring until one sat. Namjoon is next to him now, listening in.

He is focused on the visitors’ scribbles on their paper; it’s far more than just Jungkook’s name.

You think that aside from only admiring what he does, they are learning as well. Fellow artists or art students. Once they are done here, they say, “We shall be back if nothing gets in the way!”

He smiles at them, expressing his thanks; Namjoon joins them. And then, when Jungkook’s gaze meets yours, his eyes ask a clear question, exploring. You answer, “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

You don’t know where Taehyung and Eun are. What they’re talking about.

“That we shall,” Jungkook merely says.

“Hm… we’re almost done with the day.”

“Yeah. I’m a little sad, even. But hey, listen,” he taps his sketchbook rhythmically, “there is a small gathering after this. Some of the artists will come together at some bar or restaurant or something and Joon will be going. He asked me, and I figured we could, too?”

“Ohhhh—”

Establishing contacts does not sound bad at all. Other than that, the idea seems very cosy.

“But if you’re too tired—”

“Oh my gosh, no!” you interject, hands up in defense. “No, that’s great. I was just craving more hard liquor… we need it tonight. And you deserve it! They’re only serving champagne and wine here.”

Crinkles form around his eyes, his bunny teeth honey sweet as he snickers. He scans your empty hands, assuring you’re running around as sober as you possibly can, and asks, “How many have you had?”

“Not many, I swear. I could still drive.” His eyes widen, a warning in them. “I said could. And you should have more, too.”

“No, stop tempting me.”

For the first time tonight, he seems a bit more earnest. The hours must be catching up with him; he looks tired himself. Standing around can be tough; you remember from recent days of managing long afternoons and evenings at Novaura, putting everything in place.

He probably just needs a change in pace, location and sound.

“I didn’t even drink any so far, so I can get us home safely,” he says.

What a gentleman. Maybe you’re a tiny bit drowsy from the champagne Yoongi brought you and Jimin after all because a moment later, your palm is patting Jungkook’s soft and smooth cheek, telling him that, “I love your face so much, Kook.”

You’re not certain why you say it like this — you’re sure you meant so say that you love his attitude. Both are true, so a brain isn’t necessarily needed for statements like these.

“If we’re really not dead tired after all this tonight,” he says, hinting with a wink. His forefinger flicks your chin. “I want to show you just how much I love yours.”

“It won’t look the same afterwards, though.”

“Fully my inten—”

A humane sound interrupts your personal shenanigans. You hear an exhale, and you immediately step away, making way for the next curious guest. But it’s that tall stranger you bumped into earlier, the cursory moment when you were attempting to follow your friends to do God knows what.

The guy is staring at you with a weirdly smug-ish grin that confuses you deeply, as if he’s familiar with you, about to remind you that he was a friend in your second year of college. But he doesn’t.

All he does is comment, “Huh. Didn’t think of you as an artsy person at all.”

For a moment, you’re perplexed. You look around, assuring that you are truly not mistaken and that he is talking to you. You specifically. A dry laugh tumbles out of you, though it’s audible that you’re startled by what sounds like a private joke, too.

You wonder, “Sorry. Have we met?”

Next to you, a couple inches away, Jungkook waits for the man to talk, figuring like you that if you do know each other from uni or similar, he might give you space to catch up. But you don’t need it — and upon your response, he closes the distance between the guy and you just a little.

The visitor observes, dark eyes wandering between the two of you, and then answers, “Yeah… yeah. I’m sure we have, actually. You were at that thing in August, no? Or maybe through Kimmy? Hard to keep track.”

You glance between him and your boyfriend and repeat, “Sorry. It doesn’t ring a bell? I can’t place you, I apologise.”

He waves your concerns off with a large hand, nearing you and the painting your bodies cover. “It’s whatever. Anyway. I was just thinking that this one’s cute!” It’s the rainy town, Jungkook and you. “A bit different from what I’d remember of your nature, but… nice to see you… thriving.”

Now he’s addressing Jungkook, clearly. There’s something profoundly condescending in his tone, and you start to wonder… is there any way you can refresh your memory? He looks too aware and confident to be talking nonsense.

But most of all, you want to know because of how he elongates the adjective. Thriving. Somewhat insincere, increasing suspicion. You’re unsure whether he’s trying to be polite in the wrong way or being shady on purpose.

Jungkook aims to remain professional. Asks, “Thank you. Are you enjoying the work?”

The man thinks for a while. It’s clear as day that he doesn’t understand art; you’re not sure what he’s doing here, but it’s not to build up the artists. Or at least, not Jungkook. Because soon after, he judges, “Honestly, they… are basic. A lot of the things here are too similar.”

They really are not. You haven’t seen anything like anything else. The styles are different; you have learned that upon closer inspection, every hand creates a different product. Jungkook helped you see it the way you introduced various authors’ styles to him.

“Uhm—” you begin, loud enough for your friends to turn. You guess up until now they thought this was just another talk, like all the others, but now you have their attention. “Come on, now.”

Jungkook touches your elbow, appeasing you. Then, he tells the dude, “I mean… maybe, but, I did learn from the best teachers and from Kim Namjoon? Have you met him? He is a true master and—”

“No, no, it’s just…” the guy starts, making an unpleasant face, “just not my thing. But hey, everyone has their hobbies.”

Hobby.

You grow more furious by the second. What is this audacity?

Jungkook laughs bitterly, sarcasm dripping from it. He is as thrilled about the stranger as you are. “I’m sorry. Are you implying something?”

The man promises, “No, not at all. I only wanted to say hi.”

You throw a glance at your friends. They are silently watching, though you think you see Jimin’s hand twitch and Taehyung’s right foot a step further from where it was before. Like they’re readying for war.

Jungkook’s voice has changed, an octave deeper — the kind you know from serious, hurt, irritated moments. Usually, he’s a happy person, not hiding the mellow, sweet pitch of his voice.

So you’re sure he’s on the verge of giving the guy a piece of his mind when he tries again, “Who are you exactly? Maybe you can help, no?” His eyebrows rise. “We do not know a Kimmy.”

Your vis-à-vis laughs now, another wave of his hand as he clarifies, “Oh, I was just joking. Mainstream joke, you know. I know you from a summer party kinda thing?”

“…Right.”

“But of course,” he turns to you again, blinking slowly, provocatively, “people know you. Most do, really.”

And then, it seems to click.

“Are you…” You pause, thinking hard about it. You’re not sure. But maybe. “Are you a goddamn journalist?”

Fuck. Fuck.

There are a handful of more forbidden words that course your mind. Because no. Not here, too. Not today and not with you — there are so many more people in this world to bother. Or, check this, none at all.

Jimin takes a stride forward, pulling you back when your body jolts, and you hear him tell you, “Come, let’s just ignore this.”

Jungkook is inches behind you, agreeing with Jimin, attempting to tug you behind him. But you’re firm at your place, more irritated even when the guy laughs, akin to some insane Disney Channel villain.

Then, he prods, “Don’t be so afraid. I’m not even carrying anything with me. I’d be a lousy journalist without a camera, don’t you think?”

“Rats like you don’t need any of it. They remember drama,” you spit.

The closer you get, the less you can deny it — his grin does carry something familiar. A sour, acidic taste. Maybe you have seen him before.

A temporary, momentary picture of darkness flashes in your mind, a somewhat bright light in between. Maybe he’s one of those faces you see on the streets or in daily life, and then forget due to pure insignificance.

You don’t know. You can’t wrap your finger around it at all.

“Now I can’t even go to a fair without being called out for no reason,” the man teases.

And this fucking tone. He says it like it’s not his first rodeo. Not with you, anyway, as if you did him wrong sometime in the past. You swallow, thoroughly sick of it.

“Listen,” you start pointedly, at the same time as Jungkook tries to talk you out of it; no avail, “either you go or you tell us what’s your deal.”

“No deal. I just wanted to see if you’re worth any hype,” a glance over your shoulder, straight to Jungkook. From your side vision, you see Jungkook’s jaw clench. Harder when the man shrugs his shoulder, as if to say, “And well… meh.”

“Seriously,” Jimin whispers.

Taehyung is close to Jungkook, saying something to him quietly; you can’t make it out, but it can’t be too different from what your friend is doing. It just angers you, though. 

To see Jungkook’s face redden, less from his anger and more out of embarrassment. There are one or two more strangers around, a couple that looks between him and the man, and then at each other. Fully in Jungkook’s favour when they call out a second later, loud enough for everybody to hear, “I love this one.”

You appreciate it, but it doesn’t deter the jerk or erase Jungkook’s fury; his gaze is lowered now, eyes huge, lips pressed together as if he’s zoning out but not quite.

Between gritted teeth, you say, “Get out.”

“I’ve heard you can be like this,” he says, “I’ve heard a few things, Miss Charmante.”

You cringe. Hard. “You did an extremely shitty job at gathering info then, because I am not Charmante in any way.”

This seems to shatter Jungkook’s patience. He steps in, closer to the guy, you largely behind him. He is vexed to the core, and you tell him to come back just in time, just before he can let his heart take over his mind. Taehyung grabs his arm, but Jungkook is already speaking.

You can’t hear it all amidst the chatter, but you see him pointing at something, the general direction of the exit. Then, something you do hear, more accentuated, “Get the fuck out. Or I swear.”

He’s angry. Trembling a little — if you think about it well enough, you realise that he didn’t snap until the topic turned fully towards you. God…

“Okay,” the man says, corners of his mouth down now. His eyes wander behind his dark brown bangs, and then he repeats, “Okay. Sorry.”

And then he leaves.

Jungkook stands frozen for a few seconds, but once he’s assured that he isn’t coming back, jump-scaring any of you, he turns to look at you. Blinking slowly, squeezing your hand. He brushes over your shoulder with his free fingers, asks, “You okay?”

Your reassurance doesn’t wait, “Yes. Yes, I was going to ask you.”

“I’m good, baby,” he obviously lies, thick eyebrows still kissing. “If he comes back, let me know. And stay close if you can.”

You deliver a nod as his palm wanders to your hot face, blood boiling underneath. He brushes your hair back, his thumb drawing a tiny pattern on the back of your hand. And then, he takes a deep, fresh breath and returns to his prior spot.

Your friends take it upon themselves to care for the two of you, brushing your shoulders and taking turns in soothing you and Jungkook. They keep talking, first about the creep and then about anything.

But you don’t register all of it. Though Jungkook does his best to revive the blissful mood, his eyes don’t leave you anymore. Not once.

He stays like this for a while, and then, gradually, goes back to normal.

But even then, you can see his expression change every now and then.

The exhibition’s closing time is set for 6PM.

It’ll be over soon — fifteen more minutes. The party is supposed to start around 7:30 because people need to bid others farewell and clean up and whatnot. For Jungkook, this wrap up time falls shorter because he has a smaller booth.

The hall is already quieting down, fewer visitors, softer chatter. Jungkook did not sell everything, but he bartered off a good amount for a significant, healthy amount of money.

But for him, it’s more the thought of somebody acquiring anything at all. Naturally it is.

He’s already more restless than he has been the entire day combined. Tired, leaning on tables, conversing with you and the others, balancing on one foot, then the other. His body must hurt.

A few last-minute visitors come by, forcing out the remnants of his energy; sometimes, they are ones circling back to buy a piece. “We decided. We’ll take that one after all.”

Jungkook and the rest of the crew are mostly hopeful, albeit exhausted, winding down as they watch people drift out with rolled-up posters or wrapped canvases or boxed sculptures.

Then, when 6PM hits, one of the organisers, Mr. Paik and, what you reckon, a student rep eventually announce, “We’re closing for today — thank you greatly everybody for coming!”

Your friends are soon shovelled out, but you are allowed to stay — courtesy of one Kim Namjoon.

You wait and watch as Jungkook carefully takes down his remaining work, unhooking paintings, wrapping them in paper or bubble wrap, stacking frames. Most of them aren’t too large, the bigger ones already sold; so it’ll be possible to take them back in the car.

Then, he indulges in a short talk with Paik, thanking him again before helping a few other artists, especially those who live-painted today, collecting prints, tape or easels.

The sold items are handed over to the customers who then proceed to the payment spot, or pick up what they didn’t yet receive. By the end, the hall finds its noise again, but this time rather due to the cacophony composed of the clatter of packing boxes and the rustle of paper.

Everybody is joking around, everything feels bittersweet. Pride and relief and fatigue mix.

It’s not fully the same with Jungkook, though. You can’t keep your eyes off him as he smiles faintly at you and everyone else. His hair is messy from the long day, and you still perceive at least a subtle glow from the numerous compliments. 

But you can see something bothering him, too. You don’t need to guess too hard either to understand what it might be.

As your time to leave nears, you tell him for the umpteenth time today, “See? You survived your first fair. The only way is up.”

“Barely,” his voice, now feeble and quieter, admits, “my back is broken and— but I’m still breathing.”

He stops before saying it, but you know that his ego is bruised, too. When he breathes out, the action is strained, and he says, “I will go get our coats, okay? Wait for me.”

You catch his hand for a moment, want to ask, have his back. But his eyes are gentle, brown and innocent, so you decide to delay the question. Instead, you say, “Hurry.”

Which doesn’t happen; insane queue at the checkroom. But when he comes back, handing the beige, warm coat to you, you pull him into you in a motion, hugging him close. He adheres, wrapping his arms around you swiftly. His hands are warm on your back.

He doesn’t question your intentions, nor does he resist. Only tightens a bit when you say, “I’m sorry about that jerk.”

“Nah,” he whispers, “not your fault. You don’t even know him.”

You distance your body by a miniscule inch, looking into his face as you wonder, “Did you? Remember him?”

“Not really. But… he seemed strangely familiar, the bloody asshole…”

“I agree!” You bite your cheek, move your head back and forth, and then cuddle back into him. “I know it’s not my fault, but I’m just so sorry in general. You didn’t deserve to hear all that shit.”

He’s silent for a moment. You know he concurs, but one can’t always ignore nuisances, you know. Sometimes, emotions are difficult to control.

He embraces you tightly, closer, cheek on your temple and lips skimming your nose. His breath tickles your face as he says, “Yeah, but— it didn’t matter in the end. It was a good day. I’m just annoyed that somebody like him had to come on a day like this, of all days possible.”

“It’s probably some journalist we’ve seen before.”

You lean back, slowly parting from him, watching his reaction. He seems unsure.

“I don’t think so,” he confesses, “he didn’t give off that energy.” He gnaws on his lower lip. “You didn’t deserve it either, you know? Made me snap. The Charmante thing was clearly an attempt to rile you up good.”

“What the hell does he know?” As you bury your hands in the pockets of your coat, Jungkook fixes your collars. “It’s okay. Really, it’s over.” You give a tilt of your head. “Wanna go?”

“It’s really over, huh?” He glances around one more time, sighs. And then nods. “Let’s go.”

The car is warm and snug, much more comfortable than the hall or the streets. Even without the heating, you feel your body’s temperature rise, your mind calming down from the noise.

But you’re afraid of the yawns emerging, so you suggest, “Straight to the afterparty, then?”

He takes a look at his watch, hesitating. “Dunno… we’d be extremely early. Some of them need to go home… Namjoon will only be there at eight, too. And you know, some are still tidying up—”

“Then… wanna get some fried chicken?”

He seems to consider it. “You hungry?”

The fair might have failed at delivering proper booze, but the finger food was plenty. Maybe you snacked a bit more than you should’ve — or maybe you would’ve snacked less if you’d known about the party earlier.

You admit, “Honestly… not really. You?”

He pauses to gauge his own current situation, and once he’s deducted all he needs to, he says, “Strangely, me neither.” You angle your head in question; who are you suddenly talking to? But upon catching your bafflement, he explains amused, “I ate a lot once my mom came around and asked. I will be hungry when we’re at the party, though.”

You lean back. “Okay, you know what? Then we should just drive around for now. No use in going home. Let’s find some higher ground… an observatory or something. Some make out spot.”

Jungkook nearly chokes at the spontaneous, casual idea thrown into nothing, and he laughs bewildered, emphasising, “What?”

“What? Seeing you like this got me excited today. I was dying thinking about kissing you—”

“Ah… Really?”

You have quite an effect on him. The smile he usually keeps plastered to his face is back in no time as you sweet-talk him. Whatever somewhat hostile demeanour he carried before breaks and softens in your presence, and the prospect of what you suggested urges him to act.

You see all of it right away. Feel the distance close when he nears you, lips suddenly closer. Your heart still skips a million beats as it would months ago. When you first fell for him, unknowing of actual love, of actual dedication.

Thoughts barely clean, you answer, “Yes… yes, and your rainy town painting did not help.”

“Mmmh… fortunate.”

His breath is cool from the weather, and even after all these hours, he still smells like his favourite cologne. You lift your hands to his arms, touching the black leather jacket. It’s a bit too thin for the temperature, but his body needs more to freeze.

And then this warm, thick sweater of his, buttoned up over his white shirt. Considering all this and your generous help, Jungkook won’t feel the cold tonight.

You catch him licking his lower lip, and it snaps some wire in your brain. Without a single thought in this head of yours, you curse, “God fucking hell… I was dying for this today, Kook—”

“You wanted to kiss me this badly?”

“…You didn’t?”

His laugh nearly reminds of a mock, as if you’ve uttered something so unbelievably foolish. You probably have, now that you rethink your drowsy words.

“I always want to,” he tells you, mouth brushing yours as he speaks, “all the fucking time. You nearly sabotaged things for me today.”

Then, he only steals a teeny tiny kiss from you, barely touching, but it affects you. You’re all tipsy all of a sudden, head spinning, even with just some of the light, harmless alcohol. Drunk because you want to be drunk.

But Jungkook will never cease to be Jungkook. You should’ve foreseen it before he does it: retreating when you hunger the most, leaving you dry until you complain, “Why—”

“You said make out spot, huh? You really thought,” he starts the engine, eyes already impatient, “you’d say that and I’d ignore it?”

As if.

You laugh; chuckle from the depths of your heart, thrilled and pleased at once. You will always be met with bumps in your road, but you need to keep moving at the pace you know.

Strangers have nothing on this. Nothing at fucking all. And for now, as long as there’s an anchor, you’re happy.

It’s a lucky day.

You dodge the red traffic lights and let the vehicle run through town smoothly. Jungkook takes you to a low mountain at the edge of the city in no time, but by now, you’re already a tad too far from the bar.

Nobody will judge you for being late, though. It was an important day, a once-in-a-year event for those trying to get themselves out there, so they’ll probably celebrate the success for a whole while tonight.

The two of you don’t drive all the way up the mountain; you recall that there actually is an observatory point in the middle of the journey, halfway through. It is usually reserved for tourists, a parking spot that enables a mostly unobstructed view to the night sky.

Due to the pre-winter, it’s already dark. You’re glad you stopped here; up at the peak, there is nothing more than a probably already closed café, so your lonely, stranded car might have looked suspicious there.

Then again, you’re barely here to look at the stars anyway. There is only one more car around, but nobody’s inside. It occurs to you that you can’t go all wild as long as there’s a chance for them to return and to find you unhinged.

But then, you also find out that the day is on your side for real because the stray people arrive from the depths of the darkness only five minutes later. Probably didn’t have anything more innocent in their minds than you do.

You have barely gotten used to the switched off heating when they leave, your eyes unblinking until he taps your arm. You turn to him, and he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

You give a half smile. “You know what I’m thinking.”

“Ah. Yes. You want to undress me.”

Your laugh is heartfelt, but it dies quickly. You place a cold hand on his, rubbing as you still absorb key moments of the previous hours. You’re still aching for all of him, but you can’t shake the urge to protect him, either.

As if he could fall back into doubt if you don’t talk it out now; if you distract him for the night before he wakes up with lingering indignation.

“Yes. Obviously,” you tell him, winking once, “but. Just. You know you totally have the ability to ignore clowns like the one today, right? He was clearly there to trigger you, and you did extremely well to A, not entertain him and B, walk out of there as successful as you were.”

He listens to you with initial unease, as if you reminded him of it, and then melts with each word. You’re a big talker, as much as you’re a big writer, and you want to communicate the way he does with you.

There are too many wars between people, races, genders… you want to be vocal about your support in any, though personal, way.

Jungkook turns his hand under yours and laces your fingers together.

“Yeah, no, fuck that guy. It was wholly unnecessary.” His head falls back onto the headrest, and he admits, “I can deal with people like him. I know what’s true about me and what isn’t. And my family was there and they loved everything and for the first time, I saw Dad being open and proud and… and honest about what I do—”

He lifts his free hand, gesturing loosely towards you. “But the thing he said to you, it just… ticked me off.”

Your chest warms. You knew, you saw.

“It’s just a title owned by questionable people, Kook, really—”

“Whatever it is,” he intervenes, “I heard the tone he said it in. Like he was poking fun at your existence, or disregarding what you have been building on your own now.”

If you look at it like this…

“I know,” you mutter, “but as I said, he needed a reaction. Whether journalist or random ass, he clearly has a problem with us and wanted to provoke us.”

“Weird. I mean, I know we appeared in magazines and stuff sometimes, but… I just didn’t think people got this invested.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

He nods, and you wait for him to add further thoughts. But he falls silent, staring at the horizon and the buildings still visible in the distance. You turn to your side, facing him properly and say, “You know what I remembered, by the way? You still haven’t shown me some of your pieces.”

One of his dark eyebrows rises, an arch you’d love to peck. “And I won’t either.”

“…Until?”

“Ever.”

A whine emerges from you; it faintly sounds like his deformed name. You clutch his hand until the grip turns too harsh, and he escapes with difficulty before he wraps his palm around yours.

His body lightly shakes with a hushed but goofy laugh, a young expression gracing his sharp yet round features as he gingerly kisses your fingertips. You’re already at the safest place, but he still assures you lovingly, “No, no. Just until I score my very own big ass boss exhibition. With my very own name. Or at least, partly.”

“So the next one?”

He smiles. “Probably not.”

Yes… you know it takes patience and extreme effort to have one’s name decorating a popular museum’s ad. But you’re not too worried about it. Any progress counts.

“The upcoming one is important,” he says, “but I will still be sharing the place with so many people. Imagine an entire floor just for me, though.”

“Easy.” 

“Hopefully.”

You mean it; you’ve seen fully neutral artlovers comment on his stuff in a similar way that you do, possibly with a more elaborated jargon. But just perceiving others’ reactions, you know your opinion isn’t entirely based on your bias.

Still, you complain, “But I’ll only see it all then?”

A firm, “Yes.”

“Damn, Jungkook. But I guess that only means it’s groundbreaking, and most importantly, all about me. Just the way I like.”

At least he doesn’t deny it. Instead he winks like you did before, promising that, “You’ll see.”

“Just how obsessed you are with me?”

“I thought you already knew. I thought us being here showed you as much.”

You continue your poised, convinced act as long as he lets you, joking before you can’t speak anymore at all. You know because he’s already much closer to you, the thirst returning to his pitch-black but glinting pupils.

“I need constant reminders, Jungkook,” you tell him with an eye-roll, “blueballing fucks with my memory.”

“This must be a new scientific theory. You can’t just make it up.”

He’s too damn close but not nearly close enough. At a distance you can’t condone — because either he pulls back to keep your concentration, or he finally approaches and kills the remaining inches in between.

But not this.

You’re surprisingly breathless when you talk again, “Jungkook, please— seriously.”

You fast-forward in his place. Lean in, you yank him into you and press your lips to his balmy, soft mouth. He doesn’t defy you. His hands search for you, not yet finding what they’re seeking as his thoughts twirl, but then he grips your face; angles it; kisses you with hot intensity.

He is so… warm against you.

Your mind is a mess, too. Whatever comment you still held ready quickly dispels, and at some point, when you part, you whisper his name, and he hums, switches sides. He fits between your lips just right, like a glove.

His constant intentions to sweep you off your feet work like a charm.

You can’t see that much, but whenever you pause to catch your breaths, you see his hazy eyes. Besides, the darkness enhances your other senses — insofar that you can hear his tiny panting, out of breath. But he still kisses you on, and…

And you feel the fingers pressing into the nape of your neck, pulling you in, and you notice how he fumbles with your coat, finds your hips and your shirt, dips underneath.

“You’re so—” you start, but he’s faster, stopping you mid-motion when you nearly make an effort to jump his bones, telling you, “Maybe not here?”

Goddamn gearshift.

“I could do it,” you challenge, stealing kisses, a hand on his chest and then his stomach. “I could straddle you and give you the time of your life right here, on the driver’s seat.”

“Oh, I… I want you to. But it’d be uncomfortable and… maybe also a bit dangerous.” He squeezes your thigh and whispers against your cheek. “Backseat.”

You wouldn’t dare to hesitate. It’s not cold as you switch seats, occupying the space behind with your coat thrown on the passenger seat. It takes barely a couple seconds, and a few more before you find yourself climbing him as you promised.

He is already rock hard. If you could guess, you’d say he has been since you left the parking lot at the fair.

You mouth, only minimal sound escaping, “Car fuck again, huh?”

“Either that,” he matches your tone, “or we go for one of the porta pottis out there.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, typical; and then, he’s already freeing your neck of whatever obstacle, lips attaching to your neck like a magnet. He kisses up and down the scorching skin, and when he tugs you in, a hand on the back of your head, you say, “We just keep defiling this space…”

“As if you care.

“I do not care.”

“Good. Me neither. Not right now at least.”

His voice vibrates against your skin, intense and goosebump-inducing. Even when it disappears from where it was, you still shiver as he pulls you back by your hair, targeting your collarbone with wet kisses and licks and gentle bites.

And then his hands. The goddamn hands, too warm for this weather, on your legs, up and down your thighs, direct contact only hindered by your tights. He’s trying his best to get where he wants to, wanders until he finally detects an easy way to reach your heat.

And when he does, he doesn’t waste a second. Starts his thing with fervour and zealousness.

You enjoy the feeling as much as on any other day; today, you just wish you could speed it up. Because, “You barely need to,” you tell him, “I bet I could take you already.”

He exhales deeply. You know it’s the same sigh you emit when he says something indecently scandalous. When it reaches your core and reverberates throughout your entire body. 

And right now, you see how keen he is because the thought of every inch filled excites you at least as much as him.

“Ah yes,” he huffs, “you were going to give me the night of my life, isn’t that right?”

“Right now.”

“Good. Good.”

“And you?”

“Am I going to give you the night of your life?”

He says it like a matter-of-fact. As if doubting him was your ultimate sin.

You answer it yourself, “You always do, but… what do you want to do this time?”

“Do I need to tell you?” You wince when he neglects your core for a moment, digging his nails into your ass like a cat baring her claws. At the sound of his name, he kneads harder, vowing that, “I’ll do what I need to do, for sure. Don’t worry.”

You struggle to speak, “Wha—what’s that, though?”

He laughs. You’re bold and eager and hungry for details, and he relishes the attitude. As a man fond of and favouring a good tease, he prompts you, “I’m going to let you start. And then I’ll wreck you thoroughly.”

A shiver runs down your spine. As if it’s his daily job, yet something he’s deprived of.

“How will you be doing that?” 

One more try. But he’s done with it.

Commands roughly, firmly, “Shut up.”

“I—”

“Stop talking.”

And then he’s raising your dress, up to your ribs. He still keeps it on, even though you see the obvious resistance, his urge to peel it off your body. But he’s aware of the cold despite the heat of the moment — so he only tucks it under your bra, kissing on your tits, nibbling at the flesh until he lets go again.

What a bother of a man.

You throw your head back, humping and rubbing slowly, deliberately delicate in order to make him feel every inch of you on every inch of him. If anyhow possible, his shaft hardens further.

“Come on,” you lust, repeating like a plea. “Take the dress the fuck off—”

“Think it through. You could get sick.”

“Or,” you protest, “I could not.”

You help yourself, opening the first buttons of your winter cotton dress, only the few that the design allows. It’s a deep maroon, lovely and elegant, which is why you can’t ruin it just now. You need it off at least a little.

Only reason. Promise.

Also, you have a pretty clear picture in your head of what you look like with half of it open, sheer red bra on full display, and you know it hits him like a fully flat-handed slap when he curses, “The fuck. Did you plan this?”

“This specifically?” you say, playing with the buttons, “No. But for something to happen tonight at all? Dunno. Maybe. We are rabbits anyway, are you surprised?”

“Not wrong. I would never stop,” another lick along the mound of your tit, nerves alight; excitement travels down, “you’re so pretty, how could I?”

You nearly falter. Right on your throne, collapsing into him, muscles feeble and brain liquid. There’s always more he can do to you, and he proves it all the fucking time — like now.

When he kisses the veins up your neck, touches along your naked sides, so far gone that just a moment later, he digs his nails between your thighs again and—

Rips your tights.

You gasp in shock. You should’ve expected this, but somehow, the sound still courses through you too suddenly. Immediately, you hear him come to his senses, apologising, “Fuck— sorry. Sorry, I wasn’t—”

“Thinking, huh?” you finish, shaking your head, though, a second later, you couldn’t care less. “Definitely weren’t. You,” you near his ear, breathing against the lobe, “are fucking lucky I always bring an extra pair in case they rip.”

“As if you know me…”

“Or just, y’know. Fabric.”

“Business major and fashion guru, y’all…” His smile is as fucked out as it can be; you adore it. “I’m lucky, yeah? I wonder what you’d have done.”

“Not the place to really make you my bitch,” you tell him, and he laughs at the manner of expression, tilting his head, “we both know I can’t torture you as much as you can right now. Except maybe…”

“…You wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know me then.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He’s right, of course, but you won’t tell him. No, you will not leave him dry. No, you cannot live any more hours without him wrecking your shit.

Every fibre of your body needs every piece of him. Every touch around you, every kiss on your lips, every inch of what he has to offer filling your walls. You’re a waterfall. 

“Whatever,” you brush it off, finding his tongue with your own. It’s sweet and hot. Messy and wet. So counterproductive for your makeup and entirely welcomed. “Shut the fuck up.” More mingling. More grinding. “Do something in order to make the loss of my tights worth it.”

You feast on him, his taste, the way he feels. How he takes each of your kisses and the constant movements of your hips. How he almost effortlessly and obediently pulls down his pants while you lift. All the way to his calves, and then a snap of your panties to the side, all in very few motions.

Your moan is loud and nearly embarrassing when he dips two fingers inside straight, your pussy closing in and out around his digits. You lean back, so it’s easier for him to coordinate the shoves, and to your delight, he widens you; massages your tits at the same time.

And goddamn it — the eventual beginning of everything when he leaves your heat, your damp nether lips touching on his smooth, hard, exposed length… you might spiral. It feels final, like there’s nothing more satisfying, the head twitching against your pussy violently.

Jungkook is waiting, but not saying too much. Not when your quivering legs carry up by inches again and you cautiously spit down his dick. Not when you wrap your hand around the shaft, heavy and big in your hand, spreading the nasty liquid before you sink down onto him slowly.

He’s perfectly still — aside from the heavy breaths, the spinning mind, the blazing skin. Only breaking when your eyebrows knit and you wrap your arms around him, only halfway along his cock as he states, “I want to fuck you dumb.” You swallow hard. “I will fuck you so stupid, angel.”

And he keeps his promise. Heaves his ass, pushing into you with ease, not rushed but still going until he’s balls deep. Your pelvis touches his, your ass on his lap and for a minute, you only take in the feeling of his member jerking inside you.

It’s so fucking nice; so good. So satisfying, how buried he is, how well it fits. You hold him closer, gripping his hair. Sousing him entirely.

You can’t think.

“You call me angel while doing this.”

“Mmmh, my angel. Munchkin… sweetheart,” he utters under his breath, “I can say all this ‘cause you make me. Duality— Need you desperately—”

He can’t seem to form full sentences either. Is he talking about your or his own duality? Either way, he’s not wrong; even his insane self understands your two’s nature.

“Then take me, baby. I’m all yours.”

His fingers push into your skin, possibly bruising it when you shove your tits into his face. And when he bites down again, you whimper, both because of his sharp, ardent touches and the sensation down under.

You remain there for just another moment, shivering, forehead to forehead. You kiss him again, and as you do, you start moving because the fierce whack on your ass urges you to. What a monster.

You curse at the arousing sting, “Fuck, Kook—”

Another spank as you take your time to come back down; he warns, “I can take over, too, y’know.”

“I wouldn’t fucking mind, y’know?”

You hold onto his shirt — he already forsook the jacket and the sweater at an endless traffic light —, remembering last second to not ruin it because of the godforsaken party where you’ll appear in total disorder as it is. But you can’t bother at the moment. Right now, you’re all nerves, sinking and rising.

Faster by the minute, but neither enough for him nor you. Because he orders, “Fuck, fuck, harder!”

You do, though your thighs are somewhat weak, giving in to the sensitive feeling as he reaches in fully; and once he’s lost all his marbles, Jungkook helps out. Helps out good.

He shifts down the seat until his knees, legs spread, hitting the seats in front — and then, he thrusts up once. 

It takes your breath away.

You gasp and choke, and he wraps his arms around you, presses you flush against him. The position aids him, makes it much, much easier for him to penetrate harder, faster, deeper.

So much easier that you cry out. Loud.

You bury your mouth in his shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut hard, careful to not shed any tears. But you scream out each time he jolts inside, with such vigour that your body bounces up, head close to the car’s ceiling.

“All good,” he more so says than asks, but he still slows down for the tiniest moment, just until you nod, and then repositions and continues to jackhammer.

This man’s got some energy.

Even musters the strength to talk as he says, “If I could… I’d push you down against the— the hood and take you right there.”

You know why. This is a congested space after all. You sometimes understand where his mind goes — and you know this fantasy of his won’t rest until he’s home, bending you over a table or the bed, pounding you to Heaven one upcoming day or the other.

Jungkook always enjoys the vision of handling you around; loves seeing your body dissolve and your eyes rolling back. He wants to wrap a hand around your neck, push you into the pillow, kiss your cheek and your back and trap you under the sheets as he goes.

Fuck.

You might not be in your cosy bedroom, but the thought suffices for you to drip onto his cock. You challenge, with the last of your breaths, every inhale and exhale higher pitched than before, “I’m brave and… and bold, remember?”

“Yes and… and also get sick qui–quickly.”

“Might have to risk it at some poin… point,” you whisper, “this is… so…”

Wicked. Delicious. If anybody caught you here, you’d be the talk of every fashion magazine.

But the two of you gave each other a taste of this very spot, this position once, and somehow, you can’t let go. If you must, you’ll ride him in his car every damn day. Leave your apartment at a free moment, walk down to the garage, just to do this.

You’re insane. You bite your lip; though he was a much deadlier beast last time, destroying you with your permission in the same stance as you are now, he isn’t much less relentless now.

You can’t help but lift your lips, utterly satisfied.

But Jungkook sees something else.

Immediately following your statement, your smile looks sly and testing; then again, you’re not stupid. It’s probably on purpose, isn’t it? You know it’s a major turn-on for him; the tip of your tongue on your upper lip, the breaths as you grow tired and that damn grin that attempts to get to him.

Well, it does.

“Fuck it. Don’t need the hood,” he states, heaps of confidence in his voice and movements before he slides to the right and…

You shriek when he turns you suddenly; you think your head will surely collide with the window or the door or the handle, but… Jungkook is nimble and careful. Nearly magically adept when it comes to you.

But somehow, your back presses into the seat safe and sound. His face is levitating above yours, fingers raising your leg that’d be pushed into the crack of the seat — but otherwise sandwiches you between him and the cushions.

His own limbs are in an odd formation, too. One leg angled, with its foot on the ground, the other kneeling next to your knee. You first imagine the discomfort, but then you see his face. Focused yet not a single thought in his head. He’s rooting for your relief but begging for his own ecstasy, too.

So he chases it; slides his soaken dick back in, no resistance. He plants his hands on your hips before he floats down to you, kisses you again. Pulls you down by a couple inches, mostly, as you guess, to avoid your head hitting the door, but… in the same motion, his cock digs much deeper, too.

You wail—

Fuck, even if you did hit your head, you’d probably blend out the pain. This is taking over everything; he is taking over everything.

In this position, there’s some leeway for his thumb to find your aching, swollen nub — and when he does, you lose sense of time and space. The lust might’ve built up today; it surely did because…

“Isn’t this a bit different from last time at least?” he asks as you open your mouth, orgasm crashing over you quickly.

He doesn’t think you’re listening anymore, and the realisation fills him with unspeakable contentment. How could it not? You’re his first and foremost cheerleader.

How many times have you told him in the last few weeks alone what he’s able to do to you? How he’s a wonder to any woman, but specifically to this woman right here, a gifted sex-god making the world a better place.

You do say a lot of rewarding things when you’re fucked out of your mind. Jungkook remembers delightfully chuckling about it minutes after the two of you were done.

Trying to quieten your high, you bite into your lip, but Jungkook, as determined as ever, releases it right away. He falls further inches, soon glued to you, and you push your mouth to his shoulder, drooling and biting.

Your conscious train of thoughts only resumes once you’re done; it takes a moment, especially because Jungkook doesn’t slow down. He has his own bliss to reach.

But you still manage to finally respond, “Doesn’t need to be different, y’know… I— I’d never complain.”

He laughs. “Of course… me neither…”

And then, entirely unrelated, filterlessly speaking your mind, you mutter directly into his ear, “Come in my mouth.”

You feel the shudder. Feel the goosebumps. He’s easy to read because he doesn’t conceal anything.

“What?” he whispers.

“Do it. No time to ruin my underwear—”

He swallows hard; slows down. His hip still squirms a bit, body rearranging, cock shifting inside you; pulling moans out of you. And after the tiniest bit of deliberation, he moves. Up and out of you.

“That was easy,” you mumble.

“Shut up.”

“No. You,” you trace the line of his pelvis, just as his knees move up the seat until they’re next to your head. “Are enjoying this too much, so I will, too.”

His finger settles under your chin, lifts your head until it aligns with his cock. He presses it down to your lips, wet against them. You faintly detect a smirk, hear him say, “This really is… still the highlight of my day.”

You kiss the head of his cock as the back of his hand runs along your cheek. “Liar.”

“I couldn’t stop looking at you. I do—” you open your mouth, tongue out and he taps the hard length against it, groaning upon its effect, “—need you all the time.”

“I’ll be here.”

You angle your arm over his intruding leg, gripping the end of his cock, grazing his balls. Raising your head a little, you take him in; taste him and yourself, hollow your cheeks around him.

He helps you — puts a hand under your head, guides you, shifts, and then throws his head to his side when you wrap around him.

“My baby,” you hear him call, once and twice and then again. “Pretty.”

There isn’t just nasty lust in his eyes. As far as the light of the city and the moon and the stars allow, you see love in them unmatched. He truly cannot stop looking at you; that is until you aid him to reach the end, pushing at his legs until he’s shifting back and your upper body up.

You can take much more like this, so he doesn’t complain. Only holds your head and then the back of your neck, calling your name and the endearments he loves. Unconsciously moves his hip, though never aggressively.

Until he finally breaks. The strings hit your throat harshly, hot and somewhat nauseating, thick. But you can’t care; you only swallow fast and without a thought, concentrating on the stutter of his body and the sounds he emits. Your fingers brush along his abs.

Half a minute longer… and then it’s over.

“Fuck,” Jungkook curses. Stays like this for a bit; and then, with a confession on his lips, falls back with shut eyes. “Should do this more often.”

“Gonna become a ritual, huh…”

He smirks. You’re out of breath and dehydrated. It takes a few moments until your pulse calms and Jungkook can open his eyes again—

And as the moments go by, the cold air in the car, now unheated, hits your sweaty skin. God, you’ll be a mess at the party, truly. You dress quickly, avoiding the season’s wrath.

And then, you sit in silence. You should probably go and get to the place. But you wait it out; let the lingering euphoria wane before you look at him again. He’s already staring. Not in a scary or creepy way, but… as though softened by a light filter.

If you had any energy left, you’d kiss him again; but your lips feel swollen. So you only keep looking. Move on your seat, preparing for a hug, ready to stay in his arms for just a few more minutes until…

You feel a somewhat hard and square object poking at your thigh, right under your leg.

“Oh shit,” you say, fishing out the polaroid that you threw back here, in a hurry and remembering last second when you left this morning. “The camera…”

“I… forgot about it. Is it still intact?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, inspecting, “I also forgot about it. How did it get here?”

You think you recall it being in the corner for most of the day, before you went to the fair and afterwards, too. In the heat of the moment, you might have pushed it aside, only to sit on it now. Lucky that it didn’t interfere before.

“You took some today, right?” Jungkook asks, nodding to your purse. “Saw some of them.”

“Yes! A few.” You take the camera from him, suggesting, “We can take more at the party with this.” And then, as a pause follows, you ask, “Wanna go? We’re already late.”

“Mmh, do you want to?”

It’s a genuine question. He didn’t silence all of a sudden because he doesn’t want to. It’s rather a careful tone, making sure you are okay with the still remaining plans despite your fatigue.

You joke, “I’d have loved to keep you on me all night but—”

“No really… Are you sure? We can just go home. I know how tired you are.”

“We can power through. You deserve this, so I want us to go.”

“Baby…” He hesitates. Hesitates while he hesitates. “You are exhausted.”

“You are, too.”

He makes a move towards the door, ready to jump back into the driver’s seat, “Let’s go home then.”

You put the camera to the side, holding him back before you catch his face with your palms. Squishing his cheeks a bit, you seek the depths of his eyes, assuring, “No. It’s an opportunity for you. We can’t do this every day, and I want you to have what you truly want.”

You know he’s a syllable away from cracking the joke you know by heart already, so you shake your head, “I’m serious.”

“…Are you sure?”

“I’m always sure.”

Jungkook looks down to his clothes, pressing his lips together. When he releases them, he remarks, “We’ll be all sweaty and messy.”

You let go of his face, rolling your eyes. “No offense, but I feel like all of us are after today. Especially you guys. Hustled so hard.”

The exhale tells you everything you need to know. He’s relieved, glad, keeping you a priority but happy to pursue his dreams, too. So naturally, you’ll put him on top of your list.

And it’s fulfilling, sweet and tender to hear, “You really are the best. If you change your mind, do tell me. ‘Kay?”

You close the distance, peck his cheek. “Always.”

And exhaustion or not, there is no existing word to describe the sense of achievement as the car rolls out the still empty parking lot — you will always strive to be greater than before.

And help him become it, too.

THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

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