𓏲𝄢

This is a little space I’ve made mostly dedicated to imagination.

✦ what you’ll find here

— x reader fics

— headcanons & blurbs & reactions

— angst, softness, smut

— late-night thoughts that probably should’ve stayed secrets

✦ requests: open! (Meow button)

✦ rules

— respect the space. no hate — You’ll get scratched out.

— i won’t write: gore, snuff, waste play (skat/pee/vomit), incest, or anything non-consensual.

— patience is a virtue… and i take my time with writing.

— don’t steal what isn’t yours. my work stays mine unless i say otherwise.

— likes are cute, but reblogs? Amazing.

✦ little secrets

— i disappear when i feel like it… but i always come back within a year.

Paring: F!Reader x Namjoon | SMUT (Dumbification + Praise)

The first thing you notice is the stretch, the delicious, burning fullness that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with a gasp. Namjoon is already moving, a deep, steady rhythm that has you arching off the mattress, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the sweat-slick planes of his back. The room is dark, except for the sliver of moonlight cutting across his shoulders, illuminating the intense focus on his face.

“There you go,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling vibration you feel more than hear. His hips snap forward, and you cry out, a broken sound swallowed by the heavy air. “Just like that. Taking me so well.”

His praise , each filthy, adoring word loosens something in your mind, untethering your thoughts. You’re not thinking about tomorrow, or your name, or anything beyond the feeling of him, the sound of him, the sight of his blown-wide pupils fixed on yours.

“You can take it, baby,” he coaxes, his pace increasing incrementally, each thrust landing with pinpoint accuracy against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Your vision whites out for a second, your mouth falling open on a silent scream. “I know you can. So good for me. Just a dumb, pretty thing for me to love, right?”

The word, dumb, should sting. Instead, it sinks in. You don’t need to think right now. He’s thinking for both of you. Your coherence begins to slip, thoughts dissolving into pure sensation. A plea tries to form on your lips, but it comes out as a garbled moan, syllables smearing together.

Namjoon’s breath hitches, a feral, pleased sound. “What was that, sweetheart? Can’t understand you.” He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. “Use your words.”

You try. You really do. But all that emerges is a whimper, high and desperate, as he angles his hips again, hitting that perfect place with relentless precision. “R-right… there…?” you manage to slur, the words thick and clumsy on your tongue.

A slow, cocky smile spreads across his face. “Yeah?” he breathes, his own control fraying at the edges. “Right there? That’s my girl. Knew you could find it. Just a little more, come on.”

The pressure is building, a coil tightening low in your belly, threatening to snap. Drool gathers at the corner of your mouth, forgotten as every nerve ending fires for him and him alone. You’re babbling now, a continuous stream of “Joon, Joon, please, ‘s too much, ‘s so good,” that makes no logical sense.

He sees it. His thrusts become shorter, harder, punishingly deep. With a tenderness that contrasts violently with the carnal act, he brings his thumb up and gently swipes the strand of saliva from your lip. His eyes are dark with awe and possession. “Look at you,” he whispers, his voice rough with reverence. “So far gone.. I’ve got you.”

That’s all it takes. His words, his touch, the fullness, it shatters you. The climax crashes over you not with a choked, sobbing gasp, your body seizing around him as your mind finally, blissfully empties of everything but him. You tremble violently, seeing nothing.

He follows you over the edge with a groan, his own release wracking his powerful frame. For long moments, the only sounds are your ragged breaths mingling in the dark.

As the aftershocks subside, he doesn’t pull away. He collapses beside you, gathering your boneless, pliant form against his chest. He presses a kiss to your damp temple, his fingers carding through your hair. You nuzzle into his neck, capable only of making a soft, contented noise.

“Shhh,” he soothes, his voice back to its normal, gentle timbre, though laced with deep satisfaction. “Just rest. You did so well, love.” And in the warm, safe darkness of his arms, with your mind quiet and your body sated, you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

Pairing: JHope x F!reader || SMUT.

"Jesus—you scared the hell out of me."

Hoseok froze mid-step, one foot still hovering over the kitchen tile like he'd been caught mid-heist. The dim glow of the fridge illuminated his startled face, his backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder. You stood there, half-empty water glass in hand, blinking at him like he was some kind of jet-lagged apparition.

"You weren't supposed to be back until Friday," you said, voice still thick with sleep. Your bare toes curled against the cool linoleum as Hoseok's gaze flickered down, just once, before snapping back up to your face. His throat worked silently around whatever excuse he'd been about to offer.

"Flight got moved up," he managed finally, shrugging off his backpack with a thump. "Thought I'd surprise you." The corner of his mouth twitched when your grip tightened on the glass. "Didn't think the surprise would be mutual."

Three weeks apart had done something dangerous to the space between you. The kitchen air hummed with it, the way his sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead, the way your thin cotton shirt suddenly felt transparent under his lingering stare. You took a slow sip just to have something to do with your hands.

Hoseok exhaled sharply through his nose and raked both hands through his hair. "Fuck, I missed you," he muttered, like it had been punched out of him. Then he was crossing the kitchen in two strides, catching your wrist just as you set the glass down. His thumb pressed into your pulse point. "Missed this."

The glass hit the counter with a dull thunk as Hoseok’s other hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body after weeks of separation was almost overwhelming, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with airport exhaustion and something distinctly *him*. You barely had time to register the roughness of his travel-worn jeans against your thighs before his mouth was on yours, hungry and impatient.

Three weeks of texts and blurry video calls collapsed into this single moment. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back as he deepened the kiss with a low groan that vibrated against your lips. You could taste the stale airplane coffee on his tongue, could feel the way his breathing stuttered when your nails scraped lightly down the back of his neck.

“Bed,” he murmured against your mouth, but neither of you moved. His hands were already sliding under your shirt, palms skimming up your sides with a familiarity that made your knees weak. The cool kitchen tiles were a stark contrast to the feverish warmth spreading under your skin as Hoseok backed you against the counter, his hips pressing forward in a way that left no question about how much he’d missed you.

Your shirt ended up on the floor somewhere between the kitchen and the hallway, his lips leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your throat as he walked you backward. The dim glow of the nightlight in the bedroom caught the exhaustion and want warring in his eyes when he finally pulled back to look at you, really look at you, for the first time since he’d walked in. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties, slow and deliberate, as if giving you one last chance to stop him.

His fingers hesitated against your skin, and you arched into the touch with a noise that was half-laugh, half-sigh. "You're really asking now?" Hoseok's answering grin was all teeth, the kind that made your stomach flip even after years together. The panties slid down your thighs in one smooth motion, his palms following the curve of your hips like he was relearning the map of you.

Air hit your bare skin just as his mouth found yours again, hotter this time, less controlled. The bed creaked under his weight when he pushed you down, one knee between yours as he shrugged out of his shirt. You could feel the tremble in his hands when you reached for his belt—not from nerves, but the kind of desperate restraint that came from weeks of pent-up want. The leather slid free with a sharp tug, and Hoseok exhaled sharply through his nose when your fingers brushed the hard line of him through his jeans.

"Wait—" He caught your wrist again, pressing your hand flat against his chest where his heartbeat thundered under your palm. His voice dropped to something rough and wrecked. "Let me look first." The way his gaze dragged over you, bare except for the rumpled sheets and the faint glow from the hallway, made your skin prickle. He traced the inside of your thigh with two fingers, slow and reverent, before leaning down to press his lips just below your navel. "Fuck, I thought about this every night," he admitted against your skin, the words muffled but unmistakable.

The confession unraveled something in you. You tangled your hands in his hair, longer now than when he'd left, soft between your fingers, and tugged. Hoseok went willingly, surging up to claim your mouth while his hands made quick work of the rest of his clothes. The first press of his bare skin against yours drew a gasp from both of you, the shock of contact after weeks apart almost dizzying. He rocked forward once, twice, just enough to tease, his forehead pressed to yours as you both caught your breath.

His breath hitched when you arched beneath him, your thighs tightening around his hips in silent demand. Hoseok made a sound low in his throat, part frustration, before dragging his mouth down your collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to make your back bow off the mattress. “God, you’re—” The rest of the sentence dissolved into Korean, muttered against your skin like a prayer as his hands slid under you, fingers splaying wide across the small of your back to pull you closer.

The mattress dipped under Hoseok’s shifting weight as he settled between your thighs, the warmth of his bare skin pressing flush against yours in a way that stole your breath. His hands, rough from guitar strings and travel, but achingly familiar, traced the curve of your waist, thumbs brushing the sensitive dip of your hips. “Look at you,” he murmured, the words thick with something between awe and hunger. His voice was wrecked already, the way it always got when he was trying too hard to hold back.

You arched into his touch, nails skimming down his spine just to feel him shudder. “Missed this,” you admitted, the confession muffled against his shoulder. His laugh was a soft huff of air against your temple, his lips finding the shell of your ear as he rocked forward, slow, drawing a gasp from your throat.

“Yeah?” His breath was hot against your skin, his grip tightening just enough to leave fleeting crescent marks on your hips. “Tell me.”

You didn’t have to. The way your body responded, arching into every drag of his rough palms, the way your breath hitched when his teeth grazed your pulse point, spoke louder than words. Hoseok knew, anyway. Knew the way your thighs trembled when he kissed the inside of your knee, knew the exact spot beneath your ear that made your fingers clutch at the sheets. He relearned them now, mapping every reaction like he was committing them to memory all over again.

Hoseok’s mouth traced a slow, torturous path down your throat, pausing just above your collarbone to suck a mark into your skin—the kind you’d have to hide tomorrow, the kind that made your toes curl. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His hand slid between your thighs, fingertips pressing just enough to draw a whimper from your throat. “I can tell.”

You gripped his shoulders, nails digging into the sweat-damp skin as his touch grew bolder, more insistent. Three weeks of distance evaporated under the slow drag of his fingers, the rhythm achingly familiar yet electric with the newness of reunion. His name tumbled from your lips like a plea, syllables fractured by the sharp hitch of your breath when his thumb circled just right.

Hoseok groaned against your neck, his hips grinding down against yours in a rough, unspoken demand. “Say it again,” he rasped, voice fraying at the edges. “Say my name like that.”

You obliged, gasping it into the space between his lips as he kissed you, deep and messy. His free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat to his teeth, his tongue. Everywhere he touched burned, not with the sharp sting of pain, but with the slow, molten pull of desire, the kind that pooled low in your belly and made your legs shake.

The mattress dipped as Hoseok shifted his weight, slotting himself more firmly between your thighs. The first press of him against your bare skin drew a ragged moan from your throat—half-relief, half-desperation—your hips canting up instinctively to meet him. He groaned against your collarbone, the sound rough and raw, fingers tightening in your hair. "Fuck, I—" His voice cracked, the rest of the sentence lost as he rocked forward, slow and deliberate, drawing another whimper from your lips.

"Look at me," he murmured, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, thumb pressing into the bone. You blinked up at him, dazed, and the way his gaze darkened at the sight of you, flushed and breathless beneath him, sent a fresh wave of heat curling through your veins. His lips parted around a shaky exhale, pupils blown wide with want. "I wanna see you when—"

You cut him off with a roll of your hips, arching into the press of his body, and Hoseok's grip on your hip tightened almost reflexively. A strangled noise escaped his throat, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled, muscles taut with restraint. "Tease," he accused, breathless, but the way his fingers trembled against your skin betrayed his own desperation.

The accusation dissolved into a groan when you rolled your hips again, slower this time, dragging a whimper from his throat as he shuddered above you. His grip on your hip shifted, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks you’d trace tomorrow with absent fingertips, remembering. “You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, but the way he rocked against you betrayed how little he minded the idea.

You arched into him, nails scraping down the taut muscles of his back, reveling in the way his breath hitched. “Promises, promises,” you breathed against his jaw, and Hoseok laughed breathlessly, before capturing your mouth again. His kiss was less controlled now, all teeth and tongue and the kind of desperation that came from weeks of waiting. You could feel the tremor in his hands as they skimmed down your sides, the way his hips stuttered when you wrapped your legs tighter around him.

His palm slid beneath you, lifting your hips just enough to angle you against him, and the first slow press of him inside drew a gasp from your lips. Hoseok froze, forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You feel—” The rest of the sentence fractured into a groan as you clenched around him, your thighs trembling against his hips.

He moved then, slow at first, dragging out each thrust until your fingers twisted in the sheets, until your breath came in shallow pants against his shoulder. But the weeks apart had stripped away any pretense of patience, and soon his pace grew uneven, his hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched your own. The bedframe creaked in protest, the sound lost beneath the slick slide of skin on skin, the ragged cadence of his breathing in your ear.

Hoseok’s rhythm faltered when your teeth grazed his shoulder, his hips stuttering against yours with a groan that vibrated through your chest. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to the heat of his mouth. Words dissolved into Korean, rough and guttural against your skin as his free hand slid between your bodies, fingertips pressing in time with each thrust.

The coil in your abdomen tightened abruptly, your back arching off the mattress as pleasure crested without warning. Hoseok’s name tore from your throat, syllables fracturing when his thumb circled just right twice, before your vision whited out. His grip on your hip tightened instinctively, his own climax ripping through him as your body clenched around him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, muffling a groan that sounded suspiciously like your name against your sweat-damp skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were the ragged synchronization of your breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Hoseok’s weight pressed you into the mattress, warm and solid and *real*, his heartbeat thundering against your ribcage where your chests were still pressed together.

He lifted his head first, blinking down at you with drowsy amusement. “Hi,” he murmured, voice wrecked. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, smearing the tear you hadn’t realized had escaped.

A= Aftercare (What are they like after sex?)

Jungkook isn't the type to collapse dramatically after sex, he takes pride in his aftercare. The moment the heat lowers, he exhales through his nose, a quiet laugh escaping as he rolls onto his side, fingers already tracing idle patterns over your damp skin. He’s thinking. Water first (he keeps a bottle by the bed like a tactical supply), then the damp washcloth he warmed earlier under the faucet, now cool but still soft as he cleans you up with slow, deliberate strokes.

"good?" he murmurs, but it's not just to start small talk. His eyes scan your face, watching your microexpressions. If you shiver, he drags the blanket up without being asked. If you stretch, he’s already kneading the ache from your thigh with his thumbs.

When you finally doze off, he doesn’t. Jungkook stays awake just long enough to make sure your breathing evens out, pressing one last kiss to your shoulder before whispering, "I got you."

**Bonus:** Post-sex, he’s either **affectionate as hell** (cuddling, forehead kisses) or **immediately hungry** (orders takeout naked). No in-between.

B= Body part (What’s their favorite body part on themselves and their partner?)

Jungkook would likely favor his hands, whether strumming a guitar, painting, or tracing skin with teasing intent. It’s his need, always moving, always expressing what words can't.

As for his partner? The dip of their lower back, the sensitive curve just above the waistband where his palm fits perfectly when pulling them closer. It’s the spot that makes them shiver when his lips brush against it, where possessive fingertips leave marks or where he lingers before exploring further.

C= Cum (Anything to do with cum)

Jungkook's favorite place to cum would depend on the mood—intimacy vs. raw passion—but his top headcanon spots likely include:

1. Deep Inside – A primal favorite, especially during intense, connected sex. The way his hips stutter, pressing as close as possible, groaning against your neck while he fills you up. “Fuck... stay right there—"

2. On Your Tits – Especially if you arch up for him, begging. His hand works his length fast, biting his lip as he spills over your nipples, then lazily rubbing it in with his palm.

3. Marking Your Neck – Not just hickeys. If he’s claiming you, he’ll jerk himself off against your throat until he stripes your collarbones, smirking at how you squirm. "Now everyone knows who I belong to."

D= Dirty Secret (Self explanatory)

Jungkook's his deepest, most forbidden thrill wasn't just sex, being caught.

Thought: The first time had been an accident. A rushed handjob in a locked bathroom during a fan meet, the sound of knocking outside making his orgasm hit twice as hard. Then came the balcony incident, midway through a video call with his members, Taehyung's drowsy “Hyung, why are you breathing like that?"as Jungkook palmed himself under the table.

Now? He planned it. Left his bedroom door slightly ajar during their rare nights off, listening for footsteps as he fucked into his fist imagining Jin walking in, or Yoongi's shocked grunt if he saw him riding a pillow raw. The rush of it, the shame he should’ve felt made his stomach twist in the best way.

E= Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Jungkook's sexual experience would likely reflect his personality. He’s curious, eager to please. Given his perfectionist tendencies, he'd probably have researched techniques beforehand (yes, I think he’d even watched instructional videos with a focused expression)

Early moments might include fumbling hands and whispered "Is this okay?"s or “do you mind?”s but he'd learn fast, body language, reactions, subtle cues are his guide.

Would he know what he's doing? Eventually, absolutely, but the charm would be in watching him figure it out.

F= Favorite position (Self explanatory)

Jungkooks favorite position would probably be one that combines something deeply intimate with a hint of playful dominance so I’d say The Throne

Here's why it fits him:

- He sits upright against the headboard, legs spread, letting his partner straddle him, controlling the pace but with his hands gripping their hips to guide them harder or faster when he wants.

- The angle allows him to watch every expression, kiss their neck, or whisper praise in their ear while his own pleasure builds.

- Bonus? His athletic stamina means he can flip them mid-session, pinning them beneath him without breaking rhythm.

G= Goofy (How serious are they in bed? Are they humorous?)

He’d be a mix of playful confidence but also intensity, he’s the kind of lover who teases with a smirk before pinning you down with unexpected dominance. He'd laugh against your skin between breathless kisses, whispering something ridiculously cheeky "Bet you can't take one more", only to flip the mood completely with a single, searing look that makes your stomach drop. His stamina would be legendary (all those dance practices paying off), but it's the way he'd watch you in a focused way. A moment after, where he nuzzles into your neck with a quiet, satisfied hum, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your hip like he's memorizing you.

H= Hair (How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

The Carpet Matches the Drapes – Mostly.

- Jungkook keeps things neat— not completely bare, but definitely trimmed. He likes the aesthetic of controlled ruggedness, something clean but not overly manicured.

- Dark, soft, slightly curly. Enough to run fingers through but not wild enough to distract from... other assets.

Preference for Partners?

- Zero judgment. He’s not fussed about body hair on a partner, stubble, full bush, waxed smooth, he’s just happy to be there.

- But… if you’re into mutual grooming? He’d love that. Shaving you in the shower, helping with wax strips, lazily tugging at your hair while kissing your thighs, it’s all intimacy to him.

I= Intimacy (How are they during the moment? Romantic aspect)

Jungkook would likely approach intimacy with the same intense dedication he applies to everything. His movements would be fluid and attentive to every shift in his partner’s body, whether rough or tender depending on the moment. There’s a playful curiosity when he’s experimenting with rhythms and touches until he finds what unravels them both.

J= jack off (masterbation headcanons)

Late-Night Sessions– He's a night owl, so he'd often wait until the quiet hours when everyone else is asleep. The dim glow of his phone screen or laptop casts shadows across his face as he lazily strokes himself, scrolling through something that caught his interest.

Athletic Stamina– His rhythm would be steady, controlled, almost like a workout. He knows his own body well, so he doesn’t rush, just builds up slowly, teasing himself when he’s feeling playful. But when he’s pent up? All bets are off. Faster, rougher, gripping his thighs tight to keep himself grounded.

Multitasking Sometimes– If he's particularly restless, he’ll edge himself while doing something else like watching a movie, gaming, or even texting someone (maybe you). He likes the distraction,

K= Kink (one or more)

- Power dynamics (enjoys both dom and sub roles, depending on mood)

- Sensory play (blindfolds, soft restraints, teasing with touch/sound)

- Marking & being marked (hickeys, light biting, loves leaving evidence)

- Praise & degradation (thrives on being called a "good boy" but also enjoys teasing)

- Exhibitionism (light) (gets turned on by semi-public risk, like hotel windows or secluded outdoor spots)

L= Location (Favorite place to do it)

- Against a studio mirror (loves watching himself/partner)

- Car sex (tight spaces make him impatient and rough)

- Shower (the steam, the slipperiness, the way he can pin you against the tiles)

M= Motivation (What turns them on? What gets them going?)

- Confidence (a partner who takes charge or talks dirty unravels him)

- Athleticism (watching a partner move, stretch, or keep up with his stamina)

- Lingerie/streetwear contrast (loves both slutty lace and oversized hoodies)

N= No (Something they won’t do? Turn offs)

- Lack of enthusiasm (passive partners bore him—he wants participation)

- Bad hygiene (instant mood killer but doesn’t mind sweat)

- Overly scripted/roleplay-heavy scenes (prefers natural chemistry)

O= Oral (preferences in giving and receiving, skill, ect.)

- Giver (90%)– Loves eating out like it’s his last meal, relentless with his tongue, enjoys overstimulating his partner until they’re shaking.

- Receiver (10%)– Only if he’s in a bratty/submissive mood, and even then, he’ll flip the script fast.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

- Starts slow (teasing, building tension) but finishes rough (once he’s worked up, it’s hard and fast).

- Hates rushing foreplay but will fuck like a man possessed once he’s fully turned on.

Q= Quickie (Their opinion, how often, ect.)

- Enjoys them (3-4 times a week)– Especially if he’s stressed or needs a release, but prefers proper sessions.

- Favorite quickie scenario: Bent over a dressing room counter, hand over mouth to stay quiet.

R= Risk (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks)

- Almost getting caught (locking eyes with someone through a cracked door while his hips don’t stop)

- Ignoring safewords (jokingly) – Will push limits *just* to hear you beg, but always checks in after.

- Biting too hard (leaves bruises he’ll kiss later).

S= Stamina (How many rounds can they go? How long?)

Can go 3-4 rounds easily if he’s really into it, especially if his partner keeps teasing him. First round is fast (15-20 mins), second is slower and more deliberate (30-45 mins), third is messy and desperate (if he even makes it that far).

T= Toys (Do they have toys? Do they use them? Do they use them on their partner?)

Owns a modest collection—vibrating cock ring, a bullet vibe, maybe a small plug. Uses them on his partner more than himself (loves watching them squirm). Will begrudgingly let his partner tie him up if they’re persuasive enough

U= Unfair (How much do they tease/like to tease)

Insufferable. Will grind against his partner fully clothed just to hear them whine, or stop mid-fuck to whisper "You okay? Need a break?" while smirking. Loves edging them until they’re shaking.

V= Volume (How loud are they? What noises do they make in bed)

- Loud when he’s close—moans, “fuck, fuck, fuck," curses in Korean. Bites his lip to stay quiet early on, but eventually gives in. Whimpers when his partner takes control.

W= Wild Card (random one shot)

The steering wheel was still warm under Jungkook’s palms when your teeth grazed his earlobe, the parking garage’s dim fluorescents flickering overhead. "Pull over," you’d murmured twenty minutes ago after the concert, fingers already working his belt loose as he swerved into the empty structure. Now his breath came in shallow bursts, thighs tensing beneath your straddle while you rocked against the obvious bulge in his jeans.

"Wait—" The honorific slipped out before he could stop it, voice cracking as you palmed him through denim. You smirked at the way his knuckles whitened on the wheel, how his hips jerked upward when you unbuckled his seatbelt with one hand. "You’re so pretty when you beg," you whispered, yanking his hair to expose his throat. The moan he let out was downright sinful.

By the time you pushed him flat against the backseat, jeans shoved past his trembling knees, Jungkook was wrecked, back arched, teeth biting his own wrist to muffle sounds as you sank onto him. "Look at you," you growled, nails scraping his abs when he whimpered at the stretch. "My good boy." His choked sob when you rode him raw, doors fogged with sweat and stifled gasps, was worth every illegal second parked between concrete pillars.

Afterward, he’d cling to your waist like a chastened puppy, whispering "again" against your collarbone until you laughed and pinched his blushing cheek. The drive home would be slow. Deliberate. His thighs would shake every time he pressed the clutch.

X= X-Ray (Lets see what’s going on under those clothes.)

- Thick, veiny, ~6.5 inches. Pinkish at the tip, especially when he’s hard. Twitches visibly when he’s about to cum, and pulses hard when he does. Leaks a lot of precum if he’s turned on enough.

Y= Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High. Thinks about it daily, gets hard over little things (a touch, a whisper). Might jerk off in the shower if his partner’s not around, but prefers the real thing.

Z = ZZZ (How fast do they fall asleep after?)

BTS Fanfic (might also put this fic on wattpad, not sure yet.)

Paring: J. Jungkook + Producer!Reader

Synopsis: You’re hired as a producer for BTS, known for your ability to shape raw emotion into sound while keeping a low profile. Working closely with Jeon Jungkook was never part of the plan—but somehow, you become the one he trusts with his unfinished songs, late-night sessions, and the quieter parts of himself he doesn’t show anyone else. What starts as a strictly professional partnership slowly shifts, built on long hours and comfortable silence. As the two of you grow closer, the line between artist and producer begins to blur, turning creative chemistry into something far more personal..

Chapter One | Low Volume.

The hallway outside the studio is quieter than you expected.

Not silent, but muted in a way that feels intentional. The bass from somewhere down the corridor hums faintly through the walls, distant laughter echoing and fading just as quickly. Everything feels layered, like sound here is something carefully controlled, filtered before it’s ever allowed to reach the surface. You adjust your grip on your bag, fingers curling tighter around the strap as you follow the directions you were given. Third door on the left. Keep walking. Don’t interrupt unless asked.

You weren’t supposed to be nervous. This is your job. You’ve done this before, different artists, different studios, different expectations. The environment changes, but the work doesn’t. Sound is sound. Emotion is something you’ve always known how to translate, even when people struggle to put it into words. Still, this feels different. You pause just outside the door

Not empty, there are staff members passing through, low conversations murmuring behind half-closed doors, but it feels muted, like everything here exists under a layer of control. Even your footsteps seem too loud against the polished floor, echoing faintly as you follow the directions you were given.

This is normal. Just another job. Except it isn’t. Your name had been passed around quietly for months, recommended, tested, observed. You knew what you were walking into when you accepted the offer. Long hours. High expectations. Invisible work behind very visible people. Still, knowing that doesn’t stop the small knot in your chest from tightening as you reach for the handle.

You don’t knock, the door is already slightly open. And the moment you step inside, things stop.

The lights are dimmer than the hallway, warm and low, casting soft shadows across expensive equipment and dark-paneled walls. The air smells faintly of something clean, mixed with the metallic edge of electronics running for too long. But none of that is what holds you in place is the voice.

Its smooth, steady, layered with something deeper underneath, something that catches at the edges like it’s holding back more than it lets through. It fills the room effortlessly, wrapping around the quiet in a way that feels almost tangible. Through the glass, inside the recording booth, Jeon Jungkook stands with his head slightly bowed, one hand loosely gripping the mic stand. Headphones rest over his ears, dark hair falling just enough to shadow his eyes.

He isn’t performing. That’s the first thing you notice. There’s no exaggeration, no effort to make it look like something. He’s just… there. Focused. Intent. Like the rest of the world has been stripped away, leaving only the music and whatever he’s trying to reach inside it. The track playing beneath him is soft—minimal instrumentals, something unfinished. His voice carries it, shaping it into something fuller than it should be.

You’ve worked with good artists before. Great ones, even. But this, this is different. Not better it’s just… more personal. You take a small step further into the room, careful, instinctively quiet even though no one has acknowledged you yet. The sound engineer seated at the console glances back briefly, giving you a quick nod, like he already knows who you are, before turning his attention back to the screen.

There’s no introductions, no interruption. You’re just… there now, observing. Jungkook doesn’t notice you, but if he has, he hasn’t shown it yet. He’s too focused. You tilt your head just slightly.

The track loops back and he tries again. This time, it’s cleaner, controlled, better.

But— Your brows knit together faintly. It’s missing that same edge. You shift your weight, setting your bag down quietly beside the wall, eyes still fixed on the booth. Your fingers twitch slightly, like you want to reach for something, adjust something, but you don’t. Not yet anyway. The engineer exhales under his breath, scrubbing back the track again.

“Want another?” he asks into the mic. Jungkook nods once, rolling his shoulders slightly before resetting his stance. “Yeah.” The music starts again. You listen closer, more carefully as his voice projects out. Not just to the sound—but to the space around it. The pauses between lines. The way his breathing changes depending on the phrasing. The subtle shift in tone when he leans too far into precision instead of feeling. It’s almost right, that’s what stands out the most.

Without really thinking about it, you step closer to the console. The engineer glances at you again, more curious this time as you hesitate for half a second. Then, quietly, you ask, “Can you play the first take again?” He blinks, surprised but obliges, clicking back without question. The earlier recording fills the room, it’s rougher, less polished.

You nod slightly to yourself. “Why’d you switch it?” you ask, mostly to the engineer—but your voice carries enough that it slips into the mic feed. Inside the booth, Jungkook stills. The track cuts, then there’s a pause. Then, slowly, he lifts his head. For the first time since you walked in, his eyes meet yours through the glass. There’s no confusion in his expression, no annoyance, either. Just quiet focus, sharp and immediate, like he’s already trying to figure you out.

The engineer shifts awkwardly. “Uh—she’s the new—” “I know,” Jungkook says, voice calm. Your breath catches slightly. Of course he knows, he would’ve seen your around by now. He’s not dumb. The room settles into a different kind of silence now. He steps closer to the mic, one hand adjusting the headphones slightly. “What do you mean?” The question is directed at you. It’s not t dismissive or challenging, it’s just… direct.

You straighten a little, crossing your arms loosely, not defensive, just grounding yourself. “The first take,” you say. “It wasn’t as clean. But it felt more honest.” His gaze doesn’t leave yours. “Honest how?” You hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “Like you weren’t thinking about how it was supposed to sound.”

There’s another pause. The kind that stretches just long enough to feel intentional.

Then—

“…Play it again,” he says. The engineer does as he’s asked and no one speaks while it runs. This time, you watch Jungkook instead of the screen. The way his expression shifts—barely, but enough. The slight tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers tap once, absently, against the mic stand. He hears it and you can tell.

When the track ends, he exhales quietly. “Okay,” he says. Just a simple response, he adjusts his stance again, settling back into position. “From that point,” he adds. “Not the beginning.” The engineer nods, cueing it up. You step back slightly, giving space without being told to, and the music starts.

There’s a slight crack in his voice on the second line. A breath that comes too early. A note that leans just a fraction lower than it should, but it works. It works in a way the cleaner versions didn’t. Your chest tightens faintly. You don’t realize you’ve leaned forward until the take ends and you’re already reaching toward the console. “That one,” you say.

The engineer glances at you, then at Jungkook. There’s a small silence but then Jungkook nods once. “Yeah,” he agrees. Your hand stills midair. Then you pull back slightly, clearing your throat as you step away from the console. “Sorry,” you say, quieter now. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t.” His voice is closer. You look up and he’s no longer behind the glass. At some point between takes, he stepped out of the booth—silent enough that you hadn’t noticed. Now he’s standing a few feet away, headphones resting around his neck, expression unreadable but not closed off. Up close, he looks… different. Less distant than before. There’s a faint flush along his neck from hours under the lights, hair slightly damp at the edges. His presence fills the space in a way that has nothing to do with volume. Then he tilts his head slightly, studying you—not in a way that feels invasive, but… deliberate. “You always say what you think like that?” His voice laced with curiosity.

You shift your weight, “only when I’m asked,” “I didn’t ask.”, “You kind of did,” you reply, before you can stop yourself. The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely, it’s not a full smile but it’s close. The engineer clears his throat softly, breaking the moment. “Do you guys want to—uh—keep going?” Jungkook doesn’t look away from you. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “We will.” Something about the way he says it feels like it means more than just the session. You glance down briefly, then back up. “We should layer that take while it’s still fresh.”

Then, quieter, “You’re staying, right?” The question lands softer than you expect, it doesn’t feel professional, at least not entirely. You hesitate for just a fraction of a second. “Yeah,” you say. Something in his expression shifts again, subtle, but there.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Inside the booth, Jungkook moves more fluidly. Like he’s actually interested in recording right now.

Every so often, you catch him glancing toward you through the glass—not long enough to call attention to it, but often enough that it doesn’t feel accidental. You pretend not to notice, but you do. Hours pass without either of you mentioning it. Take after take. Layer after layer. Small corrections that turn into something cohesive, something real. At some point, the building quiets around you. Staff thins out. The hallway noise disappears completely.

Then, eventually, the engineer steps out for a break, mumbling something about grabbing coffee.

The door clicks shut behind him and silence settles again. You don’t look up immediately, focused on adjusting a section of the track, looping a line to smooth the transition. From the booth, Jungkook watches you. A few seconds pass. “Hey.” You glance up. He’s already looking at you. Closer to the glass now. “Yeah?”

A small pause.

Then, “What would you change?” The question is simple. But it doesn’t feel like it’s just about the song. You lean back slightly, considering. “Nothing big,” you say slowly. “Just… don’t hold back on the next take.” He studies you for a second. “Was I holding back?” You meet his gaze. “Yeah.” No hesitation this time. Something unreadable flickers across his expression. “…Okay.” He steps back, adjusting the mic again. The track starts. And this time, he lets go.

Not completely. Not all at once. But enough that you feel it. Enough that something in the room shifts again, deeper this time.