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wow, genuinely thank you guys so much for the recent love and appreciation of my work, I really enjoyed putting it all together for you all to see 🥹 I peeped the comments and I've seen some of the requests you guys are sending and just know, I'll be dropping sooner than you expect. i've already curated my taglist so if anyone wants to join, now's the time! thanks again :) bye dumplings
AFTERCARE . . . ❝ the lights above your station were still bright, clinical white pouring over stainless steel trays and sealed cartridges, over ink caps lined in neat black rows, over the roll of paper towels and the green soap bottle with its lavender-clean bite. beneath that, there was the sharper scent of disinfectant, plastic wrap, skin-safe cleanser, a faint medicinal tang that always sat in the back of your throat after a long session. the machines were silent now, but the memory of their buzzing seemed to cling to the walls, a ghost-hum threaded through the rain tapping against the front windows.
jungkook was still in your chair. he had been finished for almost twenty minutes. ❞ › s, a, f ┊ 6.3k
► series
ONE ONE NINE . . . ❝ first thing you learned about jeon jungkook was that he lied with his hands before he lied with his mouth. His mouth could get him out of almost anything.
by then, deception had became part of this routine. It told his wife he was working late, it told his friends he was exhausted, it even told himself he was only stopping by to see you just to say "hello".
but it seemed his hands failed to get the memo. ❞ › s, a
໒ྀི warnings : i write about the things that inspire me, interest me, or that i can personally relate to. because of that, my works may not be everyone’s cup of tea.
this blog contains mature, nsfw, and explicit content. please curate your own online experience responsibly. minors, do not interact. some of my works may contain darker themes. please read tags, warnings, and notes before engaging.
all stories and works shared here are fictional. they are created for entertainment purposes only and do not reflect my personal beliefs or endorse the actions depicted. please do not repost, copy, translate, or claim my work as your own.
໒ྀི won't write : non-con or dub-con, sexual assault, incest, homophobia, transphobia, racism, or any form of discrimination, i will not write anything i’m not comfortable with. basic dni criteria applies. if you support or engage in any of the above, please do not interact with my blog. ^^
above all, be respectful. let's keep this space enjoyable for everyone. : 3
IN WHICH, jeon jungkook knew he shouldn’t keep coming over, and you knew better than to let him in. but rain has a way of softening bad decisions, and by the time his wife’s name lights up your room, he's already too deep in the lie to pretend either of you are innocent.
pairings `married!jungkook x f!reader genre `affair au, angst, smut, taboo romance, toxicity, emotional infidelity warnings `MDNI, explicit content ahead, infidelity/adultery, cheating, jungkook is married, morally grey characters, toxic relationship dynamics, guilt, jealousy, swearing, making out, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, protected sex (WRAP IT UP), dirty talk wc 9.1k
a/n hi dumplings, bit of a longer fic today, debating if i should make this into a mini series... also quick reminder, I do not condone unfaithfulness in any capacity, nor do i romanticize it, this is purely fictional and for reader's entertainment. enjoy! ;)
119 ᵉᵖ ¹
First thing you learned about jeon jungkook was that he lied with his hands before he lied with his mouth. His mouth could get him out of almost anything.
By then, deception had became part of this routine. It told his wife he was working late, it told his friends he was exhausted, it even told himself he was only stopping by to see you just to say "hello".
But it seemed his hands failed to get the memo.
They trembled extravagantly when he was angry. They lingered when he should've let go. Every time he reached for your waist, there was that split second where his grip tightened first, like he'd forgotten himself.
You knew better than to think about that.
“You shouldn't be here,” you say. It's a weak protest when you're already gripping the front of his coat and pulling him closer. Jungkook exhales through his nose. It almost sounds like a laugh, except neither of you found anything funny about this anymore.
“'Was just stopping by…”
You roll your eyes. "You said that last time, jungkook.”
“Yeah.” His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before finding your eyes again. “I know.”
Which was somehow worse. Before you can think of another argument, his lips were on yours. No apology, no overcompensating explanation, no asking if he’s allowed to come back into your life and put his hands on you like the last few months didn’t happen.
Just his mouth against yours, soft and gentle at first, then unbearable, those long fingers firm beneath your chin like he could tilt the answer out of you.
You mean to bite him.
You almost do.
Then his knee nudges between your thighs, and the sound that leaves you is humiliatingly soft.
You hear his breath catch.
No, you feel it more than hear it, the hitch in his chest when your hands slips beneath his coat and find his waist through the thin fabric of his shirt. Thin enough that you could feel the rigid tension of him underneath when your fingers moved lightly over his abdomen.
Your nails dig in, and he groans as if you may have genuinely hurt him, and you know what, maybe you wanted to.
“Fuck,” Jungkook mutters, mouth dragging from your lips to the corner of your jaw and back again, greedy and unsteady.
“I drove past your place twice before I came up."
His voice goes quieter.
“'Missed you.”
Damn him.
You hate how quickly it lands.
And you hate that some part of you has been waiting to hear it. It annoys you, how little time jungkook needed to undo you.
You had a whole speech prepared. Something about boundaries. About the way he keeps showing up soaked through like that was his excuse. About your floor and how you’re still the one wiping it up afterwards, asshole.
It made sense when you were alone with it, turning it over in your head.
Now he’s standing here, dripping onto your brand new ergonomic mat like nothing you said had ever really stuck to begin with, and the speech starts to feel a lot less important than the fact that you’re still letting him in.
You get as far as his last name.
“Jeon—”
He presses his lips against yours in a slow, tantalizing peck before you could even finish. like he was desperately waiting for that sound, just so he could steal it from you.
And he did. For one pathetic second, you let yourself melt into it.
But then you remembered. You were upset.
You caught his lip between your teeth.
He exhales under his, a curse slipping through your lips in korean.
It landed closer than it should've.
His palm slapped against the wall beside your shoulder, and the sound made you flinch before you could pretend it didn’t. Rain from last hour's heavy shower dripped from his hair and onto your cheek.
It was ridiculous. The kind of thing that would've made you laugh.
Instead, you were distracted by the weight of him standing so close. His coat drenched and cool against your hands, but his skin underneath proved to be the exact opposite. His fingers found bare skin under your sweater. The rough edge of a callus.
The cool press of his ring.
Every thought you’d had a second ago had vanished.
But it should've brought you back to yourself.
It should've been enough to make you shove him away and tell him to go home to the woman whose name lived in his phone with a heart beside it, while your name had settled for being ‘119’.
His thumb dragged lightly over your side before he tipped his forehead against yours.
“Don’t,” you say softly.
A crease forms between his brows.
“Don’t what?” His voice softening, “Talk to me.”
That was the problem with jungkook.
He always said things like that as if talking had ever saved either of you. As if words didn’t make everything worse, didn’t crawl into the quiet afterward and sit there with their knees pulled to their chests, staring at you until morning.
So you don’t talk.
You put both hands on his chest and shoved him back.
Not hard enough to send him away. Hard enough to make him understand that if he’s going to stand in your hallway with rain in his hair, a ring on his finger, and another woman’s life clinging to him like cologne, he doesn’t get to be tender about it.
His back hits the opposite wall with a dull thud. For one charged second, he just looks at you, chest rising beneath your palms, lips parted, eyes gone darker than the hallway should allow.
Then he smiles, barely.
It pisses you off.
“You think this is funny?”
“No,” he answers, and his hand closes around your wrist, not to stop you, only to feel you there. “I think you missed me too.”
Your jaw tightens.
Jungkook sees the answer before you give it to him. His smile fades first. Then his expression shifts into something hungrier, rougher around the edges, and you hate that he knows you well enough to read the shame before you can hide it.
“I hate when you do that,” you say.
“What?”
“Act like missing me gives you the right.”
He holds your gaze, his thumb moving once over the inside of your wrist. “It doesn’t.”
“But you still use it.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
The honesty lands like a slap.
It should make you step back. Instead, it pulls something mean out of you. You reach for his left hand and lift it between you, turning it until the gold band catches the thin hallway light.
His fingers flex.
You feel the resistance travel through him. A small, private panic.
“Take it off.”
He clicks his tongue before his eyes flick to yours. “Aish, don't start that.”
“I said take it off."
His mouth presses together, and for a moment the whole apartment seems to shrink around the two of you: the wet shoes by your door, the unopened mail on the console, the neighbor’s television murmuring through the wall, the damp heat of him so close that every breath you take has him in it.
“You think that changes anything?” he asks.
“No.” You look at the ring, then at him. “I just don’t want her touching me.”
The words go through him cleanly. You see it in the way his shoulders lose their shape, in the tiny twitch near his mouth, in the guilt that arrives exactly when it’s least useful.
He shouldn’t look hurt. He has no right.
Still, his hand lowers.
The ring slides over his knuckle with a faint scrape, stubborn for half a second before it gives. He holds it in his palm like it weighs more than it should, then places it on the narrow table beside your keys.
The little sound it makes against the wood is obscene.
“다 된,” he says, voice low. Done.
You stare at the bare strip of skin on his finger.
It’s worse, somehow. Without it, he looks almost available.
Jungkook reaches for you again, and this time you let him. His palms settle on your waist, warmer now, his thumbs pressing into the soft give of your sides under your sweater. He doesn’t kiss you right away. He watches your face first, as if he’s waiting for the moment you decide to punish him or forgive him, as if he hasn’t figured out by now that you usually do both.
“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs.
Your laugh comes out thin. “Is that what you want?”
He shakes his head no before dragging out a soft, “아니요.” No.
“Then don’t put this on me.”
His eyes close briefly.
Good.
You’re glad he feels it. You’re glad there are still places in him that bruise.
When he opens them again, whatever patience he had left is gone. He pulls you in by the waist and kisses you like the argument was only foreplay neither of you had the dignity to name. His mouth is hot, urgent, tasting faintly of mint and the rain. You wrap your arms around his nape, dragging him closer while he backs you out of the hallway and toward the bedroom by memory, like he belongs here, like he hasn’t learned the geography of your apartment through betrayal.
The back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
You sit down hard, and jungkook follows, bending over you, one hand cupping the side of your neck as his mouth moves down your jaw. He kisses the place beneath your ear that he learned too early. Your hands push his coat off his shoulders.
It lands heavily on the floor, wet fabric folding over itself.
“You’re dripping everywhere,” you mutter.
His laugh is breathless against your skin. “I’ll clean it.”
“You never clean anything.”
“I’ll buy you a new mat.”
“You said that last time too.”
He lifts his head, eyes bright with something almost boyish, almost cruel in how familiar it is. “Didn't you force me to buy you a new one?"
“It's the new one you’re ruining, genius.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up again, but the smile doesn’t last. It never does anymore. Not when his gaze drops to your mouth. Not when your fingers skim the waistband of his trousers. Not when the space between you starts making demands neither of you can dress up as anything else.
He sinks to his knees.
Your breath catches before he even touches you.
The sight of him there should feel powerful. Sometimes it does. Tonight, it feels dangerous. Jungkook on his knees between yours, hair damp and falling into his eyes, hands resting on your thighs with that careful pressure he uses when he’s pretending he’s not already losing control.
He looks up at you.
“You’re mad,” he says.
“Brilliant observation.”
His thumbs move slowly over your knees. “You can be mad.”
“I wasn’t waiting for permission?”
“Right.” His mouth brushes the inside of your thigh over the thin fabric of your shorts. “I mean it. Be mad.”
Your fingers tighten in the sheets. “Don’t try to make this noble.”
“I’m not.”
“Here you go. making it sound like if we’re honest enough about being awful, it becomes something else.”
He stills for a second.
Then his lips press to your thigh again, softer this time. “Does it?”
You look down at him, at the wet lashes, the mouth that has lied to everyone and still somehow makes you believe the worst truths.
“No.”
The answer hangs there.
He looks up at you like he’s waiting for an order, but his hands are already sliding up your thighs, already greedy under the hem of your sweater.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m cold.”
“Liar.”
You lean down and catch his jaw in your hand, squeezing just enough to make his eyes darken. “You don’t get to narrate me tonight either, okay?"
His tongue touches the inside of his cheek. “Then tell me what to do.”
The obedience in his voice is fake. The hunger isn’t.
You lift your hips, and he hooks his fingers into your shorts, dragging them down your legs with none of the patience he usually uses to torture you. Your underwear goes with them, damp and sticky already, and you hate the way his gaze drops between your thighs and turns feverish.
“예수,” he says under his breath. Jesus.
You snap your knees wider, daring him to look away. “Don’t pray now.”
A laugh breaks out of him, low and wrecked, and then his mouth was on your thigh again. He kisses high, open-mouthed and wet, teeth grazing skin as his hands shove your sweater up over your hips. His lips move closer to where you’re aching, slow enough to make you furious.
“Jungkook.”
“Mm?”
“If you continue to tease me, I’ll make you regret coming tonight.”
He looks up from between your legs, mouth hovering too close, eyes too bright. “You already do that every time.”
Then he licks you.
Your stomach jumps. A sound catches in your throat before you can kill it, and jungkook groans like your pussy hits him harder than anything you said in the hallway. He spreads you with his thumbs and drags his tongue through your slit again, slower, filthier, collecting the slick heat of you with a kind of shameless hunger that makes your hands fly to his hair.
“Fuck—” You tug hard. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
He answers by closing his lips around your clit.
Your hips buck.
The room blurs at the edges as he sucks, soft at first, then harder when your thighs tense around his head. He eats you out like he’s starving and resentful about it, tongue flattening against you, then flicking quick, then dragging slow enough to make you let out a soft whine.
The wet sounds were obscene, slick and hot and intimate, his mouth working between your thighs while rain taps the glass like impatient fingers.
“Unh— shit, kook.”
His hands clamp around your thighs, holding you open when you try to close them around his ears. He pulls back just enough for his breath to spill over your pussy, warm and uneven.
“Mm, there you go,” he mutters. “Let me hear how much you fucking hate me.”
You yank his hair until his head tilts back. His lips shine. His chin is wet with you. The sight makes something ugly and needy twist in your chest.
His expression flickers.
He kisses your inner thigh once, almost gently, and slides two fingers into you.
Your grip on his hair tightens as your body takes him in, the stretch sudden and deep. He curls his fingers, searching, and finds exactly where you’re weak. You gasp so sharply it hurts.
“Yeah, right there?" he asks, voice rough.
“Shut the fuck up.”
He grins and does it again.
Your head falls back, a moan spilling out before you can stop it. “Oh— fuck, there.”
Jungkook’s mouth returns to your clit, then there’s nothing polite left in the room. His fingers pump into you with a wet, steady rhythm, knuckles slick, palm grinding against your entrance while his tongue circles and sucks your clit until your thighs start trembling around his shoulders. He moans into your cunt, and the vibration rolls through you so hard your spine arches.
You try to hold on to anger.
He makes it difficult when his mouth is this dirty, when he’s licking you like he wants to crawl inside your skin and live under your pulse. He knows how to make you break in layers. Knows how to make you curse at him, then beg without using the word. Knows how to keep his fingers deep and his tongue ruthless until every nerve in your body is pulled tight.
“Don’t come yet,” he says mouth full of you.
You laugh breathlessly, furious. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“'Want to be inside you when you do.”
The words send heat tearing through you.
He feels the way you clench around his fingers and looks up, smugness softened by raw need.
You hate him for that most of all.
You push at his shoulder, and he pulls away at once, fingers slipping out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn. His mouth is a mess. Your arousal shines on his lips, his chin, the edges of that devastating smirk.
“Take your clothes off,” you tell him.
Jungkook rises like his knees don’t work properly. He strips fast, shirt first, the damp fabric peeling away from his torso and landing on the floor. His tattoos shift over his arm as he fumbles with his belt. The buckle clinks. His trousers drop. His briefs follow, and then he’s standing there hard and flushed and breathing like he’s already been fucked half out of his mind.
Your eyes drag over him.
He notices.
“Still mad?” he asks.
You reach for the nightstand and grab a condom, tossing it at his chest. “Still married?”
His mouth snaps shut.
He rips the foil open with his teeth.
There’s something deeply satisfying about watching his hands shake as he rolls it on. He tries to hide it, but you see everything. The tightness in his jaw, the flex in his stomach, the way his cock twitches when your legs spread wider on the bed.
He crawls over you like he means to pin you down.
But you press your foot to his chest and stop him.
His eyes lift.
“Ah ah,” you say. “Lie back.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek.
For a second, you think he might argue. Then he swallows, nods once, and shifts onto the bed, sitting against the pillows with his back braced against the headboard. His cock stands hard against his stomach, condom slick in the low light, his thighs spread, his chest moving too fast.
You climb over him slowly.
His hands reach for your hips immediately.
You slap them away.
“No.”
He freezes, eyes blown wide.
“You don’t get to touch,” you say, settling over his lap without taking him in yet. Your pussy brushes the length of him, and both of you suck in a breath. “You touch when I say you can.”
Jungkook’s fingers curl against the sheets. “Fuck, you're trying to kill me."
“You’ll live.”
“Yeah?”
You lower yourself enough to drag your slick heat along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. His head tips back against the headboard with a dull thump, throat exposed, mouth falling open.
“Mmh,” he groans. “Don’t do that if you don’t want me to come fast."
“I want you to.” You grind down again, coating him, feeling him twitch beneath you. “I want you stupid. I want you ruined. I want you walking out of here remembering exactly whose bed you were in.”
His eyes snap open, dark and dangerous. “I never forget.”
You throw his words back at him. “Liar.”
He reaches for you again on instinct, and you catch his wrist, pinning it beside his head.
The position changes something.
His breath catches. Your body hovers over his, your knees braced on either side of his hips, your wet pussy sliding over his cock without letting him inside. He looks up at you with naked frustration, lips parted, hair damp against his forehead.
He could overpower you easily. He doesn’t. That restraint makes the moment dirtier than force ever could.
“Ask,” you whisper.
His brows draw together. “For what?”
“For permission.”
His laugh comes out strained. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
You lean down until your mouth brushes his. “Ask, jungkook.”
The sound he makes is almost a growl, but his hips stay still under you. “Can I touch you?”
“Where?”
His eyes drop to your chest, your waist, the place where you’re making a slick mess of him. “Everywhere.”
“Too vague.”
His jaw flexes, and the humiliation of wanting makes his voice rougher. “Your hips. Your thighs. ‘Want to hold you while you ride me.”
A pulse of pleasure goes through you so sharp you almost give in too quickly.
Almost.
“Good,” you murmur, and sink down on him.
The stretch steals the next breath from both of you.
You take him slowly, inch by thick inch, your hands braced on his shoulders, your knees pressing into the mattress. Jungkook’s face twists, eyes squeezing shut as you slide down until he’s buried all the way inside you. The fullness is brutal after his fingers and mouth, deep enough to make your thighs shake before you even move.
His hands hover at your sides, waiting.
The obedience nearly breaks you.
“Touch me,” you say.
He grabs your hips like the words snap a leash.
His fingers dig into your flesh, hard enough to leave marks, and his head drops back again as you lift yourself halfway and sink down. A ragged groan tears out of him. You do it again, slower, letting yourself feel every inch of him drag against your walls.
“Oh— fuck yes,” you breathe.
Jungkook stares up at you like you’re the last thing he’ll ever see. “You feel insane.”
You tighten around him on purpose.
His hips jerk. “Shit— don’t—”
“Don’t what?” You roll your hips, grinding down until your clit catches against him. “Don’t make you feel good? Isn’t that why you came here?”
His fingers flex on your hips. “I came here because I couldn't stop thinking about you.”
“You came here because you’re selfish.”
“Mmh— yes,” he says, and the bluntness knocks something loose between you. His voice drops, stripped bare and ugly. “I am. I’m selfish, ‘wanted you, ‘thought about this all night until I couldn’t breathe.”
Your rhythm falters for half a second.
He feels it.
His grip tightens, helping you move now, guiding you up and down on his cock as his eyes burn into yours. “‘Thought about your mouth. Your hands. Your pussy. ‘Thought about how wet that pussy gets when you’re mad at me. ‘Thought about you telling me I’m a bastard while you come all over me.”
A moan slips out of you, broken and unwilling.
His mouth curves, but there’s pain in it.
“Like that,” he says. “Do it again.”
You ride him harder to shut him up.
The bed begins to creak under the rhythm, deep and steady, your body lifting and dropping on him while his cock fills you over and over.
Jungkook’s hands drag over your thighs, your waist, up under your sweater to bare skin. He pushes the fabric higher, impatient, and you yank it over your head for him, tossing it aside.
His gaze drops to your perky breasts.
The hunger on his face is immediate.
He sits up suddenly, still inside you, making you gasp as the angle shifts. His arms wrap around your back while his mouth closes over one nipple, hot and wet, sucking hard enough to send pleasure straight between your legs.
You grab his hair, grinding down on him as he licks and bites at your breast like he can’t decide where he wants his mouth most.
“Mmm, kook—”
He groans against your skin. “Say my name like that again.”
“No.”
He thrusts up into you.
The movement punches a cry from your throat, louder than you expected, and he does it again, using his grip on your hips to drag you down while he drives up. The clean control of your riding fractures into something rougher, wetter, more desperate. You’re bouncing on his cock now, taking him deep with each downward roll, slick sounds filling the room every time your bodies meet.
“Look at you,” he rasps, mouth against your chest. “‘Act like you’re punishing me, but your pussy’s squeezing me like you missed me.”
You slap him.
Not hard enough to hurt badly. Hard enough to turn his face slightly and leave the room stunned.
Jungkook goes still inside you.
Your palm tingles.
Slowly, he turns back.
His eyes are black with want.
“Again,” he says.
Your cunt clenches around him before you can stop it. He feels it, and his smile is wrecked, filthy, triumphant in a way that makes you furious enough to ride him harder. You plant both hands on his chest and shove him back against the pillows, taking control of the pace again. His hands fly to your hips, and this time you let him hold on as you fuck yourself on him, using him for friction, for fullness, for the terrible satisfaction of watching him fall apart beneath you.
His phone lights up on the nightstand.
The glow cuts across the dark room like a blade.
You don’t look at first.
Jungkook does.
His face changes before you see the screen, and that tells you enough.
The phone buzzes.
Bzzzt.
Your gaze shifts.
Sowon.
The name sits there with a tiny heart beside it, bright and domestic and nauseating.
Bzzzt.
Jungkook’s cock was still inside you. His hands still on your hips. Your cunt still wet around him.
You stop moving.
His breathing is ragged, chest rising beneath your palms.
“Answer it,” you say.
His eyes snap to yours. “No.”
“Answer your wife.”
“Don't.”
You grind down once, slow and cruel, and he chokes on the sound that comes out of him.
Bzzzt.
“Answer it,” you tell him. “Tell her where you are.”
His fingers dig into you. “Stop.”
“Why?” You lean closer, your mouth near his ear, your body clamped around him so tightly his hips twitch. “Afraid she’ll hear how hard you are?”
A rough curse leaves him.
The phone keeps vibrating.
You reach for it.
Jungkook catches your wrist before your fingers touch the screen.
For one suspended second, neither of you breathes.
Then the call ends.
Sowon ❤️
3 Missed calls now
The screen goes dark, and the room becomes yours again, except it isn’t. It has her in it now. Her name, his ring in the hallway, the ghost of whatever bed he left to come here.
Something mean rises in you, hot and sharp.
You lift yourself almost off him, then slam back down.
Jungkook’s head hits the pillow, a broken groan tearing from his throat. “Unh—”
“And you don’t get to look guilty while you’re still inside me.”
His hands seize your hips. “I am guilty.”
“Then act like it.”
His eyes sharpened.
You ride him harder.
The rhythm turns filthy fast, all slick friction and blunt impact, your thighs burning as you bounce on his cock, your nails raking down his chest while he stares up at you like he’s being punished and blessed at the same time. His hips thrust up to meet you, rough little snaps that shove him deeper and make your voice break into helpless sounds you can’t dress up as anything else.
“Ah— fuck, jungkook—”
“Mm, yeah? Right there?” he grits out, sweat and rain still shining at his temples. “Use me. Fucking use me if that’s what you need.”
“You’d like that too much.”
“I like anything that keeps you on me.”
The honesty was disgusting.
But it made you wetter.
You hate that he can feel it, hate the way his mouth opens on a silent groan when your body slicks around him, taking him easier, louder. He reaches between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that make your hips stutter. Pleasure sparks through you so suddenly your pace falters.
“No,” he says, voice raw. “Don’t stop.”
“You don’t get to tell me—”
“I know. I know, baby, I know.”
The word hits like a hand around your throat.
You freeze.
His face drains the instant he realizes.
The room fills with both of you breathing too hard.
“I told you,” you say, each word low and trembling, “not to call me that.”
His hand leaves your clit, but his thumb remains slick against your skin. “It slipped.
“I doubt that.”
His eyes hold yours, guilty and stubborn. “Fine. I meant it.”
The confession lands with unbearable softness in the dirtiest possible place. You straddling him, full of him, your thighs spread over his hips while another woman’s missed call sits between you like a witness.
You should climb off.
You don’t.
Instead, you lean down and bite his neck.
Jungkook groans, loud and ruined, his hands locking around your waist as his hips buck up into you. You bite harder, then soothe it with your tongue, and his whole body shudders beneath you.
“No soft names,” you whisper against his skin. “No playing a facade. No making this pretty because you can’t stand what it is.”
His voice comes out uneven. “Then what do you want me to call you?”
You lift your head, holding his gaze as you start moving again, slow at first, grinding every inch of him into you.
“Nothing,” you say. “I want you too fucked out to speak.”
His pupils blow wide.
Then you give him exactly that.
You ride him with both hands planted on his chest, hips rolling in deep, grinding circles before lifting and dropping again. He tries to talk at first, little fragments of curses and your name, but the harder you move, the less language he has. His mouth falls open. His brows pinch. His hands slide to your ass in a tight grip, helping you take him, pulling you down each time his hips thrust up.
The sound was obscene.
Wet skin. Creaking mattress. Your breath breaking. His low, strangled grunts. The slick slap of your body meeting his. Every noise tells the truth neither of you can survive saying cleanly.
You feel your orgasm building again, thicker this time, fed by anger and shame and the relentless pressure of him inside you. His thumb returns to your clit without permission, and you’re too far gone to stop him. The circles are messy now, desperate, but they’re exactly right. Your thighs tremble around his hips.
Jungkook watches you start to fall apart.
“Yeah, come on,” he rasps. “Let me feel it."
You shake your head, even as your body tightens. “You don’t even deserve it.”
“No,” he agrees, breathless. “I don’t.”
That should not be what does it.
It does.
Your orgasm hits hard, ripping through you with a force that makes your rhythm collapse. You cry out, hips jerking, cunt clamping down around him in pulsing waves while jungkook swears beneath you, hands squeezing your ass as he fucks up into the tightness.
“Fuck— fuck, you’re so tight—”
Your body shakes over his, pleasure turning your anger molten, spreading through every nerve until all you can do is take the rough upward thrusts he gives you. His control is shredded now. You can see it in his face, hear it in the low, broken sounds spilling out of him.
He sits up again, arms locking around you, burying his face against your throat as he drives into you from below.
“I’m so close,” he whines.
“Then come.”
His grip tightens. “Say my name.”
You laugh breathlessly, cruel even now. “No.”
His hips stutter.
You pull back just enough to look at him, cupping his jaw in both hands. His eyes are glossy, desperate, fixed on you with a devotion that makes your chest hurt.
“Look at me while you do it,” you whisper. “Look at what you came here for.”
That ruins him.
Jungkook comes with a broken, guttural moan, hips slamming up one last time as his body locks beneath yours. His hands clutch you so hard it almost hurts, his face twisting with pleasure and guilt and something far more dangerous than either. You feel him pulse inside the condom, feel the tremors roll through him as he buries himself as deep as he can and shakes apart under you.
For several seconds, neither of you moves.
His forehead rests against your collarbone. Your fingers tangled in his damp hair. The room smelled like rain, sex, sweat, and the bitter aftermath of a choice made again.
Then his phone lights up once more.
A message this time.
The glow spills across the sheets.
Jungkook sees it over your shoulder.
His body still inside yours when his expression breaks.
You don’t turn to read it.
You don’t need to.
When you finally slip off of him, neither of you says anything.
It doesn't take jungkook long before he gets up to get dressed in his briefs and pants, then deals with the condom in your bathroom. You listen to the faucet run. You listen to him wash his hands like water can do anything for either of you. Your body still hums with aftershocks, damp and oversensitive, but the ache settling in your chest is sharper than anything between your legs.
When he comes back, he doesn’t get back into bed.
He stands near the doorway, naked from the waist up, trousers low on his hips, looking around the room as if he’s only just realized where he is.
You pull the sheet over yourself.
“She might call again,” you say.
His eyes drop to the nightstand.
“I know.”
“You should answer next time.”
He looks at you then. “Stop.”
The plea in his voice irritates you. “You don't get to sound wounded.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“You are. You always do. You look at me like I’m hurting you by pointing at the knife in your hand.”
His face goes pale in the low light.
For once, he has nothing to say.
Good.
Let there be a silence he can’t kiss his way through.
Jungkook turns away first. He finds his shirt on the floor and pulls it on, the fabric sticking slightly to his damp skin. You watch him dress because not watching feels too much like mercy. He buckles his belt. Checks his phone. The blue glow hollows out his face.
There it is.
That shift.
The man who had just fallen apart inside you disappears behind the man who knows what to type.
His thumbs move quickly.
“What are you saying?” you ask.
He keeps looking at the screen, the blue light catching the tired slope of his mouth. “'Missed her call because I went out for air.”
You stare at him.
The lie sounds so ordinary that it takes a second for the ugliness to catch up.
“Do you ever get tired?” You tilt your head.
Jungkook’s thumbs pause over the keyboard, eyebrow raised. “Of what?”
“Splitting yourself in half.”
His face doesn’t change much, but something in his eyes does. A small shift. A shutter pulled down too late.
He locks the phone and lets it hang at his side.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The room still smells like him. Rain, sweat, the faint trace of his cologne clinging stubbornly to the sheets. Your skin cooling now, and the cold reaches you in places his hands had been warm minutes ago. You pull the sheet higher over your chest, more out of reflex than modesty.
Jungkook watches the movement.
The silence stretches long enough to make the air feel crowded.
Then he exhales and looks toward the hallway. “I should go before she calls again.”
Of course.
There it is, the inevitable shape of the night. The part where he turns from body back into husband. The part where you sit in your own bed and watch him collect himself piece by piece like he didn’t just leave parts of himself inside the room.
You don’t answer.
Jungkook checks his phone again. His jaw tenses, not enough for anyone else to notice, but you notice everything now. You have become fluent in the smallest failures of him.
“Go, then,” you say.
It comes out flatter than you expect.
He looks over.
You don’t meet his eyes. You trace a wrinkle in the sheet with your thumb, smoothing it down, then watching it rise again. Useless. Like everything else.
He says your name softly.
You hate that he can still make it sound careful.
“I’m not doing the doorway thing tonight,” you say.
“The doorway thing?”
“You standing there looking guilty until I say something that makes you feel less awful.”
His mouth parts slightly, then closes. He looks tired in a way sleep will not fix.
“That’s fair,” he says after a moment.
You laugh under your breath, almost soundless. “Great. Glad we landed on fair.”
He flinches at that, but doesn’t argue.
He leaves the bedroom to find the rest of his things. You hear him in the hallway, hear the wet drag of his coat being lifted from where it had fallen near the entrance, hear him step around the small puddle he left on your floor. The apartment settles around his movements with humiliating familiarity. He knows where his shoes are. He knows which hook snags his sleeve. He knows that the floorboard near the console creaks if he puts his weight on it.
He knows too much about a place he has no right to know.
On the narrow table by the door, his wedding ring sits beside your keys.
He had taken it off earlier with that grim little look on his face, as if the act cost him something noble. You’d watched him place it there. You’d watched the band catch the hallway light.
Now you wait for the sound of him picking it up.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, he comes back into the bedroom doorway with his coat on and his phone in his hand, his hair half-dry, his lips still faintly swollen from your mouth. His left hand hangs loosely at his side.
Bare.
The strip of paler skin around his finger is visible even in the dim room.
You notice immediately.
He doesn’t.
For some reason, that makes your throat tighten.
It’s ridiculous. It’s just a ring. A circle of metal. A promise he has already dragged through enough mud to bury it. Still, the sight of his empty hand hits you harder than expected. Without the ring, he looks less anchored to the life he is about to return to. More like the man who kissed you in your hallway. More like the man who had buried his face against your neck after coming and held on too tight.
You wish you hadn’t seen it.
Jungkook steps into the room, but not far. “I’ll text when I get back.”
You nod once.
He waits.
You can feel him trying to read you, trying to decide whether your quiet is anger, exhaustion, or the kind of hurt he should be afraid of. He has always been better with your anger. Anger gives him edges to hold. This quiet has no handle.
“Hey,” he says, softer now.
You keep your gaze on the sheet. “What?”
“What's wrong?"
That almost makes you smile, but it misses. “Nothing, jungkook."
“Still lying?”
You hate that he knew.
A few seconds pass before the mattress dips beside you. You look up despite yourself. Jungkook came back to the bed, one knee pressing into the sheets, his coat still on like he meant to leave and lost the thread halfway through.
His eyes move over your face, searching, and the concern there lands in the worst possible place.
“Don’t do that,” you say, but there’s no bite in it.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like I’m something you can fix before you go home.”
He swallows. His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles carefully against your cheek.
You should turn away.
You don’t.
His palm is warm. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, not wiping anything away because you aren’t crying. That somehow makes the gesture worse. Tenderness without evidence. Comfort offered to a wound neither of you will name.
“I’m not trying to fix anything,” he says. “I just don’t like leaving you like this."
Your laugh comes out thin. “You leave me like this all the time.”
“I leave you pissed off,” he says quietly. “This is different.”
That shuts you up.
He’s right, and you resent him for it.
When you’re angry, you can throw words at him until he bleeds enough to satisfy you. When you’re angry, he can take it, nod through it, let your cruelty balance the scale for a few minutes. Tonight, the anger has burned down to something quieter and heavier. You feel hollowed out, scraped clean by pleasure and shame and the sound of his wife’s name lighting up your room.
Jungkook sits fully on the edge of the bed.
His coat rustles. Rainwater darkens the fabric at his shoulders. He looks absurdly out of place and painfully familiar.
“Come here,” he says.
You stare at him. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“You’re literally about to go.”
“I haven’t left yet.”
“That’s not romantic, jungkook.”
“'Wasn't aiming for romantic.”
“Then what?”
He looks at you for a long second, and when he answers, his voice is low enough that it feels pulled from somewhere private. “I wanted to hold you for a minute without pretending it’s nothing.”
The sentence lands with no decoration, which makes it harder to dismiss.
You look away first.
“That’s selfish.”
“Probably.”
“At least you’re branching out from excuses.”
His mouth curves faintly, but the expression doesn’t last. “Yeah. I’m trying new ways to be terrible.”
It should not make warmth flicker in your chest.
You let out a breath, annoyed with him, annoyed with yourself, and then you shift closer before you can think better of it.
Jungkook’s arms come around you immediately.
Not rushed. Not hungry. Just firm.
He pulls you against his chest, coat and all, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other settles between your shoulder blades. For a second, you stay stiff in his arms, sheet gathered awkwardly between your bodies, your cheek pressed to the damp collar of his coat. He smells like outside air and skin and the rain he brought in with him.
Then your body betrays you in a new way.
You relax.
It happens slowly, then all at once. Your forehead drops against his shoulder. Your fingers curl loosely into the front of his shirt beneath the open coat. He exhales above you, and you feel it move through his ribs.
Neither of you speaks.
This affection is worse than the sex in some ways. Sex can be made ugly enough to survive. Sex can be blamed on impulse, loneliness, the body’s talent for ruining common sense. This is harder to excuse. His hand smoothing over your hair. His mouth pressing once to your temple. The way he holds you like he has done it in dreams and is trying to memorize the real weight.
“You should go,” you murmur, though you make no effort to move.
“I will.”
“Soon.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re still holding me.”
“I noticed.”
You close your eyes. “Asshole.”
His chest moves with a quiet laugh. “A little.”
“A lot.”
"I deserved that."
His fingers slide slowly through your hair, separating strands with a gentleness that makes something under your ribs ache. He kisses your temple again, then the side of your head, his lips lingering longer the second time.
“You always this quiet after?” he asks.
You think about lying.
“No.”
His hand stills for half a second.
Then he resumes the slow stroke over your hair. “Is it because of the call?”
“It’s because of all of it.”
He nods against you, a small movement.
You feel his throat shift as he swallows. “I hate that I’m the reason you feel like that.”
You pull back just enough to see him. “Then stop being the reason.”
He doesn’t answer.
There is the truth, sitting between you without needing to be dressed up. He can feel bad. He can hold you. He can kiss your forehead in your dark bedroom with his coat still wet from the rain. None of that means he will make the choice that would cost him the life waiting elsewhere.
Your gaze drops to his hand on the sheet.
Bare.
The sight punches through the moment again.
He follows your eyes, but before he can look properly, his phone vibrates in his coat pocket.
Both of you freeze.
The buzz is short and sharp against his chest, trapped between you. Jungkook’s arms loosen around you, and the spell breaks so quickly it is almost embarrassing.
He takes the phone out and glances at it.
His face changes.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
You already know.
“What's she saying?” you ask.
He looks torn for a second, then sighs. “She’s asking where I am.”
You move out of his arms.
This time he lets you.
The room cools instantly.
Jungkook types with one hand, slower now, as if every letter weighs something. You sit beside him wrapped in the sheet and watch the pale indentation on his ring finger while he lies to his wife.
The absurdity almost makes you laugh.
When he finishes, he pockets the phone and stands.
“I have to go.”
You nod.
Ultimately, there was nothing else to do.
He leans down as if to kiss your mouth, then stops himself.
You notice that too.
Something bitter sparks in you. “You can fuck me, but goodbye is where you find religion?”
His eyes sharpen with hurt, then soften into something ashamed. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He looks at your mouth.
For one second, he seems like he might give in. Instead, he bends and presses a kiss to your forehead. It is warm, brief, and devastatingly careful.
“I don’t kiss you goodbye because if I do, I won’t leave when I’m supposed to,” he says against your skin.
Your breath catches despite every effort to stop it.
He straightens before you can respond.
Coward.
Maybe both of you.
You follow him to the front door, still wrapped in the sheet. The apartment is dim, the hallway light casting everything in weak gold. His wet footprints have dulled on the floor. Your ergonomic mat is bent at one corner from where he kicked it earlier.
The ring sits on the narrow table beside your keys.
You see it.
He doesn’t.
Jungkook shoves one foot into his shoe, then the other, distracted by another buzz from his phone. He checks the screen, tension pulling through his shoulders.
“똥,” he mutters. Shit.
You lean against the wall. “Trouble?”
“She’s asking if I took the car.”
“Did you?”
He looks up at you. “Obviously.”
“Hm, you're not very good at this.”
“I’m better when you’re not staring at me.”
“That was almost sweet.”
“It really wasn’t meant to be.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitches.
He sees it, and for a second the expression on his face changes so quickly it hurts. Relief. Affection. Want. All of it there and gone before he can protect either of you from it.
He steps closer.
You think he might touch you again. He doesn’t, at first. He only looks at you, really looks, as if the quiet from earlier still bothers him.
Then he reaches out and tucks the sheet more securely around your shoulder where it had slipped.
The gesture is small.
Too domestic.
Your heart reacts like an idiot.
“You’re cold,” he says.
“I’ll live.”
“I know you will.” His thumb brushes the edge of the sheet near your collarbone. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”
You stare at him, thrown by the plainness of it.
He seems thrown too.
For a second, there is no affair in the room. No wife. No emergency contact name. No wet floor, no missed call, no ring in plain sight. Just Jungkook looking at you like leaving is taking effort.
Then his phone buzzes again.
Reality returns with terrible timing.
He closes his eyes for half a second. “Gotta go.”
“Fourth time, goodbye jungkook.”
He chuckles under his breath before he opens the door, cold hallway air slipping in around him.
Before he steps out, he turns back. “Thursday?”
The question is quieter than usual.
You could still say no. You could point to the table and say take your ring, take your guilt, take whatever you think this is, and don’t come back. The words are all there, lined up and ready.
Instead, your gaze flicks to his bare hand.
He notices the movement this time, but he misunderstands it. His fingers flex, and he looks down briefly, distracted, not long enough to register what’s missing. Then his attention returns to you.
You say, “Don’t come if you’re only going to feel bad about it afterwards.”
His mouth tightens. “That rules out most nights.”
“Then maybe sit with that.”
A quiet, pained laugh leaves him. “You’re mean when you’re sad.”
“Imagine how charming I’ll be when I’m happy.”
His eyes soften.
He reaches out, touches your cheek once, and this time you let the tenderness happen without pretending it doesn’t matter. His thumb moves along your skin, slow and careful.
“I’ll see you thursday,” he says, but it sounds less like confidence and more like a confession of weakness.
You don’t answer.
He leaves.
The door closes with a soft click.
You stand there for several seconds, listening to his footsteps move down the hall. The elevator dings. The doors open. Close. The building swallows him the way it always does.
Only then do you turn toward the table.
His wedding ring gleams beside your keys.
Forgotten.
For a while, you just simply stare at it.
It looks wrong in your apartment. Too bright. Too official. A little circle of proof sitting among your ordinary things. Keys, lip balm, a receipt from the convenience store, the tiny ceramic dish where you keep loose coins. It should be on his hand, catching light when he grips the steering wheel on the way back to her. It should be in his house, beside her toothbrush, beneath the roof where his lies have somewhere to land.
Instead, it's here.
With you.
Your stomach twists.
You pick it up.
The band is heavier than you expect, warm from the room or from memory. You turn it between your fingers, studying the smooth gold, the faint scratches along the outside. Marriage leaves marks even on metal.
Your phone lights up in the bedroom.
For a second, you don’t move.
Then you carry the ring with you, crossing the cold floor back into the wreck of your room. The screen glows against the twisted sheets.
Jungcuck
just got to the car.
Another message comes through before the screen dims.
Jungcuck
hope you're not too upset.
You stare at it, the ring pressed into your palm. Then another.
Jungcuck
you know i hate to leave you like this.
Your throat tightens.
The affection at the end should make it easier. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing more unbearable. Cruelty has clean edges. Tenderness seeps.
You sit on the edge of the bed.
The ring rests in your open palm, innocent and damning.
You type slowly.
You
you forgot something.
The reply doesn’t come right away.
You imagine him in the driver’s seat, phone in one hand, rain streaking the windshield, his other hand maybe reaching automatically for the gear shift. Maybe he glances down then. Maybe his thumb brushes the bare place on his finger.
When his message appears, it is only one word.
Jungcuck
fuck.
Jungcuck
my ring?
You look at the gold band in your hand.
You
yeah.
A pause.
Long enough for him to swear out loud, maybe. Long enough for him to understand that the thing he uses to return to his life is sitting in your bedroom after he held you too sweetly and left too fast.
Jungcuck
I’ll come back.
You breathe out a laugh with no humor in it.
You
she’s awake jungkook.
Jungcuck
I’ll figure it out.
You stare at that.
That was jungkook in four words. Not a plan. Not a promise. Just impulse dressed as certainty.
Your thumb hovers over the screen.
You could tell him no. You could tell him to explain the missing ring. You could keep it until thursday. You could drop it into the little ceramic dish by the door and let it sit there among coins and spare keys like any other misplaced thing.
Instead, you set the ring on your nightstand.
Exactly where his phone had lit up earlier. It sits there beneath the lamp, bright and silent.
You type back.
You
not tonight.
The typing bubbles appear almost immediately.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Jungcuck
please don't do this rn.
Your chest aches at the word “please”.
You
I’m not doing anything. You left it.
Jungcuck
I was distracted.
You
clearly.
A longer pause follows.
Jungcuck
were you going to tell me?
You look toward the hallway, toward the table where it had been sitting in plain view while he touched your cheek and asked about thursday. You think of his bare hand. His tired eyes. The way he noticed your quiet but not the missing weight on his finger.
You answer honestly.
You
I have to remind a married man he's married?
The message sends.
Rain taps gently at the window. The apartment feels too still now, as if it is waiting to see what kind of person you become with his marriage on your nightstand.
Jungkook doesn’t respond for almost a full minute.
Then your phone lights again.
Jungcuck
touché.
You hate that reply.
You hate it because it gives you nowhere to put the anger. No argument to throw yourself against. No denial to tear apart.
Another message follows.
Jungcuck
I’ll get it thursday if you’ll keep it safe for me.
The phrase makes something bitter rise in your throat.
"Keep it safe."
As if safety is a thing either of you knows how to offer.
You look at the ring.
Then at the message.
You
fine.
His reply comes fast.
Jungcuck
thank you.
You don’t answer but he does a few seconds later.
Jungcuck
and for what it’s worth, I meant what I said before I left.
You don’t ask which part.
You already knew.
That he didn’t like leaving you quiet. That he wanted to hold you without pretending it was nothing. That if he kissed you goodbye, he might not leave.
All of it. None of it enough.
You put the phone face down.
The room is quiet except for the rain and the slow settling of your own breath. Your sheets are a mess. Your skin still carries him. Your hallway floor is marked by the water he tracked in and the absence he left behind.
On the nightstand, his wedding ring catches the lamplight.
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well firstly, my name is actually sam. 07' liner, 19 years old and I am black! I work in healthcare and 'am currently trying to enroll in school for nursing ( idk if i'll commit but I have hope! )
໒ྀི likes : to cook and bake, make edits, a little graphic design, doing makeup, music ( rnb, early 2000s, kpop, krnb, indie, some pop), reading & writing, game occasionally, good hygiene & cleaning, self maintenance, my dada jungkook 👀
໒ྀི do not like : any kind of hatred or negativity against and towards one another; homophobia, transphobia, racism, sexism, colorism, ableism, prejudice, etc. everyone deserves to be treated equally, with dignity and respect and if you just can't stomach that then respectfully, bye. bts antis, fan wars, any use of ai—again bye.
that's pretty much me, if you guys have anymore questions or just genuinely want a fun little conversation, feel free to reach out to me!
IN WHICH jungkook lingers after closing with fresh ink and unspoken feelings, until the quiet studio turns months of tension into a confession, a kiss, and something much more intimate.
pairings `jungkook x ftattooartist!reader genre `tattoo studio au, idol au, smut, slow burn, romance, fluff, light angst warnings `MDNI explicit content ahead, making out, praise, light teasing (the concept of shy jungkook is so cute i had to), swearing, oral (m! receiving) wc 6.3k
aftercare
The studio had a different pulse after midnight.
During the day, it belonged to voices and ringing phones, to clients pretending not to be nervous, to the printer coughing out stencils, to the front door chiming every twenty minutes as someone wandered in smelling like cold air, coffee, or cigarette smoke from the street. At night, once the last artist had gone home and the lock had turned over with a heavy click, the place settled into its bones.
The lights above your station were still bright, clinical white pouring over stainless steel trays and sealed cartridges, over ink caps lined in neat black rows, over the roll of paper towels and the green soap bottle with its lavender-clean bite. Beneath that, there was the sharper scent of disinfectant, plastic wrap, skin-safe cleanser, a faint medicinal tang that always sat in the back of your throat after a long session. The machines were silent now, but the memory of their buzzing seemed to cling to the walls, a ghost-hum threaded through the rain tapping against the front windows.
Jungkook was still in your chair.
He had been finished for almost twenty minutes.
At first, he had an excuse. He wanted to look at the piece from another angle.
Then he wanted to check how it moved when he bent his arm, careful not to disturb the fresh wrap.
Then he had gotten up, stood in front of the mirror, turned his forearm under the light, and stared at the dark lines through the shine of protective film with the solemn focus of someone reading a sentence written in a language only he understood.
Now he had no excuse at all.
He sat back in the tattoo chair with one leg stretched out and the other bent, his loose black shirt wrinkled from hours of stillness, damp hair curling around his temples from the rain he had walked through earlier. His cap sat on your counter beside the half-finished iced drink he had brought you before the appointment, condensation pooling around the plastic cup. He looked tired in the way he often did when he came late, like his body had arrived before the rest of him, like some part of him was still catching up from wherever the day had dragged him.
You snapped off your gloves and tossed them into the bin. “You’re gonna' to start paying rent if you keep staying this late.”
His mouth twitched. He did not look away from the mirror.
“How much?”
“For you? Expensive.”
“That sounds unfair.”
“Well, you take up space.”
At that, he finally turned his head. His eyes were dark under the overhead light, still a little distant, but warmth moved through them when they landed on you. “I’m quiet.”
“The chairs eroding.”
“I like this chair.”
“And you also like avoiding going home.”
The quiet that followed was too honest to be accidental.
You regretted the words almost as soon as they left your mouth, not because they were cruel, but because they touched something you had both been circling for weeks. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to his wrapped arm. His fingers rested against his thigh, thumb rubbing once over the side seam of his pants. It was a small habit, barely there, but you had seen it enough times to know he did it when he was thinking about whether to tell the truth.
Outside, a car passed through the wet street, tires whispering over the road.
He gave a soft breath that might have been a laugh if it had tried harder. “Maybe.”
You picked up the spray bottle and began wiping down the tray because the movement gave both of you somewhere to put your attention. “Long day?”
“Long everything.”
The answer was plain and low. No drama in it. No performance. Just the fatigue of someone who had spent too much time being watched and not enough time being held by silence.
You glanced at him. “Did you ate that protein bar?”
“Yes?"
“The whole thing?”
His expression shifted, faintly offended. “You watched me.”
“I watched you open it. Different thing.”
“I ate it,” he said, and then, after a beat, added, “Most of it.”
“Jungkook.”
“It was dry.”
“It was food.”
“Food torture.”
You tried not to smile and failed.
He saw it, of course. He always noticed the smallest changes, especially the ones you thought you hid. That was one of the first things that had made him feel dangerous to you, long before anything openly romantic existed between you. Not dangerous in the obvious way people might have assumed when they saw the tattoos, the piercings, the black clothes, the calm way he carried his strength. Dangerous because he paid attention.
Because he remembered.
Three weeks ago, you had mentioned once, while changing the cling film on your station, that the studio got too dry when the heat ran all day. The next appointment, he arrived with a small tube of hand cream and set it beside your ink caps without explanation.
A month before that, you had complained under your breath that one of the lamps flickered when it warmed up. The next time he came in, he tapped the base with one finger and said, “Still doing it?” as if the lamp had personally disappointed him.
He did not make grand gestures. He made evidence.
You sealed the last used cartridge in the sharps container and pulled the paper barrier from the tray. “Your wrap is good. Don’t mess with it tonight, okay?”
“I know.”
“And don't work out tomorrow.”
His eyes flicked up.
You pointed at him. “Don't.”
"Okay, fine..."
"I'm serious, jungkook."
He smiled then, wider, and the tension around his mouth eased. “You always talk like you can hear what's going on in my head.”
“Mm, only when it doesn't function correctly.”
“Wow.”
“Professional opinion.”
He gave a low, amused sound and leaned his head back against the chair. For a while, you cleaned in companionable quiet. The rain thickened, spilling silver down the glass. Somewhere in the back room, the heater clicked on with a dry rattle. The green soap smell rose again as you wiped the armrest where his wrist had rested for hours, mingling with disinfectant and the faint ozone tang from equipment that had worked hard all day.
When you looked over again, jungkook was watching your hands.
Not your face. Not the room.
Your hands.
The focus of it made you miss a spot on the counter.
“You’re staring,” you said.
He did not deny it quickly enough.
“I’m learning,” he replied.
“What? How to clean a station?”
A corner of his mouth twitched.
“I know how you clean a station.”
You paused with the spray bottle still in your hand.
“Do you?”
“I’ve seen you do it a hundred times.”
The words should not have landed the way they did. They were simple, almost casual, but something in his voice had lowered on the last part, and the air between you tightened with the same subtle shift you felt when a stencil first touched skin. A point of contact. A decision approaching.
You set the bottle down. “That useful to you?”
“Maybe.”
“For what?”
He looked at you then, directly, and the question seemed to move through him before he answered. His throat bobbed once.
“I don’t know yet.”
The studio became too quiet.
You could have laughed it off. He might have let you. You could have made a joke about him becoming your apprentice, about charging him for lessons, about anything that would have pushed the moment back into safer shape. He had given you room to do that. Jungkook often did. His honesty came with an exit, a door left half-open so the other person could step away without making it cruel.
You did not step away.
Instead, you moved to the counter beside him and picked up the small roll of medical tape, checking the edge though you did not need it. “You keep doing that.”
His eyes followed the movement. “What?”
“Saying something then pretending you they don't have any meaning.”
His lips parted slightly, but no answer came. He looked younger when he was caught off guard, not less grown, just less armored.
The strong lines of his face softened.
The confidence people liked to assign him loosened into something more human. He rubbed the side of his thumb against his index finger, careful with the wrapped arm.
“I’m not pretending,” he said at last.
“No?”
“I’m deciding if I should say more.”
Your heartbeat climbed in a way that annoyed you. You were used to steady hands. You made a living from precision, from keeping your breath calm when skin moved under you, from controlling pressure and depth and angle. Yet here he was, sitting in your chair with tired eyes and fresh ink, and your body reacted as if he were the needle.
You leaned back against the counter. “And?”
His gaze lowered to your mouth so briefly you might have missed it if you had not already been watching him too closely.
“And I if I say more,” he said, voice quieter, “I won't be able to take it back.”
The rain dragged itself down the windows in long, wavering lines.
You took one step closer.
He stilled.
It was not dramatic. He did not grab you, did not smirk, did not suddenly become someone else. He simply stopped moving, all his attention narrowing into the space between your bodies. His breathing changed first, a slow inhale that did not fully settle. Then his fingers flexed against his thigh.
“You don’t have to take everything back,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The whole studio seemed to hold its breath around the chair, around the ink drying under film on his forearm, around the months of him coming in with new ideas and careful questions and drinks he pretended were no big deal. Around every time his hand had lingered too near yours when you passed him a sketch. Around every time you had caught him watching you work with an expression too intent to be only artistic interest.
Jungkook reached out slowly, giving you every chance to shift away, and touched your wrist.
His hand was warm. His grip was light. His thumb rested over your pulse with terrifying gentleness.
“Do you know," he says.
It wasn’t a question, more like an observation he was certain he knew the answer to.
You looked down at his fingers around your wrist, at the faint ink stains near your own nails, at the contrast of his skin against yours. “Yeah.”
His thumb moved once, barely, and your pulse jumped under it.
“Since when?”
You smiled faintly. “You brought me coffee after I complained about the place across the street burning theirs. Kinda hard not to miss."
“That was just me being nice.”
“You also hate that café.”
He looked away, caught, and a breath of laughter escaped him. “Yeah, their coffee is really bad.”
“And you still went, for me.”
His eyes returned to yours, warmer now, shy and steady at once. “Mm.”
Something inside you softened so hard it almost hurt.
You turned your wrist under his hand until your fingers brushed his palm. “Since then.”
He swallowed. “That was two months ago.”
“Correct.”
“And you didn’t say anything.”
“Neither did you.”
His mouth curved, but there was nervousness underneath it. “I was trying to be respectful.”
“You were.”
“I didn’t want to make this weird.”
“It's fine, you didn't.”
“I thought about it,” he admitted, and the honesty seemed to pull the next words from him before caution could stop them. “A lot.”
Your breath caught quietly.
His hand tightened around yours, then loosened, as if he had to remind himself not to hold too hard. “Coming here. To see you. Thinking maybe I should stop before I made it complicated. Then thinking I didn’t want to stop.”
The words were simple. That made them worse. Better. More intimate than any polished confession could have been.
You stepped in between his knees, and his head tilted up to follow you. The chair put him slightly lower than you like this, broad shoulders relaxed against black vinyl, tattooed arm carefully held away, his unwrapped hand still around yours. There was nothing careless in him now. Nothing performative. Just attention, direct and deep.
“Are you stopping now?” you asked.
His eyes went to your mouth again. This time he let you see it.
“No.”
You bent slowly, giving him the same chance he had given you.
He met you halfway.
The first kiss was careful enough to ache. His lips were warm, softer than the hard line of his jaw suggested, and for one suspended second he barely moved, like he was registering the fact of it. Then his breath left him through his nose, shaky and relieved, and his hand slid from your wrist to the side of your neck.
He kissed like he listened.
At first, he learned. The angle of your mouth, the pressure you liked, the small sound you made when his thumb brushed under your jaw. He took it in with that same focused patience he brought to everything that mattered, then adjusted, deepening the kiss when you leaned into him, slowing when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. His other arm stayed careful because of the fresh tattoo, but the rest of him shifted toward you with unmistakable want.
A low sound caught in his throat when you parted your lips for him.
It was quiet, almost swallowed, but it went through you like heat.
You braced one hand on the back of the chair and kissed him harder. His fingers slipped into your hair, not pulling yet, only holding, grounding himself there as his mouth opened under yours. The studio’s clean medicinal scent clung to both of you. Green soap, rain, ink, his skin warm beneath it all. The place where you had spent months touching him professionally had narrowed into this single impossible difference: now he was touching back.
You drew away enough to breathe.
Jungkook followed without thinking, mouth chasing yours for half a second before he caught himself. His eyes opened slowly. They were dark, unfocused, and almost embarrassed by their own hunger.
You smiled. “Impatient.”
He huffed, breathless. “You kissed me first.”
“You reached for me first.”
“You came closer.”
“You stayed in my chair for twenty minutes after we were done.”
His ears flushed. He tried to look annoyed, but the effect was ruined by the way his hand had not left your neck. “You're counting?”
“Well, I am a professional.”
“That's pretty ironic.”
You laughed against his mouth, and he kissed the sound from you.
This time there was less caution. His hand tightened in your hair, still gentle but no longer tentative, and his knee pressed against the outside of your leg as he drew you in. You felt the restraint in him, the carefulness shaped around the fresh ink, around the chair, around the fact that this mattered too much to rush badly. But beneath it, want gathered fast and hot.
Your hand slid from his shoulder to his chest. His breath hitched under your palm.
“Still okay?” you asked.
He blinked at you, and for a second, something tender moved across his face. Of course you would ask. Of course he would notice.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher. “More than okay.”
Then, quieter, as if honesty had become easier now that his mouth had already betrayed him, “Don’t stop.”
So you didn’t.
You kissed along the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, feeling the muscle jump as he clenched it. When your lips reached the place beneath his ear, his fingers tightened in your hair and a soft, broken “mmh” slipped out of him before he could trap it.
You paused there. “Sensitive?”
He exhaled a laugh that trembled at the edges, “That was nothing.”
“You made a pretty convincing argument.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“Oh, but you did.”
His head tipped back against the chair as your mouth moved lower, and the clean line of his throat exposed itself under the light. He was beautiful like this in a way that felt almost unfair.
Rain damp hair drying messily, lips swollen from kissing, eyes half-lidded and still trying to watch you, black shirt stretched over his chest as his breathing deepened.
When your fingers found the hem of his shirt, you stopped.
His gaze sharpened immediately.
“Can I?”
For a moment, he only looked at you. Then he nodded, once, serious now. “Yes.”
You lifted the fabric carefully, mindful of his wrapped arm, and he helped as much as he could, a little awkward with one side restricted. The awkwardness made him laugh under his breath, embarrassed and undeniably real.
“Sorry, kind of awkward,” he muttered.
“Good.”
He looked at you, startled. “Good?”
“I like you real.”
That silenced him.
The shirt came off slowly, leaving his hair mussed and his torso bare under the studio light. You had seen parts of him before, enough to place stencils, enough to tattoo, enough to maintain professionalism with a steady hand and a trained eye. This was different because he had given permission for you to look.
So you did.
His skin carried art and warmth, hard-earned muscle and softness in the places bodies stayed human no matter how many people admired them from far away. His stomach tightened when your gaze moved over him, and the reaction was so immediate that you looked back to his face.
He was watching you watch him.
There was confidence there, yes, but not arrogance. Under the want, under the heat, there was a flicker of vulnerability he did not bother hiding quickly enough.
You touched his chest with your fingertips.
His breath left him.
“Jungkook,” you murmured.
His eyes closed for half a second at the sound of his name, as if hearing it like this did something to him. When he opened them again, they were darker.
You stepped closer between his knees, your hand sliding down the center of his chest, over the firm jump of his abdomen.
His lips parted. A faint sound caught behind his teeth. “Fuck.”
It was not smooth. It was better than smooth.
He pulled you down into another kiss, needier now, his hand at the back of your neck, his body lifting toward yours as much as the chair allowed. You could feel the heat of him, the tension, the restraint fraying in slow threads. When your fingers reached his waistband, he went very still again, but this stillness was different. Strained. Waiting.
You drew back enough to see his face. “Tell me, what do you want?”
His jaw flexed. For once, he looked like words were the harder thing.
“I want you,” he said finally, low and direct. Then his eyes dropped, and a small, disbelieving laugh left him. “‘Wanted you for a while.”
The admission moved through you with a force that made the room feel smaller.
You touched his cheek, and he leaned into it before he could stop himself.
“I know,” you said softly.
He laughed, but the sound faded when your thumb brushed his lower lip. His gaze locked on yours, attention narrowing again, body quieting under your hand in a way that made your own breath thin.
“You’re okay with obvious?” he asked.
“From you?”
His hand slid to your waist, fingers firming there. “Yeah.”
You kissed him once, slow. “I like it.”
The last of his hesitation seemed to loosen.
He stood carefully, keeping his wrapped arm angled away, and the change in height shifted the air between you. He was close enough now that you had to tip your head back. The chair creaked behind him. The studio light caught along his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the dark edge of ink disappearing along skin. He did not crowd you carelessly; he waited until your hands settled at his waist before he moved.
Then he kissed you like waiting had become impossible.
His mouth was hotter now, less measured, and the soft sounds he had swallowed earlier started slipping free against your lips. A low “mm,” a rough inhale, a broken breath when your hands slid over his bare back. He backed you toward the counter with careful steps, one hand at your hip, the other braced near your shoulder when you reached the edge.
“Tattoo,” you warned against his mouth.
“I know,” he breathed, even as he kissed you again.
“Don’t mess it up.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
He laughed into your neck, and the vibration of it ran through your skin. Then his mouth found the side of your throat, and you stopped teasing.
It was unfair how quickly he learned. One soft inhale from you and he stayed there, lips moving with patient pressure, teeth grazing only when your fingers tightened on his shoulder. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His hand on your waist flexed, and his mouth curved against your skin.
“There?” he murmured.
You hated how wrecked one word could make you feel.
“Yes.”
He made a low sound, pleased and focused, and did it again.
The counter pressed cold against your lower back. The rest of the studio remained painfully clean around you. Sealed drawers, covered machines, labeled bottles, the sterile brightness of your station. But jungkook was warm against you, breathing hard, mouth at your throat, his hair brushing your jaw. The contrast made everything sharper.
His fingers found the hem of your shirt and paused.
You drew back.
He looked at you, breathing through parted lips. “Can I?”
The question was soft. Careful. Him.
You nodded.
He lifted your shirt with his unwrapped hand, slow enough that your skin prickled under the studio air. His eyes followed every inch he uncovered. Not greedy in a careless way. Attentive. Almost reverent, though that word felt too polished for the raw concentration on his face.
When your shirt dropped aside, he stared for a second too long.
You touched his chin. “Hey.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, and color rose along his cheekbones. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m trying not to make you uncomfortable.”
“You’re not.”
He nodded, but the seriousness stayed. “Tell me if I do.”
Your chest tightened. You kissed him before tenderness could undo you.
He answered immediately, hand sliding over your waist, palm warm against bare skin. The first skin-to-skin contact pulled a quiet sound from both of you. His forehead rested against yours for a moment after, breath mingling, his eyes lowered as if he needed to gather himself.
“You’re warm,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I know, but—” He stopped, laughed softly at himself, then shook his head. “Never mind.”
“No, say it.”
He looked almost pained by the request, then gave in because he was braver than he thought. “It’s different.”
The words landed gently.
You understood. Touching during appointments had always been about angles, placement, cleaning, pressure, work. Necessary contact. Controlled contact. This was not that. This was his palm sliding up your side because he wanted to feel you, because he could, because you had said yes.
You covered his hand with yours and guided it higher.
His breath caught. “Yeah?”
“Mm.”
The sound he made then was small and rough, tucked low in his throat. He kissed you again, deeper, his hand moving with growing confidence as you arched into him. He was still careful, still checking your face, but desire had begun to overtake the shyness. His thumb traced your skin. His mouth left yours to drag along your jaw. When you said his name, his whole body seemed to respond.
“Jungkook.”
“Again,” he whispered.
You smiled, dazed. “Was that it?”
He pressed his forehead into your shoulder, embarrassed and laughing under his breath. “Don’t tease me right now.”
“Jungkook.”
A shiver moved through him.
“Ah, fuck,” he muttered, and the helplessness in it made heat coil low in your stomach.
He kissed lower, slow and testing, giving you time at every step. The studio disappeared by degrees. The rain became a dull hush beyond the glass. The bright lights became heat on your skin. His mouth became the center of everything.
When your fingers slid into his hair and tugged lightly, he groaned properly, a deep, involuntary sound that vibrated against you.
You froze for half a beat.
He lifted his head, eyes dark and slightly dazed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His mouth curved as if he’d figured something out. “Huh.”
“You’re very observant.”
“Still learning,” he said again, but this time the words were rough against your mouth, threaded with confidence.
The charged silence that followed was broken only by breathing.
You let your hand trail down his chest again, slower than before. His abdomen tightened under your touch. When your fingers reached his waistband, his hips shifted forward before he could stop them. The movement was small, but both of you felt it.
His eyes closed.
“Sorry,” he breathed.
“You shouldn't apologize for wanting.”
He opened his eyes. Something raw moved through them then, gratitude tangled with hunger.
“I’m trying to be normal,” he said.
“You’ve never been as subtle as you think.”
That startled a laugh out of him, and for one second, he was familiar again in the sweetest way. Amused, shy, and caught. Then your fingers brushed the button of his pants, and the laugh broke into a shaky exhale.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” you reassured.
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
“Tell me anyway.”
His gaze held yours. “I don’t want to stop.”
So you kept going.
The button slipped free. His breathing deepened. He watched your hand like he had watched your needle all night, with trust and tension and that almost unbearable focus. When you touched him through the fabric, he sucked in a breath and gripped the counter beside you hard enough that his knuckles paled.
“Nnh—” The sound caught in his throat. His head dipped, hair falling forward.
You kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Good?”
He laughed once, strained. “You’re asking that like you don’t know.”
“I do know, just want to hear you say it.”
His eyes lifted, heavy and bright. “Good,” he said, voice low. Then, after your hand moved again, “Really good.”
There was no polished performance in him. No impossible confidence. He was responsive, warm, overwhelmed in increments and trying to stay present through all of it. When you touched him more firmly, his mouth fell open against your shoulder, and the groan that left him was quiet but unmistakable.
“Mmh—shit.”
You felt him smile afterward, embarrassed by himself.
“Cute,” you murmured.
He lifted his head immediately. “Don’t call me cute right now.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying very hard to be sexy.”
That made you laugh, and his expression softened with pride because he had made you laugh even like this, even with his pants open and your hand on him and his breathing unsteady. Then he kissed you again, smiling into it for half a second before the pleasure dragged him back under.
“You are,” you whispered against his lips.
His eyes searched yours.
“Sexy?” he asked, almost playful, almost needing to know.
You slid your hand past his waistband and took him in your palm.
His whole body went rigid for one stunning second, his breath punched out of him in a broken, startled sound that made the studio feel impossibly small. “Oh—fuck.”
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and the hand at your waist tightened, fingers pressing into your skin with a restraint that shook at the edges. He was already hard, hot and heavy in your grip, the evidence of all those months of silence and glances and almost-touches finally stripped of any excuse. The intimacy of it hit you harder than you expected. You had held his arm steady through pain. You had cleaned ink from his skin. You had wrapped new work with careful hands and told him how to heal.
This was different.
This was him trembling because your fingers closed around him. This was his mouth open against your neck, his breath spilling hot and uneven over your skin. This was jungkook, who sat through hours under a needle without complaint, losing composure because you stroked him once, slow from base to tip.
“Ah—” His hips jerked forward before he could stop them, and he immediately made a rough, frustrated sound. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
You kissed the side of his head, your hand still wrapped around him. “Stop apologizing.”
“I’m trying not to move.”
“You can move.”
His laugh broke apart halfway through, turning into a groan when your thumb swept over the slick heat at his tip. “You say that like you don’t know what it does to me.”
“Mm? What does it do to you?”
He lifted his head enough to look at you, eyes dark and unfocused, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from your mouth. For once, he did not deflect quickly. His gaze fell to where your hand disappeared beneath the loosened front of his pants, and his throat worked around a sound he almost swallowed.
“Makes me want more,” he said.
The honesty curled through you like smoke.
You kissed him, and he groaned into your mouth as you started a steady rhythm, firm enough to make his knees soften, slow enough to keep him aware of every inch of your hand around him. His skin was fever-warm, the glide growing smoother with each pass, and he reacted to every change with helpless precision: a catch in his breathing when your grip tightened, a low “mmh—yeah” when your wrist twisted near the head, a shudder that moved through his abdomen when you dragged your thumb over him again.
He was not quiet anymore.
He tried to be. That was the beautiful part. He pressed his lips together, breathed through his nose, turned his face into your shoulder like he could hide what you were doing to him from the empty studio. But the sounds kept slipping out anyway, low and breathy and wrecked, each one more honest than the last.
“Nnh—wait,” he gasped, though his hips rolled into your hand again.
You slowed at once. “Wait?”
His eyes opened, panicked by the possibility that you might stop entirely. “No, not—” He swallowed, fingers flexing at your waist. “Just slower. Please.”
The last word came out rough and quiet, scraped bare.
You gave him what he asked for, easing the pace until each stroke was deliberate. His head fell back, throat exposed, chest rising hard under the white studio light. The fresh wrap on his forearm crinkled when his fingers curled and he forced them open again, remembering your warning even now, even with pleasure pulling him apart by threads.
“You’re still trying to protect the tattoo,” you murmured.
His laugh came out ruined. “You told me to.”
“Good listener.”
“You have no idea.”
Then you tightened your hand, and his sentence dissolved into a low, desperate “ah—fuck, just like that.”
There it was, the same focus turned inward, the same honesty his body gave before his mouth caught up. You watched his face as you touched him, watched the way his brows pulled together, the way his lips parted on each shaky exhale, the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth like he needed the kiss as much as the friction.
You kissed him again, messy and warm, and his hand slid up your back, pulling you closer until there was almost no space left between you. His cock pulsed in your grip. You felt it. He felt you feel it, and the awareness made him groan against your lips.
“St-stop looking at— mmh, me like that,” he whispered.
“Like wh—”
“You know exactly what to do to make me come.”
You smiled against his mouth and stroked him harder.
His knees actually buckled.
For a second, he braced himself against the counter, breath leaving him in a sharp “hah—” as his head dipped. The vulnerability of it, the weight of his body leaning into yours while your hand worked him open, made heat flood through you. He was strong enough to hold himself together through almost anything, but he was choosing not to hide from this. Choosing to let you see him affected, needy, real.
“Jungkook,” you said softly.
His eyes squeezed shut. “Mm—don’t.”
“I thought you liked hearing me say your name.”
“I do.” His voice cracked into a breathless laugh, then a moan when your thumb circled the head. “That’s the problem.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, feeling the tremble under his skin. Your hand moved slick and steady, and every stroke pulled him closer to the edge he had tried to delay. His hips began to follow you in small, helpless rolls, controlled at first, then less controlled as the rhythm built. He was breathing hard now, no longer pretending he wasn’t, little sounds catching low in his throat.
“Mmh—yeah. Yeah, like that. Please don’t stop.”
The plea was so quiet you almost felt it more than heard it.
You didn't stop for a second.
His hand slid into your hair again, not guiding, just holding on. He kissed you with uneven pressure, losing the shape of it whenever your wrist twisted just right. His mouth dragged against yours; his breath broke into yours; the wet heat of his cock moved through your fist while rain blurred the windows and the locked studio held the secret of him falling apart under your hand.
“You’re close,” you whispered.
He nodded, almost ashamed of how obvious it was. “So fucking close.”
“That’s okay.”
“I wanted—” He broke off with a sharp inhale, his stomach tensing hard. “I wanted to make you feel good first.”
The tenderness of that, said while he was shaking in your palm, nearly undid you.
“You are,” you said.
His eyes opened, searching your face with desperate focus, needing to believe it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Let me see you.”
That hit him hard.
His lips parted, but no words came out. His gaze stayed locked on yours as you stroked him through it, faster now, firmer, feeling him throb against your palm. The flush on his cheeks deepened, spreading down his neck and chest. His breathing turned ragged. His hand at your waist gripped, released, gripped again, trying not to hold too tightly and failing by degrees.
“Unh... I’m—” He swallowed a groan, then gave up on hiding it. “I’m gonna come.”
You kissed him once, deep and slow, your hand never losing rhythm. “Come.”
His face crumpled with pleasure.
The sound he made was low and broken, a rough “ah—mmh, fuck,” pressed into your mouth as his body went tight against yours. He came in your hand in hot, pulsing bursts, hips jerking despite every attempt to stay still, breath shuddering through him while his fingers clenched at your waist. His forehead fell to yours, his eyes squeezed shut, and for a few seconds there was nothing composed left in him at all. Just heat, tremor, release, the raw little sounds he could not stop making as you worked him through it gently.
“Mm—ah, wait, sensitive,” he breathed, catching your wrist with a shaking hand when the pleasure tipped too sharp.
You stopped immediately.
He stayed there, bent toward you, breathing hard with his hand around your wrist and his forehead almost touching yours. His grip was loose, trembling. His lashes lifted slowly, and the look he gave you was wrecked, embarrassed, grateful, and so soft it changed the air more completely than the sex had.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he laughed under his breath, hoarse and disbelieving, and dropped his face against your shoulder.
You smiled, running your clean hand into his hair. “Still trying very hard to be sexy?”
He groaned, mortified, but you could feel him smiling against your skin. “Please...”
“You were.”
“Was?”
“Are.”
He lifted his head enough to glare at you weakly, cheeks still flushed, lips bitten red. “You loved this, didn't you?”
“As I stated earlier, I'm a professional.”
He shut his eyes. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
His smile softened before he could stop it. “I don’t.”
You reached for the paper towels on the counter, and he made an immediate sound of alarm when he realized you were about to move away.
“I’m cleaning up,” you said, amused.
“Right.” He released your waist slowly, then looked down at himself and exhaled a shy, breathless laugh. “Right. Sorry.”
“You apologize a lot after coming in my hand.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide. “Mm! You can’t just say that.”
“I just did.”
He stared at you for half a second, then laughed properly, quiet and helpless, running his clean hand through his damp hair while you cleaned your palm and helped him with the mess. The intimacy afterward was almost sharper: his blush when you took care of him, the way he looked away and then back because he did not want to miss anything, the careful way he tucked himself back into his pants while trying not to disturb the wrap on his arm.
“You feel okay?” you asked once he was put together again.
He leaned his hip against the counter, still shirtless, still flushed, still breathing a little unevenly. “Yeah.”
“The tattoo?”
He checked the film with exaggerated seriousness, pressing lightly near the edge without touching the fresh work. “Safe.”
“Good.”
“My dignity,” he added, mouth twitching, “comprised.”
You laughed, and his eyes warmed at the sound. He stepped closer, slower now, and set his hand at your waist again, no urgency in it this time. His thumb moved once over your skin.
The rain kept sliding down the windows. The room smelled like disinfectant, green soap, and him, the clean edges of your professional life blurred by the heat still lingering between your bodies. Jungkook looked around the studio as if he were seeing it after a long dream, then looked back at you with a small, private smile.
Then he bent slightly, pressing his lips against yours as his final act of affection.
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