lemon ꨄ︎

i post Patreon exclusive stories, meaning the first scene will be shared here (usually 2k words) and the rest will be on my Patreon

i also post completely free stories, depending on much free time i have

free stories ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

Project Perfect • In The Dark

patreon stories ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

Professor Jungkook: part 1 · part 2 • Bad Boys Bring Heaven To You: part 1 · part 2 • Dirty Dancing After Dark • Bad Boys Leave Marks: part 1 · part 2 • His Dark Obsession • Pose For His Camera • Double Trouble • Bad Boys Give Bad Ideas • His Dancer • Needy Boyfriend • Please, Noona • Boy Next Door • Under His Control • Little Jealousy • Mafia's Queen • Revenge Love • Daddy's Playroom • My Hot Senior: part 1 · part 2 · part 3 · part 4 · part 5 • Mechanic Oppa: part 1 · part 2 · part 3 • Daddy's Present: part 1 · part 2 • His Angel: part 1 · part 2 • Falling in Bed: part 1 • My Mafia Husband: part 1 • Assassins With Benefit: part 1 • Daddy's Slut: part 1 • Workplace Dominance: part 1 • Biker Husband: part 1 • Sex Contract: part 1

The stadium was a fucking nightmare. You’d rather be anywhere else—curled in bed with pizza grease on your chin, rewatching your favorite show for the third time this week. But no. Your friend Mina, who’d won these impossible tickets, had come down with a stomach bug, and your other friend, Soojin, refused to go alone. So here you were, hours from home, getting elbowed in the ribs by a sea of screaming strangers because Soojin wanted to be in the pit, “where the magic happens.”

You loved your friends, you really did. But right now, you loved the idea of your quiet apartment more. The music was loud, the pyrotechnics were blinding, and the crowd’s energy was a physical, sweaty force pushing you around. You knew BTS were good—Soojin never shut up about them—but you’d never been interested in stanning anyone. It felt like too much work.

Except.

There was one.

He kept catching your eye. He had an arm sleeved in intricate tattoos, a detail you found inexplicably, instantly hot. His face was sweet, almost boyish, but the way he moved… fuck. It was pure, undiluted sex appeal. Hips rolling, sweat making his white tank top cling to every cut and plane of his torso. He was performing near your side of the stage, and every time his gaze swept over the crowd, it felt like it snagged on you.

“That’s Jungkook!” Soojin screamed in your ear over the music, pointing. “Main vocalist! Main dancer! Golden Maknae! My future husband!”

You just nodded, your eyes locked with his for a beat too long before another explosion of fireworks made you flinch and look away. But you felt it. A weird, hot twist low in your belly. Every time you glanced back, he seemed to be looking right at you, a smirk playing on his lips even as he belted out a high note.

The concert finally ended in a shower of glitter and deafening cheers. Your ears were ringing, your feet ached, and you were drenched in a mixture of your sweat and other people’s. Freedom was so close you could taste it.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” you said, tugging Soojin’s arm toward the nearest exit.

But before you could make it five steps, two people in crisp, black staff uniforms blocked your path. A man and a woman, with polite, professional smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

“Excuse me, miss?” the woman said, her voice calm amidst the post-concert chaos. “Could we have a word with you?”

Your heart jumped into your throat. “Me? Why?”

Soojin’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god. What did you do?”

“Nothing!” you hissed. You looked at the staff members. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem at all,” the man assured you. “Just a private conversation. If you could come with us?”

Panic flirted with curiosity. You looked at Soojin. “It’s fine. I’ll catch up with you outside.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking between you and the staff.

“Yeah. Go ahead. I’ll text you.”

You followed the two staff members through a maze of backstage corridors, away from the departing crowd. The noise faded, replaced by the hum of industrial lighting and your own nervous heartbeat. They led you to a plain door and opened it, gesturing for you to enter.

Inside was a small, sterile-looking room. A man in an expensive-looking suit stood next to a table where another man was arranging some documents. The suited man stepped forward.

“Good evening. I’m Mr. Park, Jeon Jungkook’s manager.” He gestured to the documents. “The artist saw you in the audience and would like to extend an invitation for some… personal time this evening, if you’re willing.”

You blinked. A laugh bubbled up in your chest. This had to be a prank. Some weird fan-experience thing Soojin had secretly signed you up for.

“Personal time,” you repeated flatly.

“Yes. All your travel and accommodation expenses would be covered, of course. And you would need to sign this non-disclosure agreement.” He slid a folder toward you.

You stared at it, then at his serious face. This was insane. You were about to say no, to walk out and find Soojin and laugh about this later.

Then you saw him.

A face peeked through a small, high window in the door—a door you hadn’t even noticed on the other side of the room. It was him. Jungkook. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. That same hot, twisting feeling from the concert ignited in your belly, lower this time, pooling between your thighs. His gaze was a physical touch.

Mr. Park noticed your distraction and followed your look. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward the window.

Swallowing hard, you opened the folder. It was a standard NDA, full of legal jargon about confidentiality and financial penalties. Behind it was another document. You flipped it open and your breath hitched.

It was a medical report. Jeon Jungkook. Date of birth: September 1, 1997. Blood type: A. A list of vaccinations. And a recent, clean STD panel.

Your face flushed. “What… what is this for?”

Mr. Park cleared his throat. “All necessary… medications will be taken care of.”

“Medications?” you asked, confusion warring with the heat spreading through your body.

The door with the window opened suddenly, and Jungkook stepped inside. He’d changed out of his stage clothes into simple black jeans and a tight grey t-shirt that showed off every muscle of his chest and arms. His tattoos were on full display. He looked even bigger up close, his presence filling the small room.

“He means Plan B,” Jungkook said, his voice lower, rougher than it sounded on stage. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes devouring you. “Morning-after pill.”

The two suited men didn’t even flinch. Mr. Park just adjusted his cufflinks.

Your mouth went dry. “Why?” The word came out a whisper. You knew what Plan B was. You knew what his implication meant.

Jungkook pushed off the doorframe and took a step toward you. The room seemed to shrink as all the other people left, leaving you two alone. “Because I like to do it raw.”

A full-body shiver wracked you at his crude, direct words. The heat between your legs throbbed in response, even as your brain screamed in protest.

“That’s… incredibly presumptuous,” you managed, finding a shred of your usual sass. “And rude.”

A slow, predatory smirk spread across his face. He closed the distance between you in two strides. You had to tilt your head back to look up at him. He smelled like sweat, cologne, and something uniquely male. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, and his whisper was a low growl that went straight to your core.

“Presumptuous? You spent two hours dancing those perfect little tits of yours right in my line of sight. You think I didn’t see? You think I could look at anything else?” His hand came up, not touching you, but hovering near your hip. “You distracted me, baby. Made me mess up a step. Now I owe you a punishment for that.”

His words were outrageous, arrogant. You should shove him away. But your hands, which came up to press against his solid chest, didn’t push. They flexed against the hard muscle under the soft cotton. You liked how big he felt. You liked the danger in his eyes.

“I wasn’t dancing for you,” you breathed, the protest weak even to your own ears.

He just chuckled, a dark, promising sound. Jungkook’s smirk didn’t fade. He took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours with a possessiveness that made you gasp, and led you out of the sterile room, down another hallway to a different door. This one opened into what looked like a lavish green room—plush couches, a low table with drinks, soft lighting.

He didn’t give you time to look around. As soon as the door clicked shut, he spun you and pushed you back against it, his body caging you in. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

“Gonna kiss you now,” he stated, no question in his tone.

And then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t sweet or tentative. It was hungry and demanding, all lips and teeth and tongue. He kissed like he performed—with complete, devastating focus. You moaned into his mouth, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. He tasted like mint and something addictive.

One of his hands slid down from your face, over your throat, your collarbone, to palm your breast through your thin concert t-shirt. He groaned against your lips.

“Fuck, they’re perfect. Knew they would be.” He squeezed, his thumb finding your nipple and rubbing it into a hard peak. The fabric was suddenly too much. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and yanked your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra followed a second later.

The cool air hit your skin, followed instantly by the heat of his gaze. He looked at your bare breasts like he was starving.

“Pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then he dipped his head and took one nipple into his mouth.

You cried out, your head thumping back against the door. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue lashing and circling your peak before he sucked hard, drawing the sensitive flesh deep. It was a direct line of pleasure to your clit, which pulsed achingly in your soaked panties.

“Loved how these bounced,” he growled, switching to your other breast, biting the nipple gently before soothing it with his tongue. “Every time you jumped. Fucking hypnotic.”

“J-Jungkook—” you panted.

He pulled back, his lips glistening. “You better not bounce these perfect tits for anyone else, you hear me?” His voice was low, deadly serious. He slapped your inner thigh, the sharp sting making you jolt and gasp. “They’re mine to look at now. My girl’s tits.”

The possessiveness, the sheer audacity, should have pissed you off. Instead, your pussy clenched, wetness soaking through your panties. You were dizzy with it.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands hooking into the waistband of your jeans and panties. In one rough move, he shoved them down your legs. You stepped out of them, completely bare now except for your socks. He stared at your pussy, his eyes wide and dark with lust.

“Fuck,” he breathed. He ran a single finger through your soaked folds, collecting your slick. He held it up, showing you the glistening evidence. “Look at this. So fucking wet for me already. Greedy little cunt, isn’t it?”

You moaned, humiliated and unbearably turned on. He rubbed your clit in slow, firm circles, watching your face contort.

“Please,” you whimpered.

“Please what, darling?”

“Just… be gentle,” you whispered, the confession tumbling out. “It’s… it’s my first time.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest. He surged up from his knees, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. This one was fiercer, wilder. He bit your lower lip, sucking on it.

“Gentle?” he rasped against your lips. “No, baby. I’m gonna ruin this perfect, tight little cunt for anyone else. Gonna wreck it. Make it so only my cock fits.” He kissed you again, swallowing your gasp. “You understand? This pussy belongs to me now.”

You tried to muster a bicker, a protest, but his fingers were back between your legs, sliding through your slickness before he gave your clit a sharp, stinging slap.

You yelped, jumping in his arms. Pleasure-pain shot through you.

“See?” he cooed, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “So greedy. It’s leaking just ‘cause I slapped it.” He pushed one finger inside you, and you both groaned at the same time.

The stretch was immediate, intense. You were so tight.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his forehead dropping to yours as he worked his finger in deeper, curling it. “So fucking tight. Virgin pussy.” He added a second finger, the burn making you cry out. “Shh, baby, take it. Gotta get you ready for my cock. It’s so much bigger than this.”

He fingered you ruthlessly, scissoring and curling his fingers, rubbing that spot inside that made you see stars. His other hand groped your breast, pinching your nipple.

“Gonna make you cum on my fingers first,” he promised, his voice husky in your ear. “Wanna feel that pretty cunt clamp down.”

You were babbling, nonsensical pleas and moans falling from your lips as he drove you higher. The coil in your belly tightened, snapped.

“Jungkook! I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Cum,” he ordered. “Cum on my fingers, little whore. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and shocking. You screamed, your body convulsing around his invading fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. You went limp against the door, supported only by his arm around your waist.

He pulled his fingers out, shiny with your release, and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a loud, obscene pop. His eyes rolled back in pleasure.

“So sweet,” he groaned. “Fuck, I can’t wait.”

He picked you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you to the large, leather couch in the middle of the room. He laid you on your stomach, then dragged your hips up until you were on your knees, ass in the air, face pressed into the cool leather.

“Perfect,” he muttered behind you. You heard the rustle of clothing, the sound of his zipper.

You tried to look back, but a firm hand on the back of your neck kept you down. “Stay.”

Then his fingers were back at your entrance, now three of them, pushing inside your still-fluttering, oversensitive channel. You whimpered into the couch.

“Gotta stretch you more, love. My cock’s a monster.” He fucked you with his fingers, rough and fast, the wet sounds filthy in the quiet room. “Gonna fill this cunt up ‘til you’re dripping with me.”

He pulled his fingers out. Then you felt it—the thick, heavy head of his cock slapping against your soaked folds. You gasped. It felt huge. Hot and velvety-hard.

He rubbed it up and down your slit, coating himself in your arousal, teasing your clit with the broad tip.

“Look at it,” he said, his voice strained. You managed to crane your neck just enough to see over your shoulder.

Your eyes nearly rolled back at the sight. His cock was… massive. Long, thick, veined, and an angry red at the tip. It looked obscene nestled against your small body. It was a fucking weapon.

“It’s not gonna fit,” you breathed, panic lacing the arousal.

“It’ll fit,” he promised darkly. “I’ll make it fit.”

He positioned himself, the blunt head pressing insistently against your tight entrance. He pushed forward, just an inch.

You cried out at the burn, the unbelievable stretch. It was too much.

“Shh, baby, just breathe,” he soothed, but his voice was tight with his own restraint. He pushed another inch, his grip on your hips bruising. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Squeezing me so good.”

He kept going, a slow, relentless invasion that stole the air from your lungs. You were so full, stretched wider than you thought possible. Tears leaked from your eyes, mixing with the drool on the couch from your open-mouthed pants.

When he finally bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass, you both froze. He was buried to the hilt inside you. You could feel every throbbing inch of him.

“Fuck,” he choked out. “You took it all. My good girl.” He leaned over you, his chest plastered to your back, his mouth by your ear. “Now I’m gonna ruin you.”

He pulled back slowly, then slammed back in.

You saw white.

A scream tore from your throat as he set a brutal, punishing pace from the very first thrust. There was no gentle warm-up. This was claiming. Each snap of his hips drove him impossibly deep, hitting spots inside you that made your toes curl and your vision blur.

The rough leather of the couch rubbed against your hard nipples with every thrust, sending sparks of pleasure-pain through you. He noticed, pinching one between his fingers and twisting.

“Look at your slutty body,” he grunted, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. “Nipples hard, pussy gushing… loving every second of having your virginity taken by a stranger.” He punctuated his words with harder thrusts. “But I’m not a stranger anymore, am I? I own this cunt now. Say it.”

You couldn’t speak. You were sobbing, a continuous stream of “ah, ah, ah!” with each powerful drive of his cock.

“Say it!” he demanded, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head back.

“You own it!” you wailed, the submission tearing from you. “You own my pussy!”

“Damn right I do.”

His pace became frenzied, the slapping sound of skin on skin, the wet squelch of your overstimulated cunt taking his massive cock filling the room. The coil inside you was building again, tighter, more intense than the first time.

“J-Jungkook… I feel… I’m gonna—”

“Squirt for me,” he ordered, his voice guttural. “Soak my cock. Let me feel it.”

The command tipped you over the edge. Your second orgasm wasn’t a wave; it was an explosion. A gush of liquid heat erupted from you as he hammered into your G-spot, soaking his cock, his balls, the couch beneath you. Your body spasmed violently around him, milking his length, and the sensation pushed him over the edge too.

With a final, deep roar, he buried himself as far as he could go and came. You felt the hot, thick pulses of his cum flooding your deepest parts, marking you from the inside. He kept thrusting through it, fucking his seed deeper, until he finally collapsed over you, spent.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your combined panting and the wet drip of fluids.

He slowly pulled out, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, the oversensitive ache. You felt a hot trickle start to escape your used hole.

Before you could move, you felt him shift behind you. Then something soft and silky was pressed against your entrance.

You weakly looked back over your shoulder.

Jungkook was on his knees behind you, his cock still semi-hard and glistening with your mixed fluids. In his hands was his black silk tie he got from somewhere. He was folding it into a thick pad.

With a cocky smile that made your heart stutter even in your exhausted state, he pressed the folded tie against your leaking entrance and pushed.

You gasped as the material slid inside, stuffing you, plugging you up.

“Can’t have you leaking all over my car seats,” he said, his voice rough but satisfied. He gave the end of the tie a little pat against your swollen clit, making you jump. “Our night’s far from over, darling.”

(full version contains jungkook fucking you in his car and taking you to his place to breed you until your belly is bloated then clean you out)

tags for full version: daddy kink, you call jungkook daddy and Jungkook plays with your tits for being a good girl, clit pinching, getting drunk on squirting so much, car sex, missionary position, getting fucked you scream in Jungkook's car and get it all wet and dirty, breeding kink, Jungkook carries you inside his penthouse while you're hanging on his cock, balcony sex, belly bulge, filling you with so much cum your belly bloats, marathon sex, squirting so hard you spasm, mirror sex, very wet and messy, shower sex, titty fucking, Jungkook cleans out his cum from your pussy by spanking you and eating you out, cunnilingus, you squirt on his face.

The late afternoon sun was painting the expensive street in front of Jungkook’s penthouse a hazy gold, but it did nothing to warm the chill in your chest. You parked your sensible sedan behind his stupidly sleek black sports car, the one you’d always teased him about being a mid-life crisis on wheels, even though he’d bought it at twenty-five. Now, at thirty, he still drove it, a reminder of the reckless boy he’d been… and the distant man he’d become.

Your daughter, Soojin, unbuckled herself with the practiced ease of a kid who did this twice a week. “Appa’s house!” she chirped, her little backpack already slung over her shoulder.

“Yes, baby. For the weekend,” you said, forcing brightness into your voice. “You have your bunny?”

She nodded, holding up the well-loved stuffed animal. “And my sparkly markers for the project!”

“Perfect.” You got out, helping her down, your hand in hers as you walked the short path to the imposing glass-and-steel front door. Before you could even ring the bell, it swung open.

Jeon Jungkook stood there, not in a suit for once, but in faded black jeans and a tight grey henley that stretched across his chest and biceps. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his hands through it. He looked less like the untouchable CEO of Jeon Holdings and more like the boy who used to race his motorcycle down backroads with you clinging to his back, screaming with laughter.

“My princess!” he grinned, his whole face transforming as he crouched down. Soojin launched herself into his arms, and he caught her effortlessly, swinging her up. She giggled, pressing a loud kiss to his cheek.

“Appa! Did you make waffles?”

“With extra whipped cream and sprinkles, just like you ordered, ma’am,” he said, his voice softening in a way you hadn’t heard directed at you in years. He set her down gently. “Go on in, the table’s all set. TV’s on your cartoons.”

She scampered inside with a happy wave, leaving the two of you in the heavy silence of the doorway.

Jungkook straightened up, his eyes finding yours. The easy warmth faded, replaced by a guarded, intense look. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, the picture of casual grace that somehow felt like a challenge. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You crossed your arms. “Her overnight bag is in the car. Allergy meds are in the front pocket, just in case. She already had her bath.”

“I remember the routine, Y/N,” he said, a hint of dryness in his tone.

“Just making sure. Your ‘routine’ used to be board meetings that ran until midnight.”

He flinched, just a tiny tightening around his eyes. He looked past you at your car. “You’re not staying for a coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot. The expensive beans you like.”

The offer hung there, loaded. Staying for coffee used to mean staying for breakfast, which meant staying for a lazy morning in bed, his hands mapping your skin under the sheets. Now it just felt like a trap.

“Can’t,” you said, your voice clipped. “I have plans.”

His gaze sharpened, scanning your outfit—the off-the-shoulder dress, the one that hugged your curves, the subtle shine of lip gloss you’d applied in the car. It was a step up from your usual drop-off leggings and hoodie. “Plans?”

“Yes, Jungkook. Plans. Grown-up plans that don’t involve you.” You turned on your heel, the dismissal clear.

“Y/N.” His voice stopped you, quieter now.

You didn’t turn back. “What?”

A pause. You could feel his eyes burning into your back. “Drive safe.”

You gave a curt nod and got into your car. In the rearview mirror, as you pulled away, you saw him still standing in the doorway, a tall, solitary figure watching until you turned the corner and disappeared. The familiar ache, a mix of old love and fresh resentment, twisted in your gut.

The date was, in a word, pathetic.

Jong-su was nice enough. A dentist with a good practice, pleasant smile, talked about his investment portfolio over salmon en papillote. It was your fifth date with him because he was safe. Boring, but safe. He didn’t look at you like he wanted to devour you and then put you back together. He didn’t make your heart race with a single smoldering glance. He was… fine.

Which is why you’d reluctantly agreed to go back to his perfectly sterile, beige apartment after the restaurant. You thought, maybe, the physical connection could spark something. It didn’t.

It was fifteen minutes of awkward fumbling on his stiff leather sofa. His kisses were sloppy, his hands clumsy as he pushed up your sweater. He got himself off quickly, grunting into your neck, his fingers pinching your nipple with no rhythm. He barely touched you between your legs, a few rushed rubs over your panties before he was spent and rolling off you, already talking about an early tee time.

You felt used, empty, and stupid. Lying there with your jeans around your ankles and cold leather sticking to your thighs, you mourned not for Jong-su, but for the times when sex was a marathon, not a pit stop. When it left you breathless and boneless, covered in sweat and bite marks, not just vaguely irritated and sticky.

“I should go,” you said, your voice flat as you shoved your clothes back into place.

“Oh. Okay. Text me?” Jong-su called from the kitchen, already rinsing a glass.

You didn’t answer. You just walked out, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that echoed in the empty hallway. The night air was cool on your flushed face as you stepped out of the apartment building, fumbling in your purse for your keys, humiliation and anger a hot coal in your chest.

That’s when you saw it.

The sleek, black monster of a car was idling at the curb, its headlights off. Leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, was Jungkook.

Every bit of simmering frustration from the terrible date ignited into white-hot rage. You stomped across the sidewalk, heels clicking furiously. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He didn’t even look surprised. His eyes, dark and unreadable in the low light from a streetlamp, traveled over you, taking in your disheveled hair, the smudged lip gloss, the angry set of your jaw. “Nice night for a walk,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

“Don’t you dare. How could you leave Soojin alone? Is she in that death trap? Jeon Jungkook, I swear to god—”

“She’s asleep. In her bed. At our house,” he cut in, his voice losing its cool edge. “She forgot her art project, the big glittery one about the family tree. We went back to get it. She was so proud of it, she made me look at every single glued-on sequin. Then she fell asleep mid-sentence on the couch.” His gaze hardened. “You weren’t home. So I put her to bed and came to find you.”

The logic did nothing to douse your fury. It just redirected it. “You’re keeping tabs on me now? Is that what this is? The rich, successful CEO is so afraid of losing his… what? His random, insignificant baby mama?” The words were meant to wound, and you saw them land, a flash of pain in his eyes before they shuttered again.

He pushed off the car, taking a step toward you. You caught the faint scent of his cologne, the one you’d bought him years ago, mixed with the night air. “You were never random,” he growled, the possessiveness in his voice so familiar it made your traitorous body thrum. “You know you were never fucking random, so don’t say that shit.”

“Clearly I wasn’t important enough,” you shot back, backing up a step, but he closed the distance. “Not more important than the company, the board meetings, the late nights, the fucking shareholders.”

He was quiet for a moment, the only sound the low rumble of his car’s engine. His eyes dropped to the base of your throat, then back up. “So. You’re going on dates now.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. “Yes. I am. What, did you think I’d just stay frozen in time, waiting for you to remember you had a wife?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “With him?” He jerked his chin toward the apartment building. “I saw him when he brought you home. Your standards have really plummeted, darling.”

The old endearment, used as a weapon, stung. “At least he’s present during dinner! At least he doesn’t cancel because a fucking merger in Tokyo is more exciting than his family!”

The jealousy and self-loathing you’d wanted to provoke finally broke through his controlled mask. His jaw tightened. “Did he even make you come?”

The question, so crude and direct, stole the air from your lungs. Your silence was all the answer he needed.

A savage sort of satisfaction flashed in his eyes, mixed with a desperate anger. “He didn’t, did he? He fucked you in his boring apartment and didn’t even bother to make it good for you.” He took your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “I always made you come. Every single time. Even when we were late, even when we were tired, I always made sure you were shaking before I even thought about my own dick. Didn’t I?”

His touch was electric, sending a jolt straight to your core. You hated it. You hated him. You hated that your body still reacted to him like it was wired directly to his. “That doesn’t matter anymore,” you whispered, trying to pull away.

“It matters to me.” His voice dropped, low and rough, full of a need that mirrored the one suddenly pulsing between your own legs. “I can be better than him. I am better than him. Let me show you.”

“You’re pathetic,” you hissed, but you’d stopped pulling your wrist away. “Needy and possessive. You don’t get to fuck me just because you’re jealous.”

“Watch me,” he breathed, and then he was moving.

In one fluid motion, he spun you around, your back now to his chest. He walked you the two steps to the cold, sleek hood of his car and bent you over it. The metal was shocking against your palms. “Jungkook, stop—”

He didn’t stop. One hand splayed on your lower back, holding you down. The other shoved your dress up around your waist. The night air hit your bare thighs. He’d seen—of course he’d seen—that you weren’t wearing the sensible cotton panties from this afternoon. You were wearing lace. Black lace. For the date.

A low growl vibrated from his chest. “Fucking lace. For him.” There was a sharp rip, and the fragile fabric gave way. He tore your panties clean off, tossing the ruined scrap aside. His fingers were on you then, sliding through your folds, and he let out a groan that was pure male triumph. “You’re soaked. Dripping for me. And you just let that bastard touch you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. You heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of clothing, and then the blunt, insistent pressure of his cock, nudging against you. He was already hard, thick and demanding.

“You’re not putting that in me,” you spat, even as your hips betrayed you, pushing back against him.

“Too late, love.” With a single, powerful thrust, he was inside, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke.

A choked cry was torn from your throat. It was too much, too fast, too deep. He felt bigger than you remembered, stretching you exquisitely, filling the awful emptiness from just minutes before. He didn’t move for a second, letting you feel every inch of him, his body draped over yours, his lips at your ear.

“Tell me he didn’t feel like this,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “Tell me his pathetic little dick didn’t reach here, where you need me.” He pulled back almost all the way and slammed home again, making the car rock slightly.

You couldn’t speak. Pleasure, sharp and blinding, was already coiling tight in your belly. You braced your hands on the hood, the engine’s heat seeping through the metal, a contrast to the cool night on your back.

“That’s what I thought,” he snarled, setting a ruthless, pounding rhythm. Each thrust drove you harder into the car, your breasts aching against the unyielding surface. “You’re still mine. This tight, perfect cunt is still mine. You can go on a hundred dates, Y/N. It won’t change that. They’ll never fuck you like I do.”

“Fuck you,” you moaned, the fight leaving your voice, replaced by sheer, overwhelmed sensation.

“That’s the idea, baby.” One of his hands left your hip, snaking around to roughly palm your breast through your dress and bra, pinching your nipple until you yelped. “Missed these. You got even sexier after having our kid. Fuller. So fucking perfect.”

His dirty talk, the crude ownership in his words, was like gasoline on the fire in your blood. You were melting, the anger dissolving into pure, animal need. The sounds of skin slapping against skin, his ragged breaths, your own helpless whimpers, filled the quiet street.

“Call me Oppa,” he demanded, his pace becoming erratic, harder, deeper.

A spark of your earlier defiance returned. You said it mockingly, dripping with sarcasm. “Whatever you say… Oppa.”

He let out a feral sound, his hand coming down in a sharp smack on your ass cheek. The sting made you cry out, clenching around him wildly. “Say it like you mean it. Like you used to when you’d come on my cock begging for more.”

But you wouldn’t give him that. Not anymore. You bit your lip, holding back the words, even as your body surrendered completely to his. The coil was wound impossibly tight, a spring about to snap. His fingers found your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles.

“Gonna come for me,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming brutal, punishing. “Gonna squirt all over my car, show me what I’ve been missing. Do it. Now.”

The command, the relentless pressure of his fingers and his cock, broke you. The orgasm ripped through you with a violence that stole your vision. A guttural scream tore from your throat as you convulsed, a hot rush of liquid spilling out of you, soaking his thighs, dripping onto the pavement below with an audible patter. The intensity was so overwhelming, a white-noise static filled your ears, your limbs turning to jelly. For a second, the world went dark at the edges.

Jungkook swore, his rhythm shattering. He held himself deep as you pulsed around him, his own groan long and satisfied. At the last second, he pulled out. Hot stripes of his release painted your ass and lower back, marking you. “Not gonna put a baby in you,” he panted, collapsing over you for a moment, his weight heavy and familiar, “until we sort this shit out.”

The haze of the orgasm receded, replaced by cold, crashing reality. What the hell had you just done? On a public street, over his car, like some cheap hookup.

You shoved him off you, your legs trembling violently as you stood. You yanked your dress down, the wetness between your thighs a humiliating reminder. You turned to face him, his jeans still undone, his cock glistening in the dim light, a smug, spent expression on his handsome, infuriating face.

You scoffed, the sound brittle. “That,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the mess, at him, at the whole scene, “is never happening again.”

You snatched your keys from where they’d fallen on the ground, didn’t even bother looking for the torn remnants of your panties. You wobbled to your car, got in, and slammed the door. As you pulled away, your hands shaking on the wheel, you saw him in the rearview mirror, still standing by his car, watching you leave again.

(full version contains jungkook coming to woo you on his bike, worshipping your body and fucking you on the bike while talking about knocking you up)

The air in the conference room still felt thick with failure. Hours had bled away since the meeting ended, the angry echoes of upper management’s words bouncing around the empty space. You sat slumped in your chair at the head of the long, polished table, head in your hands, trying to breathe through the tight knot of panic and rage in your chest. It wasn’t fair. Your team had worked their asses off, given everything they had with the shitty resources corporate kept cutting, and still you’d been dressed down like some intern who’d spilled coffee on a report. The sense of helpless failure was a sour taste in your mouth.

The soft click of the door opening was like a match striking in the quiet. Your head snapped up, ready to unleash the fury simmering inside you on whoever was stupid enough to disturb your wallowing.

But the words died on your lips.

It was Jeon Jungkook.

He stood just inside the doorway, the dying sun from the floor-to-ceiling windows casting a long, stark shadow behind him. He’d been assigned to your team two months ago, and in that time, he’d said maybe fifty words total. He was quiet, always looking at his shoes or his screen through those black-framed glasses, never meeting your eyes. It drove you fucking insane. You needed fighters, people with passion and thick skin, not some meek, soft-spoken kid who flinched when you raised your voice. But you knew it wasn’t his fault. Swallowing the bitter pill of your anger, you forced your voice to be level.

“What are you doing here, Jungkook? Everyone’s gone home.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, his gaze finally lifting from the floor to land somewhere near your shoulder. “Are you okay?” His voice was soft, gentle even.

The condescension in that simple question was like a spark to gasoline. Irritation flared hot and immediate. “I’m fine,” you bit out, the words sharp. “You can leave.”

He didn’t move. “You don’t seem fine.”

“I said get out.” Your voice was a low, dangerous growl.

He stayed quiet for a long moment, then he did something unexpected. He walked forward, his steps measured and silent on the plush carpet. You were still sitting, so you had to tilt your head back to look at him. And fuck, you’d never really looked before. He was big. Not just tall, but broad-shouldered, the crisp white dress shirt he wore stretched tight over what were clearly solid muscles. His shadow fell over you, blocking the last of the sunlight, and suddenly the room felt smaller, hotter.

He stopped right in front of your chair, looking down. His eyes, usually hidden behind glass and lowered lashes, were now fixed directly on yours. They were dark, intense, and held none of the shyness you were used to. You gulped, your throat dry.

“That’s no way to talk to your teammate,” he said, his voice still quiet, but it had lost its soft edge. It was flat. Firm.

Indignation burned through the shock. You shot to your feet, intending to shove him back, to reclaim your space. “Know your position, Jeon. I’m your team lead—”

Your hands landed on his chest. It was like pushing against a wall. Solid, unyielding. You just ended up pressing your palms against the hard planes of his pectorals, feeling the heat of him through the cotton. He didn’t budge an inch. You tried to step back, to put distance between you, but his hand snapped out faster than you could blink, wrapping around your wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but absolutely inescapable.

“Apologize,” he said, his gaze never wavering.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in your throat. “Apologize? To you? Get your hand off me.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he used his hold on your wrist to turn you, walking you backwards until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of the long conference table. He crowded into your space, his body caging you against the polished wood. The scent of his cologne, something clean and subtly spicy, filled your senses.

“Just because other people were assholes to you in that meeting,” he murmured, his face now close to yours, “doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole to me.”

There was something in his demeanor, in the complete shift from the quiet, nerdy junior to this… this person who radiated a calm, absolute control, that made your heart hammer against your ribs. It wasn’t fear. It was a reckless, dizzying thrill. The angry, abrasive part of you wanted to push him, to see how far this went. The submissive, craving part you kept locked deep down purred in anticipation.

You tilted your chin up, a bratty, mocking smile on your lips. “Or what, Jungkook? You’ll tattle to HR? Write me a strongly worded email? You’re just a quiet little mouse. Scuttle back to your cubicle.”

He watched you, his expression unchanging. A faint, amused smile touched his lips. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was condescending, knowing. “Look at you,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “All bark. Desperate for someone to put you in your place, aren’t you? All that bluster because you’re just a needy little thing who didn’t get her pat on the head today.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was too close to the truth, stated so bluntly, so meanly. The humiliation was hot and sharp, but it twisted into something else deep in your gut. Anger, yes, but a wild, desperate curiosity. You acted on impulse, surging forward to crush your lips against his to shut him up.

It was a hard, clumsy kiss, all frustration and defiance. And he… didn’t kiss back. He just stood there, letting you press against him, his lips unmoving under yours. You pulled back, breathless, and saw that same infuriating amusement in his dark eyes.

Enraged, you kissed him again, this time biting his lower lip hard enough to taste the faint metallic tang of blood.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t touch you. He remained utterly calm, a statue you were trying and failing to provoke.

Then he leaned down. Not to kiss you, but to bring his mouth to your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, and you shivered violently. “You had your chance,” he whispered, the words a soft, dark promise. “Now it’s my turn.”

He paused, waiting. Your mind screamed at you to shove him away, to knee him in the groin, to run. But your body was frozen, a traitorous pulse throbbing between your legs. That curious, subby part of you was wide awake now, thrumming with excitement. You didn’t stop him.

In one swift, powerful motion, his hands went to your waist and he hauled you up, sitting you on the edge of the conference table with a thud. Files scattered. Then his hands were framing your face, and he finally kissed you.

It was nothing like your frantic, angry attempts. This was hard, deliberate, and ruthlessly skilled. His lips moved over yours with possessive force, his tongue demanding entry and taking it. You moaned into his mouth, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair, dislodging his glasses. They clattered to the table, forgotten. One of his hands slid down from your face, over your throat, to cup your breast through your blouse and blazer. He squeezed hard, making you gasp against his mouth.

“So fucking mouthy,” he muttered, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down your jaw to your neck. “Such a brat.” He bit down on the tendon where your neck met your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make you cry out and to surely leave a mark. The sharp sting made your back arch, pushing your chest into his hand.

His other hand slid under your blazer and blouse, finding the clasp of your bra at your back. With a deft flick, it came undone. He shoved the material up, your breasts spilling free. He palmed one, his thumb rubbing rough circles over your nipple until it peaked into a hard, aching point. He dipped his head, taking the other into his hot mouth, sucking and biting until you were writhing on the table, a steady stream of moans and “oh god”s falling from your lips.

“Jungkook—” you panted.

Smack!

The sound was loud in the quiet room. A sharp, stinging slap landed on your outer thigh, right through your pencil skirt. The pain was bright and shocking, mixing with the pleasure from his mouth on your breast in a dizzying cocktail.

“Did I say you could speak?” he asked, pulling back to look at you. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark with lust, but his expression was still that infuriatingly calm mask of control.

You glared at him, the brattiness surging back through the haze of pleasure. “Fuck you.”

A slow smirk spread across his face. He turned you roughly, manhandling you until you were on your hands and knees on the conference table, facing the window overlooking the darkening city. He stood behind you.

The cool, polished wood of the table pressed against your forearms as you braced yourself. Your skirt was rucked up around your waist, and you could feel the air-conditioned chill on the backs of your thighs. Jungkook’s hands smoothed over your ass, a possessive, appreciative gesture that made your breath hitch.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice a low, mean purr right behind you. “Bent over the table like you belong here. All that fire, just to end up presenting this pretty little ass.” He gave one cheek a rough squeeze, making you jolt. “You’re a mess, darling. A bratty, desperate mess.”

“I am not—” you started, but your protest was cut off by another sharp slap. This one landed directly on your right ass cheek, the sound cracking through the room. A gasp tore from your throat, the sting radiating deep, mixing with the throbbing heat building between your legs.

“You are,” he insisted, his hand rubbing the spot he’d just hit. “And you love it. Don’t you? You love that someone finally sees through all your bullshit.” Another slap, on the other side this time. You whimpered, pushing back against his hand almost instinctively. “See? Your body knows. It’s begging for it.”

His hands went to the waistband of your skirt, and with a few efficient tugs, he had the zipper down and the garment shoved down to pool around your knees. The cool air hit your soaked panties, and you flinched.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, a hint of that cocky amusement returning. He hooked his fingers in the sides of your lace panties. “Look at this. Soaked through for me already, you little cockslut.” With a brutal, thrilling rip, he tore the delicate fabric apart and let the remnants fall. He spread your legs wider with his knee, the position exposing you completely. “And this pretty, dripping pussy. It’s fucking glistening.”

You buried your face in your arms, humiliation and arousal burning through you in equal measure. You felt his thumb, rough and deliberate, slide through your folds, collecting the wetness.

“Deny it now,” he challenged, bringing his thumb up to your line of sight. It shone in the low light. “Go on. Tell me you’re not wet for your quiet little junior. Tell me you don’t want this.”

You couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form. All you could do was moan as he brought that wet thumb back down and circled your clit, once, twice, a cruel, teasing touch.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

Then his fingers were gone. For a second, there was nothing, just the agonizing empty feeling and the sound of his belt buckle clinking. But before you could process it, two of his fingers were suddenly pushing inside you, deep and without any preamble.

You cried out, back arching. He was rough, his fingers curling and scissoring, stretching you open. “Tight,” he grunted, his other hand coming down to hold your hip in a bruising grip. “So fucking tight for someone with such a big mouth.” He pumped his fingers in and out, the wet, filthy sound echoing in the quiet room. He added a third finger, and the stretch bordered on painful, but it was drowned out by the intense, coiling pleasure.

“J-Jungkook… please…” you babbled, no longer sure what you were begging for.

“Please what, love?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft as he finger-fucked you with relentless, deep strokes. He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear. “Use your words. Tell me what this greedy cunt needs.”

“I… I can’t—”

He bit the shell of your ear, hard. “Yes, you can. Or I stop.”

The threat of him stopping was worse than anything. “More,” you gasped. “Harder, please, fuck…”

“Good girl,” he praised, and the words went straight to your core, making you clench around his fingers. He rewarded you by picking up his pace, his fingers driving into you with brutal efficiency, his palm slapping against your clit with every thrust. The stimulation was everywhere, overwhelming. You were panting, drooling a little on the table, completely mindless with need.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a guttural growl. “You’re gonna squirt all over my fingers and this expensive fucking table. Do it. Now.”

His thumb pressed down on your clit, rubbing tight, harsh circles. The combined assault was too much. Your vision whited out. A scream was ripped from your throat as you came, your body convulsing, a gush of hot liquid rushing out of you as he kept fingering you through it, milking every last spasm. Your legs shook violently, and you would have collapsed if he wasn’t holding you up.

As the waves subsided, leaving you trembling and boneless, he slowly pulled his fingers out. He turned you onto your back on the table, the wood cold against your heated skin. Your blazer and torn blouse were still half-on, your breasts exposed and heaving. He looked down at you, his gaze dark and satisfied. He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, his eyes locked on yours.

“Fucking delicious,” he said, his voice rough.

He leaned down then, and kissed you. It was shockingly gentle compared to everything else—soft, slow sweeps of his tongue that tasted like you and him. You kissed him back weakly, your body still buzzing.

“You did so good,” he murmured against your lips, his hand coming up to brush sweat-damp hair from your forehead. “Took my fingers so well. Such a good girl for me.” His words were a balm, validation washing over you more effectively than any corporate praise ever had. “They’re assholes. You’re brilliant. They don’t deserve you.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but they weren’t from pain. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer for another kiss.

He broke it after a moment, a smirk playing on his lips. “Now,” he said, straightening up. “I’m gonna fuck you. Gonna fuck this perfect, squirting little cunt until you forget your own name. Until all you know is my cock.”

He pulled his shirt off in one swift motion, tossing it aside. Your mouth went dry. You’d felt how big he was, but seeing him was different. His torso was all hard lines and defined muscle, covered in a tapestry of dark, intricate tattoos that snaked over his shoulders and down his arms. He was breathtakingly powerful. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his slacks, pushing them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock.

You moaned, the sound raw and needy. He was huge. Thick and long, already fully hard and leaking at the tip. You reached for yourself, your fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing frantic circles.

“Look at you,” he chuckled, stroking himself slowly as he watched you. “My little cumslut, already playing with herself, trying to get ready for me.” He pushed your hand away. “Uh-uh. I’ll get you ready.”

He climbed onto the table, kneeling between your legs. He pushed them wider, hooking them over his shoulders. Then he leaned down, his mouth finding your breasts again. He sucked one nipple deep into his mouth, his tongue lashing it, while his fingers found your entrance again. Two fingers slid in easily now, soaked from your previous orgasm. He worked them in and out, scissoring them, preparing you.

“You’re still so tight,” he groaned against your skin, biting the underside of your breast, leaving a dark mark. “Gonna have to stretch this tiny pussy open. Gonna make it fit me.”

He added a third finger, and you cried out, the stretch intense even after your climax. He finger-fucked you slowly, deeply, crooking his fingers to hit that spot inside you that made you see stars.

“Please,” you begged, bucking your hips against his hand. “Please, Jungkook, I need it, I need you—”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he said, withdrawing his fingers.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against you. He looked into your eyes, his own burning with a possessive fire. “This is mine now,” he stated, and it wasn’t a question. Then he pushed in.

The stretch was immense, breathtaking. You screamed, your nails digging into his tattooed shoulders as he filled you inch by inexorable inch. He didn’t stop until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against yours, your bodies joined completely. You felt impossibly full, stretched to your limit.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his composure cracking for the first time. “You’re so fucking tight. Like a vice.” He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, dropping his forehead to yours. His breath was hot and ragged.

Then he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in.

You saw white. The force of it drove the air from your lungs. He set a punishing pace from the start, each thrust deep and hard, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mingling with your choked sobs and moans. The table groaned beneath you with the force of it.

“That’s it,” he grunted, his voice strained with effort. “Take it. Take all of it, you brat. This what you wanted? Huh? This what you needed?” He leaned down to capture your nipple between his teeth, biting and tugging as he fucked into you. The dual sensation was maddening.

You were incoherent, a babbling mess of “yes” and “more” and his name. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the smooth table. He sat back on his heels, pulling you with him so you were straddling his lap, his cock spearing you even deeper in this new angle. The change made you scream, the head of his cock hitting a spot so deep and sensitive you thought you might break.

“Ride me,” he ordered, his hands on your hips guiding you. “Show me how much you love this dick.”

You moved, bouncing on him clumsily at first, then finding a rhythm. He helped you, lifting you and slamming you back down onto him. His hands were everywhere—gripping your ass hard enough to leave bruises, pinching and twisting your nipples until you cried out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in harsh, demanding circles.

“You’re gonna come again,” he commanded into your ear, his voice a rough, dirty whisper. “You’re gonna squirt all over my cock. Do it. Soak me. Let me feel it.”

His words, his touch, the relentless drag of his cock inside you—it was too much. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tsunami, violent and all-consuming. You screamed, your body seizing as a second, stronger rush of liquid gushed out of you, drenching both of you and the table beneath. Your vision tunneled, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You clenched around him like a fist, milking him, and with a final, brutal thrust, he followed you over the edge.

His groan was raw and animalistic as he came, his hips stuttering against yours. You felt the hot, pulsing rush of his cum flooding you, deep inside, marking you. He held you tight against him as he emptied himself, his face buried in your neck, biting down on the skin there as he rode out his climax.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and his, the smell of sex and sweat heavy in the air. Slowly, gently, he pulled out of you. A mixture of your release and his trickled down your thighs. You were a wreck—sweat-slicked, covered in bite marks and bruises, trembling with aftershocks.

He got off the table first, his movements slow. He found a box of tissues from a side cabinet and came back to you. With surprising tenderness, he cleaned you up, wiping the mess from your inner thighs and stomach. He helped you sit up, your legs feeling like jelly. He pulled your ruined blouse closed as best he could and smoothed your hair.

Then he kissed you. It was soft, almost chaste. “Good girl,” he whispered again.

He stepped back and began dressing with an eerie calm, pulling up his boxers and slacks, buckling his belt, slipping his shirt back on. He found his glasses on the floor and put them on. In moments, he looked like the Jeon Jungkook from two hours ago—the quiet, unassuming junior. Only his kiss-swollen lips and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow gave him away.

You slid off the table, your legs barely holding you. You straightened your skirt, your hands shaking.

He watched you, his expression unreadable behind the glasses.

“This,” you said, your voice hoarse from screaming. “This doesn’t happen again.”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at you, a dark, knowing glint in his eyes that promised this was far from over. Then he turned and walked out of the conference room, leaving you alone in the wreckage, the scent of him and sex clinging to your skin.

(the full version contains you trying to rile jungkook and he takes you to his place, spanks you as punishment, fucks you doggy style and in front of the mirror until you're almost passing out from squirting so much)

The new apartment was insane. Like, actually insane. You’d sold a kidney, or at least it felt like it, for this place with its stupidly high ceilings and walls that were basically just giant windows from floor to ceiling. The view of the city was killer, but on the first night, as you were unpacking a box of plates, your eyes drifted across the courtyard to the identical building opposite yours.

And there he was.

Shirtless. Cooking something in a pan. The muscles in his back and shoulders shifted under a tapestry of tattoos that coiled down one arm and across his pecs. He had dark hair, a little long on top, and when he turned to grab something, his eyes caught yours through the glass. He didn’t look startled. He just lifted a hand in a lazy wave, a small smirk playing on his lips.

You waved back, feeling a little stupid, standing there holding a “Live, Laugh, Love” plate your mom had given you.

That was the start.

It became a weird, silent game. You’d be making coffee in the morning, and you’d see him lifting weights, sweat making his skin glisten. He’d be on a work call in the evening, and you’d catch him glancing over as you danced around your living room to some dumb pop song. It was all just glances and smirks and waves. No words. Just windows.

Then came the towel incident.

It was a Saturday morning. You’d just showered, hair wrapped in a towel, body in another. You padded out into the living area, heading for the kitchen, completely forgetting that last night you’d opened the curtains wide to let the moonlight in. You felt a prickle on your skin, that feeling of being watched. You turned your head slowly.

He was there. Standing by his own window, a glass of water in his hand. His eyes weren’t on your face. They were dragging down the length of you, from your damp hair, over the towel knotted just above your breasts, down to where it ended mid-thigh. His gaze was so hot, so deliberate, you felt it like a physical touch. A flush of heat bloomed low in your stomach, a sudden, shocking pulse between your legs. You forced yourself to keep walking, your back to him, feeling his stare burning into your back, imagining it sliding over the curve of your ass under the terrycloth. You poured your coffee with shaky hands, the entire time hyper-aware of his presence across the void.

The game escalated.

A few days later, you saw him walking around his apartment in nothing but low-slung grey boxers. The defined V of his hips leading down to a very noticeable bulge. You pretended to read a book, peeking over the top.

Another time, you “accidentally” dropped a pen and bent over right in front of the window to pick it up, knowing you were only wearing a thin camisole and a pair of tiny lace panties. You took your sweet time, arching your back just so. When you straightened up and glanced over, he was standing stock still, his hand palming himself through his sweatpants, his jaw tight.

The hottest one was when you were wearing a loose tank top with no bra, reaching for a high shelf. The movement made your breast slip completely out of the neckline. You gasped, fumbling to tuck it back in, and your eyes flew to his window. He’d seen. He was leaning against his kitchen counter, one hand slowly, blatantly rubbing the thick outline of his cock through his sweats, his eyes locked on yours. You didn’t look away. You bit your lip, let your hand drift down to your own stomach, before turning away, your heart hammering.

You were both driving each other crazy. You’d lie in bed at night, your fingers slipping into your panties, thinking about his tattoos, his smirk, the way his hand had gripped himself. You were wet all the time.

It came to a head on a Friday night. You were tipsy on a glass of red wine, feeling bold and restless. The lights in your apartment were low. His were on. You saw him moving around, shirtless again. A reckless, slutty idea took hold.

You walked to your big, plush sofa, positioned right in front of the main window. You lay down on your back, your head propped on the armrest, facing him. You took a slow sip of your wine, then let your free hand drift up your body. You cupped your breast over your thin t-shirt, squeezing lightly, your thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardened into a peak visible through the fabric.

You saw him stop dead in the middle of his living room. He put down the glass he was holding. His eyes were dark, unblinking.

Emboldened, your hand slid down, over your stomach, to the waistband of your sleep shorts. You rubbed your palm over the clothed mound of your pussy, applying pressure. You arched your back a little, biting your lip as you watched him.

His hand went to the waistband of his own shorts. He pushed them down just enough to free his cock. Your breath hitched. It was… fuck. It was huge. Long, thick, already fully hard, the head flushed dark. He wrapped his fist around it, giving it one slow, punishing stroke.

That was all the permission you needed. A switch flipped inside you. You were done teasing. You hooked your thumbs into your shorts and panties and shoved them down your legs, kicking them off somewhere onto the floor. Your pussy was exposed to the cool air—and to him. You grabbed a thick velvet cushion from the sofa, shoved it between your thighs, and without breaking eye contact, you lowered yourself onto it.

You started riding the cushion, grinding your clit against the rough texture, your wetness immediately soaking into the fabric. You were acting like a total slut, and you fucking loved it. You pulled your t-shirt up, freeing your breasts, letting them bounce with every roll of your hips. You closed your eyes, lost in the sensation, the image of him stroking that massive cock burned into your mind. You were getting close, so close, your moans starting to escape your lips—

The doorbell rang, sharp and insistent.

Your eyes flew open. You froze, mid-grind. You looked across the courtyard.

His apartment was empty.

Holy shit.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You scrambled off the cushion, your legs wobbly, and grabbed the silk robe you’d left on a chair, tying it hastily around your naked, dripping body. You padded to the door, peering through the peephole.

It was him.

You opened the door a crack.

He was even more imposing up close. Taller. Broader. The tattoos were more detailed, more brutal. His eyes were black pools of heat and intent. He smelled like clean sweat and something darker, spicier.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I’m Jungkook.”

“Y/N,” you managed to squeak out.

He didn’t wait. He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and kicked it shut behind him with a final-sounding thud. Then his hands were on your face, cradling it roughly, and his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t sweet. His tongue plunged into your mouth, claiming it, tasting the wine on your lips. You moaned into him, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. He tasted like sin and mint. He broke the kiss as suddenly as he started it, his eyes raking over the robe.

“All this time,” he growled. “Every fucking day. Teasing me. Driving me out of my mind.”

With one sharp tug, he undid the belt of your robe and yanked it open, letting it fall to the floor. You stood there, completely naked, exposed under the harsh entryway light.

“Look at you,” he sneered, his gaze hot and possessive as it swept over your body. “A little exhibitionist slut. Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you?”

Before you could answer, he bent, grabbed you by the waist, and threw you over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. You yelped, the blood rushing to your head as he carried you effortlessly into the living room, right to the scene of your crime—the sofa in front of the giant window. He dumped you unceremoniously onto the cushions, on your back.

He stood over you, looking down at your spread legs, at your glistening, swollen pussy. “You made a mess on my cushion, you fucking tease?” he asked, though his eyes were on your core.

“It’s… it’s my cushion,” you breathed out, trying for sass but it came out as a whimper.

He smirked, a cruel, beautiful twist of his lips. “Not anymore.”

Then his hand came down. Not a caress. A sharp, stinging slap right against your wet pussy lips.

You screamed. The pain was bright and shocking, followed instantly by a wave of intense pleasure that made your back arch off the couch.

“Scream louder,” Jungkook commanded, his voice dripping with dominance. “Let the whole building know what a cockslut lives here.” He slapped you again, smack, right on your clit this time.

You cried out, your hips bucking uncontrollably. “Fuck! Daddy!”

The word just fell out of you. His eyes flared with dark satisfaction.

“That’s right,” he purred, delivering another slap, then rubbing his palm roughly over the throbbing nub. “You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you? Showing off your pretty tits and your greedy little pussy. Making Daddy’s cock ache every night.” He slid two fingers inside you without warning, curling them. “So fucking wet. All for me. You were dreaming of this, weren’t you? Dreaming of Daddy splitting you open on his big cock.”

“Yes! Yes, Daddy, please!” you babbled, humping his hand shamelessly. The combination of the slapping, the dirty talk, and his fingers inside you was too much. A coil snapped deep in your belly. “I’m gonna—!”

He pulled his fingers out and slapped your clit again, hard. “Cum. Now.”

The command, the sharp sting, tipped you over the edge. A gush of liquid heat erupted from you, soaking the sofa cushion beneath you with a force that shocked you. You squirted, hard, your vision whiting out for a second as you screamed, your body convulsing.

Jungkook watched, mesmerized, as you trembled and gushed. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at that. My little slut can squirt. Such a good girl for Daddy.”

You were panting, boneless, but he wasn’t done. While you were still twitching through the aftershocks, he flipped you over onto your stomach with brutal efficiency. He pulled your hips up until you were on your knees, ass in the air, face pressed into the velvet of the sofa, your body angled towards the window.

“Look,” he growled in your ear, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “Look out there. Anyone could be watching. Anyone could see your slutty little body getting used.” He positioned himself behind you, the broad, slick head of his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. “They’d see this perfect ass bouncing on my dick. They’d see how well you take it.”

He didn’t push in slowly. He owned you. With one powerful thrust of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt inside you.

You screamed again, a raw, ragged sound torn from your throat. He was massive. Thick and long, stretching you wider than you’d ever been stretched, filling you up in a way that bordered on painful. “Oh god! Daddy, it’s too big!”

“It’s not too big,” he grunted, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making you see stars. “It’s perfect for you. This cunt was made for me. Say it.”

“It was—ah!—made for you!” you sobbed, taking his punishing rhythm.

“Damn right,” he snarled, setting a brutal pace, each thrust jolting you forward. His hand came down on your ass with a loud crack. “This is for bending over in your panties.” Smack. “This is for letting your tit pop out.” Smack. “This is for riding that fucking cushion while I watched.” He punctuated each word with a thrust and a slap until your ass and pussy were on fire.

You were babbling nonsense, tears of overwhelmed pleasure streaking your face. “Fuck me, Daddy! Own this pussy! It’s yours!”

“Mine,” he growled, his thrusts becoming more erratic, deeper. One of his hands snaked around your hip and found your swollen, oversensitive clit. He rubbed rough, tight circles, and you felt another orgasm building, even bigger than the first. “You gonna squirt for Daddy again? Gonna make another mess?”

You could only nod, moaning as the pressure built to an unbearable peak.

“Do it,” he commanded, pinching your clit.

You shattered. Another torrent of release burst from you as he fucked you through it, his cock pistoning into your convulsing channel. You were screaming, trembling violently, completely out of control.

Just as the last waves were subsiding, he pulled out of your dripping pussy with a wet sound. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness.

Before you could process it, he was dragging you off the couch by your hair—not hard enough to hurt badly, but enough to make you yelp and follow. He sat on the edge of the sofa and pulled you between his knees. His cock was glistening with your juices, rock-hard and angry red.

“Open,” he ordered, tapping his cockhead against your lips.

You opened your mouth obediently, and he shoved himself inside, fucking your face with the same ruthless pace he’d fucked your pussy. You gagged, tears springing to your eyes again as he hit the back of your throat.

“Take it, cumslut,” he grunted, his hands fisting in your hair. “Swallow every drop. You wanted my cock? Here it is.”

He thrust deep once, twice, three more times, and then with a guttural roar, he came. Hot, bitter spurts flooded your throat. You swallowed frantically, some of it dribbling down your chin as he held you there, milking himself dry into your mouth.

When he finally pulled out, you were a wreck—used, covered in sweat and spit and cum, trembling.

He looked down at you, his chest heaving, a smug, filthy smirk on his face. He used his thumb to wipe the stray cum from your chin and pushed it back into your mouth. “Clean Daddy up.”

You sucked his thumb clean, whining around it. When he pulled it out, you found your voice, small and wrecked. “Why… why didn’t Daddy cum inside my pussy?”

Jungkook leaned down, his face inches from yours. He kissed you again, deep and dirty, sucking on your tongue before pulling back. His eyes were dark with promise. “Because you haven’t been good enough yet.” He traced your swollen lips. “You’ve been a bratty little exhibitionist slut. You need to earn Daddy’s sperm deep in that tight little cunt. Understand?”

You nodded, shivering with a mix of exhaustion and renewed, desperate arousal.

(full version contains you wanting jungkook to cum in your pussy so you tease him by using a dildo but then he fucks you alongside it and breeds you)

The air in the Headmaster’s office always smelled like old paper and metal. You stood at attention, trying not to smirk as the stern-faced man behind the massive oak desk laid out your new, temporary hell.

“Jeon Jungkook is failing Advanced Poisons and Political Strategy,” the Headmaster stated, his voice flat. “If he fails, he doesn’t graduate. You are at the top of that class. You will tutor him. Three times a week. Starting today.”

You couldn’t help it. A slow, smug smile spread across your lips. Jungkook. The bane of your existence since you were both snot-nosed kids throwing rocks at each other over the fence that separated your family’s compounds. The same Jungkook who’d tripped you during hand-to-hand combat finals last semester, who stole your designated throwing knives from the armory just to piss you off, whose arrogant, cocky smirk you dreamed of wiping off his face with your fist.

“Understood, sir,” you said, the picture of obedient perfection. “I’ll ensure he… comprehends the material.”

The Headmaster dismissed you with a wave. As you left the office, the smile turned into a full-blown grin. This was going to be fucking delicious.

You found him in the training gym, because of course he was. He was shirtless, sweat glistening on the defined planes of his chest and abs as he pummeled a heavy bag with a series of vicious kicks. His dark hair was damp, sticking to his forehead. He moved with a lethal, graceful power that was annoying as hell because you had to admit, even just to yourself, that he was good. The best, maybe, in pure physical combat. But you were smarter. And now, you had the upper hand.

“Hey, dog,” you called out, leaning against the doorframe.

He didn’t stop immediately, delivering one final, thunderous kick that made the chains rattle. He turned, chest heaving, those stupidly pretty brown eyes narrowing when he saw you. “What do you want, brat? Come to spy? Your little friends in Intel send you?”

“Better,” you purred, walking closer. “I’m your new tutor. Headmaster’s orders. Seems you’re too dumb to pass Poisons and Strategy on your own.”

His smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine irritation. “The hell I am. I don’t need a tutor.”

“Your forty-two percent grade average says otherwise,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Unless you want to be the only one in our year stuck here as a glorified janitor while the rest of us get our assignments, you’ll meet me in Library Annex B in one hour. Don’t be late. I hate waiting.”

You turned on your heel, savoring the stunned silence behind you. You’d barely taken two steps before his voice, low and dripping with challenge, stopped you.

“Fine. But if you think I’m gonna sit there and listen to you drone on, you’re dumber than you look.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Oh, you’ll listen. Or I’ll tell the entire academy how Jeon Jungkook cried when he couldn’t identify ricin from rat poison.”

You left him fuming, the victory sweet on your tongue.

An hour later, he slouched into the secluded annex, dropping his bag on the table with a thud. He’d thrown on a black tee, but he still looked like trouble.

“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled, sinking into the chair opposite you.

“Charming as ever,” you said, opening the heavy textbook. “We’re starting with antidote synthesis and their corresponding political applications. Page two-seventeen.”

The next forty-five minutes were a masterclass in mutual antagonism.

“No, you idiot, you don’t administer the emetic after the neurotoxin has bonded to the synapses, it’s useless!”

“Why not? Clean out the system either way.”

“That’s not how it works! Are you even reading the text?”

“Your voice is distracting.”

“My voice? Maybe if you focused less on being a pain in my ass—”

“Your ass is plenty distracting, too.”

You slammed the book shut. “That’s it. We’re doing practical application. Hand-to-hand. Maybe knocking some sense into you will help.”

He was up in an instant, a predatory gleam in his eye. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

The private training room was empty, mats covering the floor. You both toed off your shoes.

“No weapons,” you stated. “Pure technique. First to pin for a ten-count wins.”

“You’re on.”

You circled each other, the air crackling with the familiar, hateful tension that always existed between you. He moved first, lunging with a speed that was deceptive for his size. You sidestepped, sweeping a leg at his ankles. He jumped, grabbed your arm, and used your momentum to try and flip you. You twisted, breaking his grip, and landed a sharp elbow to his ribs.

He grunted, but didn’t back off. “Not bad, kitten.”

“Shut up, dog.”

It was a brutal, beautiful dance. Block, parry, strike. You were more technical, using leverage and precision. He was raw power and relentless aggression. You got him in an arm lock; he powered out of it, his back pressing flush against your front for a searing second before you shoved him away.

The close contact sent a weird jolt through you. You ignored it.

Minutes later, you saw an opening. As he went for a grab, you ducked under his arm, intending to get behind him. He anticipated it, spinning at the same time. Instead of ending up behind him, you crashed into him.

His hands came up to steady you, gripping your hips. Your hands were splayed against his solid chest. You were nose-to-nose, chest to chest, breathing hard. The heat of him was overwhelming. You could smell his sweat, his skin, something uniquely Jungkook that you hated that you knew so well.

Your eyes locked. Your breath hitched. Your heart was hammering, and not just from the fight.

His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second.

You jerked back as if burned. “What the hell was that? Trying to distract me?”

He let go of you like you were hot coal, running a hand through his hair. He scoffed, looking away. “You wish. You’re always distracting. With your… everything.”

The vulnerability in his tone, so unlike him, made you pause. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing.” He turned to walk away, towards his bag.

Something snapped inside you. All the years of competition, of bickering, of this weird, itchy feeling you got when he was near. “No, you said something. Say it to my face, you coward.”

He whirled around. “I said you’re distracting! Always have been! With your smart mouth and your stubbornness and the way you look at me like you want to kill me half the time and…” He trailed off, jaw clenched.

“And what?” you pressed, stepping closer.

“And nothing. Forget it.”

He went to leave again. You saw red. All rational thought, all assassin’s discipline, vanished. With a growl, you launched yourself at him, tackling him around the waist. You both went down onto the mats in a tangle of limbs.

Before he could throw you off, you grabbed his face and crushed your lips against his.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. Hard, desperate, and messy. He froze for a shocked second beneath you. Then a low groan vibrated from his throat into yours, and his hands came up to fist in your hair, kissing you back with a ferocity that stole the air from your lungs.

His tongue demanded entry and you granted it, a war of dominance playing out with lips and teeth. You bit his lower lip; he sucked on your tongue. It was wet, and rough, and perfect. You ground your hips down against the hard ridge you could feel in his sweatpants, and he bucked up against you with a ragged moan.

He rolled you over, pinning you beneath him, his weight deliciously heavy. He broke the kiss, breathing harshly, his eyes dark and blazing with something you’d never seen before. “You little—”

You didn’t let him finish. You pulled him back down, kissing him again, your hands roaming over his back, digging into his shoulders.

His hands weren’t idle. One slid down from your hair, over your neck, squeezing your breast through your training top. You arched into his touch with a gasp. He palmed you roughly, his thumb finding your nipple and pinching it through the fabric. A sharp bolt of pleasure-pain made you cry out into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. He yanked the collar of your top down, exposing your bra. He didn’t bother with the clasp, just shoved the cup aside and took your nipple into his hot mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking the peak, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

“J-Jungkook…” you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He switched to the other breast, giving it the same rough treatment. His free hand slid down your stomach, over your leggings, and cupped you between your legs. You were soaked, the fabric already damp. He rubbed the heel of his hand against your clit, making you jerk and moan loudly.

“Always so fucking loud,” he breathed, lifting his head to look at you. His lips were swollen, his eyes glazed. “Always making noise, driving me crazy.”

“You love it,” you panted, reaching down to palm him through his sweats. He was huge, thick, and straining against the confines. You squeezed, and he threw his head back with a guttural groan.

“Fuck, yes…” He looked down at you, a wicked, cocky smirk returning to his face. “See what you do to me? You’re a fucking cockslut, you know that? Parading around, thinking you’re better than me.”

“You’re the one who’s hard just from fighting me, you needy dog,” you shot back, rubbing him harder.

He growled, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your leggings and your underwear, dragging them down your thighs in one rough motion. The cool air hit your wetness, making you shiver.

He didn’t waste time. He shifted down your body, pushing your thighs apart with his shoulders. His breath ghosted over your bare pussy.

“What are you—” your question was cut off as his mouth descended on you.

He didn’t start slow. He licked a broad, firm stripe from your entrance to your clit, then sealed his lips around the bundle of nerves and sucked.

“OH GOD!” you screamed, your back bowing off the mat. Your hands flew back to his hair, holding on for dear life.

He ate you out like a man starved. His tongue was relentless, licking, thrusting, circling. He added fingers, pushing two inside you with no preamble, curling them just right. The sounds were obscene—wet, sloppy sucking noises, your ragged moans, his own hungry groans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

“Taste so fucking good, darling,” he mumbled, his words muffled against you. “Always wondered. Knew you’d be sweet.”

You were babbling, a stream of “yes” and “right there” and “fuck, Jungkook.” The coil in your belly tightened impossibly fast, fueled by years of pent-up tension and the shocking skill of his mouth.

“Cum for me,” he ordered, sucking your clit hard and pumping his fingers deep. “Cum on my face, my good girl. Show me.”

That did it. With a broken scream, you shattered. Pleasure exploded through you, white-hot and blinding. Your hips jerked uncontrollably as you gushed against his mouth, a hot rush of release that had him groaning and lapping at you eagerly until you were twitching from oversensitivity.

You lay there, boneless and panting, vision swimming. He crawled back up your body, his face glistening with your arousal. He looked utterly debauched and triumphant. He fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats, freeing his cock.

Your eyes widened. You’d felt it, but seeing it was different. It was thick, veiny, and impressively long, the tip flushed and leaking. He gave himself a few rough strokes, smearing pre-cum.

“Think you can take it, brat?” he smirked, his voice rough. “All of it? Or is my little know-it-all tutor all talk?”

The challenge in his eyes reignited your fire. Still trembling from your orgasm, you pushed at his chest. He let you, rolling onto his back. You straddled him, your soaked pussy hovering over the head of his cock.

“You’re the one who’s all talk, Jeon,” you breathed, and slowly, slowly, sank down onto him.

It was a stretch, a delicious, burning fullness that made you see stars. You took him inch by agonizing inch, both of you groaning in unison. When you were fully seated, he was buried to the hilt inside you. You felt impossibly full, stretched to your limit.

“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he gritted out, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “So fucking perfect.”

You began to move, riding him slowly at first, rolling your hips. The angle was deep, hitting spots that made your toes curl. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and picked up the pace.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his thumbs digging into your flesh. “Ride my cock, you perfect fucktoy. Use me just like you wanted to.”

You moaned, the dirty words going straight to your core. You bounced on him harder, the slapping sound of skin on skin filling the room. Your tits bounced with each movement; he sat up slightly to capture one nipple in his mouth again, sucking and biting.

The change in angle made him hit even deeper. You cried out, your rhythm faltering.

“My turn,” he grunted. In a fluid, powerful motion, he flipped you onto your back again without ever slipping out. He hooked your legs over his arms, spreading you wide, and started fucking you in earnest.

This was nothing like the slow ride. This was brutal, pounding, mind-numbing. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs. He was everywhere—his smell, his sweat dripping onto you, his groans in your ear.

“You feel that?” he panted, hammering into you. “That’s my cock, love. All for you. This smart, bratty, perfect cunt is mine now.”

“Yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed. “Jungkook, please…”

“Please what?” He slammed into you, making you squeal. “Please what, my little cumslut?”

“Harder! Please, harder!”

He obliged, his pace becoming punishing. One hand left your leg to tangle in your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite and suck a bruising claim onto your throat. The sharp pain mixed with the pleasure, sending you spiraling higher.

His other hand found your clit, rubbing rough, fast circles. “Gonna make you squirt again,” he promised darkly. “Gonna make you fucking drown me. You’re so wet for me, dripping all over my cock.”

The dual assault was too much. The pressure built again, even more intense than before. You were babbling nonsense, chanting his name.

“Cum with me,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Now!”

His words tipped you over the edge. Your second orgasm ripped through you like a tidal wave. This time, it wasn't just a rush of wetness—you gushed around his cock, a flood of release that soaked both of you and the mat beneath. The intensity was so overwhelming, so violent in its pleasure, that your vision tunneled, the sounds of his groans and your own screams fading into a distant roar as the world went blissfully, utterly black.

(the full version contains you and jungkook avoiding each other which leads him to fucking you in front of the mirror to prove you have feelins for him and talking about knocking you up)

The world dissolved into a symphony of pain and disorientation. One moment you were stepping out of the luxury boutique, the crisp Seoul evening air the next, a rough canvas bag was yanked over your head, the world plunging into stifling darkness.

You came to in stages. First, the cold. It seeped through your thin silk blouse, a deep, cement-floor chill that bit into your bones. Then, the smell—damp concrete, rust, and stale oil. A warehouse. Your wrists were bound tightly behind your back with coarse rope that scraped your skin raw with every tiny movement. Your ankles were similarly secured to the legs of a heavy, metal chair. A throbbing ache pulsed at the base of your skull.

A single, bare bulb hung from a distant rafter, casting a sickly yellow puddle of light that did little to push back the overwhelming darkness. Shapes of crates and machinery loomed like sleeping beasts in the shadows. You tested your bonds, a muffled whimper escaping as the rope bit deeper.

“Ah, she’s awake.” The voice was smooth, cultured, but it slithered through the cold air like a snake. A man stepped into the edge of the light. He held your phone. “The famous Mrs. Jeon. The queen of Jeon Jungkook’s empire.” He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “He keeps you very polished, doesn’t he? A pretty little trophy on his arm.”

You lifted your chin, forcing steel into your voice despite the tremor in your limbs. “He’ll burn this city to the ground to find me.”

“I’m counting on it,” the man smiled, a thin, cruel line. “That’s the point. Your husband has been… inconvenient. Moving in on territories that are not his. This,” he gestured around the warehouse, “is an invitation to renegotiate. And you, my dear, are the message.”

He crouched in front of you and tapped your phone screen. “We’re going to call him. You’re going to sound scared. You’re going to beg. And he’s going to hear it.” His fingers gripped your chin, forcing your head up. “Do you understand? The more convincing you are, the less I have to hurt you to make it real.”

Revulsion coiled in your gut. You spat at his feet.

The backhand caught you across the cheekbone, a sharp crack that snapped your head to the side. White-hot pain exploded, followed by the warm, metallic taste of blood filling your mouth. Stars danced in your vision.

“We can do this the hard way,” the man sighed, as if you were a misbehaving child. He unlocked your phone, scrolling through contacts until he found the one labeled with a simple black crown emoji. Daddy. He put it on speaker.

It rang once, twice. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of fear.

Then, his voice. Low, calm, wrapped in a velvet warmth that made your eyes prick with tears. “Yeobo? You on your way home? I ordered that spicy seafood stew you like.”

The kidnapper held the phone closer to your bleeding mouth. “Say hello,” he whispered, his own voice a venomous parody of kindness.

You swallowed blood and fear. “J-Jungkook.” His name was a broken prayer.

The silence on the other end was instantaneous and absolute. When he spoke again, the velvet was gone, stripped away to reveal the cold, hardened steel beneath. 

“Who is with you.”

It wasn’t a question.

The kidnapper took over, his voice cheerful. “Mr. Jeon! So good to finally speak. Your wife is here with me. She’s a bit… roughed up. But she’s alive. For now.”

“If a single hair on her head is out of place,” Jungkook’s voice came through, deceptively soft, “I will peel the skin from your bones while you watch. Slowly.”

A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold went down your captor’s spine, but he pressed on. “Such theatrics. Here, let her convince you.”

He shoved the phone against your lips again. “Beg,” he hissed.

Tears of rage and humiliation mixed with the blood on your face. You thought of Jungkook—his stupid, handsome face, his laugh that crinkled his eyes, the way his hands, so big and rough, could be impossibly gentle on your skin. The thought of him hearing you break was worse than the pain.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, your voice trembling but clear. “It’s cold. And… my face hurts.” You couldn’t keep the sob from hitching in your throat. “Please. Please come get me.”

There was a sharp, indrawn breath on the line. Then, his voice returned, transformed. “Listen to me, my love. My queen. Look around. Tell me what you see.”

You blinked through tears, frantically scanning the dim light. “A… a red shipping container. To my left. It says… ‘Hanjin’ on it. There’s a broken forklift. And… I smell fish. Like a market.”

“Good girl. So brave for me,” he crooned, and the love in his voice was a lifeline. “You stay strong for just a little longer, jagiya. Close your eyes if you have to. I am coming for you right now.” The tenderness didn’t fade, but it was edged with a promise that turned the air in the warehouse even colder. “And to the man holding my world,” the voice shifted again, dropping into a register of pure, apocalyptic darkness, “prepare your soul. There is no hole deep enough for you to hide in.”

The line went dead.

The next hour was a blur of terror and aching cold. Then, the world exploded.

It wasn’t with sirens, but with the deafening roar of engines—not cars, but motorcycles and armored SUVs—smashing through the warehouse’s roll-up door. Gunfire erupted, not the sporadic pops of movies, but short, controlled, brutal bursts that echoed like thunder in the cavernous space. Men shouted, screamed, fell. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, curling in on yourself as best you could, the sounds of violence a terrifying cacophony around you.

And then, through the smoke and chaos, a figure emerged.

Jeon Jungkook.

He moved like vengeance personified. Dressed head-to-toe in tactical black, he was a panther among sheep. A knife glinted in his hand as he fluidly disarmed one man, the blade finding a home in another’s thigh with a sickening wet thud. He didn’t waste bullets; his movements were efficient, brutal, final. You saw the ripple of his powerful back muscles through his shirt, the sweat already darkening his hairline. His face… his beautiful face was a mask of serene, focused annihilation. His doe eyes, usually so warm and sparkling, were flat and black, absorbing no light.

He cut a path directly to you, a force of nature that nothing could deter.

Your captor, panicked, raised a gun toward you. He never got to pull the trigger.

Jungkook didn’t even break stride. A throwing knife sprouted from the man’s throat with a thunk. He gurgled, clawing at the hilt, before collapsing into the darkness.

And then Jungkook was there, filling your vision, blocking out the horror. He dropped to his knees before you, his big hands immediately going to the ropes at your ankles. His touch was gentle, but his hands were shaking—a fine, almost imperceptible tremor of pure, undiluted rage held in check by sheer will.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice ragged. “I’ve got you, babygirl.”

The ropes fell away. He moved behind you, his chest pressing against your back as he sawed at the bindings on your wrists. The moment your hands were free, you slumped forward, but he caught you, pulling you back against him, his arms a vise of safety around your middle. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

Then he turned you in his arms, his hands cradling your bruised face. His thumbs, calloused and scarred, wiped away the blood and tears with infinite care. His eyes searched yours, that terrifying emptiness replaced by a storm of anguish and relief.

He didn’t say a word.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. His lips were hard on yours, tasting of gunmetal and the mint gum he always chewed and something uniquely, fundamentally him. It was a kiss that swallowed your sobs, that poured every ounce of his fear and fury and ferocious love into you. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair, anchoring yourself to the only solid thing left in the universe.

He broke the kiss only to sweep you up into his arms as if you weighed nothing. You clung to his neck, burying your face against the column of his throat, inhaling his scent—sweat, leather, and home.

“Clear the way,” he growled to no one in particular, and his men formed a phalanx around him as he carried you out of the warehouse of nightmares, stepping over bodies without a second glance. He placed you in the back of a blacked-out Mercedes G-Wagon, climbing in after you and pulling you onto his lap, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe, as the convoy tore away into the night.

The ride to the penthouse was silent but for the rumble of the engine and the soft, shuddering breaths you couldn’t quite control. Jungkook held you the entire way, one arm locked around your waist, his other hand stroking your hair, his lips pressed to your temple. He didn’t speak. The silence coming from him was more unnerving than any outburst could have been.

He carried you from the car into the private elevator, up to the penthouse that overlooked the glittering Han River. The familiar opulence—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the modern art, the deep silence—felt alien now.

Still silent, he took you straight to the master bathroom. He set you on the marble countertop and began to undress you with methodical care. His fingers, which could break a man’s neck without effort, were impossibly tender as he unbuttoned your ruined blouse, peeled off your soiled slacks. He ran a bath, pouring in your favorite sandalwood-scented oil. He tested the temperature with his wrist before lifting you and placing you in the steaming water.

He knelt beside the tub, a king brought low. He took a soft cloth and began to wash you. He cleaned the blood from your face, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked violently. He washed your arms, your back, between your fingers. He was meticulous, reverent. When his cloth swept over the darkening bruises on your ribs from where you’d been handled roughly, a low, animal sound rumbled in his chest.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “Talk to me.”

He just shook his head, his eyes downcast, focusing on his task. He washed your hair, massaging your scalp, rinsing away the stench of fear and that man’s touch.

When you were clean, he lifted you out, wrapping you in a massive, warm towel before carrying you to the bed. He dried you with the same thorough silence, then smoothed a healing salve onto your bruised cheekbone. He pulled one of his own soft black t-shirts over your head—it drowned you, smelling overwhelmingly of him—and tucked you under the duvet.

He stood there for a long moment, looking down at you, his expression unreadable in the dim bedroom light. The adrenaline was fading, leaving you hollow and shaky, but more than that, you were terrified of his silence.

He finally moved, stripping off his own tactical gear until he was just in his black boxer-briefs. His body was a masterpiece of power—the broad shoulders, the defined chest and abs that tapered to a narrow waist, the thick thighs. His tattoos—the intricate sleeve, the script across his ribs—seemed to tell stories of violence and survival in the dim light. He slid into bed beside you and pulled you into him, your back to his chest, his front spooning you protectively. His arm was a heavy band across your waist.

And then he began to kiss you.

Slowly. Deliberately. Not on the mouth, but on every part of him he could reach. He kissed your bandaged cheek. The shell of your ear. The slope of your shoulder where his shirt had slipped down. His lips were soft, worshipful. He shifted you gently onto your back and continued his pilgrimage—the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breast over the cotton shirt, your stomach. He pushed the shirt up, exposing more skin, and his mouth followed.

His teeth grazed your hip bone, a hint of his true nature, but he immediately soothed it with his tongue, pulling back as if burned.

“Jungkook,” you said again, more firmly now. You threaded your fingers into his dark hair. “I’m okay.”

He looked up at you then, his eyes finally meeting yours. The storm was still there, churning with guilt and a fury so deep it had frozen him from the inside out. “I almost lost you,” he said, his voice raw and shredded. “Because of my world. My mess.”

“I’m here,” you insisted, pulling his face up to yours for a soft kiss. “You came for me.”

He kissed you back, but it was still soft, still careful. He moved over you, settling between your thighs, but his weight was braced on his arms. He began to make love to you. It was tender, achingly sweet. Slow rolls of his hips, deep gazes into your eyes, whispered words of love against your lips. It was everything a woman should want after trauma.

And it was all wrong.

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t you. 

The gentleness felt like pity. The care felt like distance. You needed the fire. You needed the proof that you were alive, that you were his, that this hadn’t broken what you were together.

As he rocked into you with another tender thrust, you tangled both hands in his hair and yanked, hard enough to make him gasp.

“Stop,” you breathed against his lips.

He froze immediately, concern flashing in his eyes. “Did I hurt you? Jagiya, I’m sor—”

You cut him off by yanking his hair again, forcing his face closer until your noses brushed. Your voice dropped to a low, sassy growl, all traces of the victim gone. “Who the fuck do you think you’re fucking right now? Some delicate little flower?”

His eyes widened slightly.

“You think I need vanilla love-making after what happened?” you hissed, bucking your hips up against his. “I need my husband. I need my Daddy. I need the mafia boss who turned a warehouse into a graveyard for me.” You dug your nails into his scalp. “So stop this bullshit gentle act and fuck me like the queen you claim I am. Remind me who I belong to. Remind yourself.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Then, it was like watching a dam shatter.

A feral growl ripped from Jungkook’s throat, a sound of pure, unleashed possession. All the gentleness evaporated, burned away in an instant by the inferno you’d just unleashed. The tender lover was gone, replaced by the primal, dominant beast who owned you body and soul.

“You brat,” he snarled, his eyes darkening with predatory lust. “You fucking perfect, crazy brat.”

In one brutal motion, he flipped you over onto your hands and knees, yanking his t-shirt up over your back until it was bunched around your shoulders. He shoved your head down into the pillows, arching your back until your ass was high in the air, presented for him.

“You want to be reminded?” he growled, his big hands grabbing your hips so hard you knew there would be fingerprints bruised into your skin tomorrow. One hand slid around your front, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your tit through the shirt, pinching and pulling at your nipple until you cried out. “You want to know who owns this perfect little cunt?”

You felt the thick, blunt head of his cock—massive, always so fucking big—nudge against your soaked entrance. You were dripping for him, your body singing for the roughness it knew was coming.

“Tell me who you belong to!” he commanded, not entering you yet, just rubbing his tip through your slick folds.

“You!” you moaned into the pillow. “Daddy! I’m yours!”

“Damn right you are.”

He didn’t slide in. He drove into you in one ruthless, claiming thrust that punched the air from your lungs and made you see stars. You were so wet he sank to the hilt in one go, his pelvis slapping against your ass with a loud crack. A guttural moan tore from your throat—a mix of overwhelming fullness and perfect relief.

“Fuck! Jungkook!”

“That’s it,” he grunted, already setting a punishing pace, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in with enough force to jolt you up the bed. “This is what you needed? This is what my queen deserves? My cock splitting her open after some other fucker dared to lay hands on her?”

His words were filthy, dark music to your ears. Each thrust was a punctuation mark of ownership. The wet, squelching sounds of your pussy taking him filled the room, obscene and perfect. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a rhythmic thunder.

One of his hands remained anchored on your hip, the other snaked under you, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He rubbed tight, rough circles that had you screaming into the pillow within seconds.

“This cunt is mine,” he chanted, his voice thick with lust and fury. “My cock is gonna bruise your womb so it knows—so it never forgets—it belongs to me. I’m gonna mark you from the inside out, babygirl.”

He leaned over you, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against your branded back. You could feel every ridge of his abs, every flex of his powerful muscles. His mouth latched onto the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to brand you there too before biting down. You cried out as pain and pleasure fused into one white-hot wire.

He released your neck only to trail his mouth down your spine, sucking and biting every inch of skin he could reach—your shoulders, between your shoulder blades, the small of your back. He was marking his territory like a wild animal, painting your skin with purple-and-red blossoms of possession. His tattoos glistened under a sheen of sweat in the low light, the ink seeming to move with each powerful thrust.

“Gonna make you scream so loud the whole city knows Jeon Jungkook has his queen back in his bed where she fucking belongs,” he rasped into your ear before biting the lobe.

His fingers on your clit were relentless, his cock pistoning into you with deep, brutal strokes that hit that perfect spot inside you with every single one. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter, a spring of pure sensation ready to snap.

“Daddy… I’m gonna… I can’t…”

“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice guttural. “Squirt all over my cock, you perfect fucktoy. Let me feel it. Show me how much you missed this.”

It was the command that shattered you.

Your orgasm detonated like a supernova behind your eyelids. A scream ripped from your throat as your body convulsed around him, your inner walls milking his massive cock in frantic pulses. And just as he’d ordered, you squirted—a hot, gushing flood that soaked his thighs and the sheets beneath you with such violent intensity that your vision whited out. The pleasure was so extreme, so overwhelming after the terror of the day, that for a second, the world faded to static and you genuinely thought you might pass out.

You collapsed forward into the pillows, boneless and gasping, waves of aftershocks still making you twitch around him.

But Jungkook didn’t stop.

His pace barely faltered. He was still rock-hard inside you, still thrusting with deep, possessive strokes through your oversensitive contractions.

You whimpered weakly as he leaned over you again, his lips brushing your sweat-damp ear.

“Did you think we were done, my greedy little cumslut?” he purred, his voice thick with dark promise as he continued to move within you, his cock still relentlessly claiming your spent body. “The night isn’t over. I’m not done reminding you—or anyone else who might get ideas.” He punctuated his words with a particularly deep thrust that made you jolt. “I won’t stop until the whole of Seoul knows no one can touch what’s mine.”

(the full version contains jungkook fucking you on every surface, in front of the mirror, and also in front of his 3 trusted men as he makes you squirt again and again)

The city’s rain-slicked streets reflect neon like oil on water. You’ve moved three times in the last year, changed your number twice, switched jobs four times. Yet he always finds you. Jeon Jungkook. Your ex-fiancé, heir to a crime syndicate you tried so hard to escape. You told yourself you were done the night you saw him in that back alley, a woman with too-short leather skirts and smeared lipstick climbing into his car two nights after he slid that diamond ring onto your finger. You didn’t even scream. You just turned around, went home, packed a single bag, and left. But he’s a ghost you can’t shake.

Every morning since you landed in this new city, there’s been something. A single white gardenia on your doorstep—your favorite. A box of those ridiculously expensive dark chocolate truffles you used to eat after sex. A vintage vinyl of that stupid love song you’d dance to in his penthouse kitchen. You throw them all away. Every single one. But he doesn’t stop. And sometimes, when you’re hauling your groceries up the walk, you feel it—the weight of a stare. You glance down the street and there it is: a matte black sedan, windows tinted so dark you can’t see inside. But you know. You always know.

He’d tried to explain once. Cornered you in the elevator of your old apartment building, his body blocking the doors from closing. The scent of him, expensive and familiar, had made your stomach twist.

“It was a misunderstanding,” he’d said, his voice low, urgent. “They showed me pictures. Of you and him. The night I proposed. You were smiling, he had his arm around you… it looked real.”

You’d stared at him, ice in your veins. “So your solution was to fuck a hooker in your car two days later?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I wanted to forget. To hurt like you were supposedly hurting me. I paid her, got in the car… and I couldn’t. I didn’t touch her. I made her get out. A week later, my tech guys found the photos were faked. Stitched, deepfake bullshit. My father’s doing. He didn’t want me… distracted.”

You’d let out a scoff so sharp it hurt your throat. “Wow. So I should be happy, right? The man who wanted to marry me couldn’t even talk to me before hiring a prostitute. That’s your defense? Get out of my way, Jungkook.”

You’d shoved past him, the elevator doors finally closing on his stricken face. You walked out, and he was left alone. 

The flowers today are different.

Not cut stems wrapped in paper. Potted orchids. Three of them, gleaming white and purple under the weak porch light, their delicate roots visible through clear glass containers. They’re alive. You can’t just toss living things into the dumpster. You stand there, key in hand, the rain misting your jacket, and a hot, stupid lump rises in your throat. He remembers. Of course he fucking remembers. That weekend you dragged him to a botanical garden, you spent an hour sighing over orchids, telling him how you loved that they were stubborn, that they needed specific care to bloom. He’d kissed your temple and said, “Like you, then.”

“Asshole,” you mutter to the empty street. But you pick up the pots. They’re heavy, cool against your chest. You take them inside.

Your apartment feels claustrophobic. You put the orchids on the kitchen windowsill. They look innocent, beautiful. A peace offering. But with Jungkook, nothing is ever just a gift. It’s a claim. A reminder. I know where you are. I know what you love. I still own it.

You need to get out. You need noise, bodies, distraction. You change into a little black dress you haven’t worn in ages—the one he used to peel off you with his teeth. You don’t think about that. You just swipe on red lipstick, shove your feet into heels, and call a cab. You’re going to the most expensive, exclusive club in the city. The kind of place he’d never be caught dead in. Too flashy, he’d say. Too many cameras.

The club is all throbbing bass and swirling lights. Bodies press and grind. You order a vodka cranberry and swallow it too fast, the burn doing nothing to settle the itch under your skin. You’re on your second drink, trying to lose yourself in the rhythm, when the air changes.

It’s not a sound. It’s a pressure. A shift in the atmosphere. You turn your head slowly, and there he is.

Jeon Jungkook.

Leaning against the far wall of the VIP section, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He’s dressed in all black—a simple but impossibly expensive-looking sweater, tailored trousers. He looks older. Sharper. The soft boyishness you loved is gone, carved into something harder, more dangerous. His eyes aren’t on the dancers, the models hanging off the booth next to him. They’re locked on you. Dark, unwavering, consuming.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just watches.

And it’s that… that fucking normalcy that breaks you. He’s not storming over. He’s not grabbing you. He’s just observing. Like you’re a painting. Like he has all the time in the world.

A white-hot rage, fiercer than any hurt, blazes through you. You slam your glass down on the bar, the sound swallowed by the music, and you stalk toward him. People instinctively move out of your way. His eyes track your every step, but his expression doesn’t change.

You stop inches from him. The scent of him—sandalwood, clean sweat, and that unique, musky Jungkook smell—hits you like a physical blow. Your hand flies up before you can think.

The crack of your palm against his cheek is shockingly loud, even in the club. His head snaps to the side. A red mark blooms instantly on his perfect, tan skin. The people around them fall silent, eyes wide.

He turns his head back slowly. He doesn’t touch his face. His eyes are black pits.

“You bastard!” you scream over the music, your voice raw. “You smug, stalking bastard! The flowers? The fucking chocolate? Sitting in your car like a creep? What the hell is wrong with you? I left! I don’t want you! Get that through your thick skull!”

He just looks at you. Calm. As if you just commented on the weather. “Feel better?” he asks, his voice low, a rumble you feel in your bones.

It’s the final straw. You grab the front of his sweater, fisting the soft fabric, and yank him down, crashing your lips against his.

For a heart-stopping second, he doesn’t move. Then, with a groan that’s pure animal hunger, he kisses you back. It’s not gentle. It’s a possession. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, tasting of whiskey and him. His arms band around you, crushing you against a body that’s all hard muscle and lethal intent. You kiss him with all the fury, the betrayal, the months of lonely, aching nights. It’s brutal and perfect and it feels like coming home to a house on fire.

He’s the one who pulls back, breathing ragged. His lips are wet, swollen from yours. His eyes are wild now, the control shattered. “You need to stop,” he grits out, his voice strained. “If you don’t stop right now, I’m taking you out of here. And once I start, darling, I am not stopping. I won’t be gentle. I won’t be sorry. I will fuck you until you forget every reason you ever had for leaving.”

A thrill, dark and electric, shoots straight to your core. You’re soaked. Your body is screaming for him, traitor that it is. You lean in, your lips brushing his ear. You taste the salt on his skin.

“Then don’t stop, Daddy,” you whisper, the word you’d only ever breathed in the dark with him falling easily, defiantly, from your lips now. “Stop talking and do what you’re good at.”

A shudder runs through him. A low, possessive growl escapes his throat. He doesn’t say another word. His hand slides down to grip your ass, hard, possessive, and he starts walking, dragging you with him through the crowd, toward a discreet side exit. No one tries to stop him. No one even looks twice.

A long, black limousine is idling at the curb. He wrenches the door open and practically throws you inside onto the soft leather seats. He climbs in after you, slams the door, and hits a button. A dark partition slides up, sealing you in a silent, plush tomb.

The engine purrs to life. The car pulls away from the curb.

In the dim interior light, his eyes glow. He’s on you before you can take a breath. His mouth is on yours again, biting, sucking. His hands are everywhere—pushing the straps of your dress down, palming your tits over your lace bra. He pinches a nipple through the fabric, hard, and you cry out into his mouth.

“Missed these,” he growls, pulling the bra down to free your breasts. He ducks his head, taking a nipple into his hot mouth, sucking fiercely, teeth grazing the sensitive peak. “Missed the way you taste. The way you moan.” He switches to the other, giving it the same rough treatment. Your back arches, your fingers tangling in his soft hair, holding him to you.

“Jungkook—” you gasp.

“Daddy,” he corrects, biting the swell of your breast. “You called me Daddy. You don’t get to take it back now, cockslut.” He pulls back, his hands going to your hips. “Turn over. On your knees. Face the seat.”

You’re trembling, but you obey, the old submission rising fast and familiar. You get on your knees on the wide seat, facing the back of the limo. The cool leather kisses your skin. You feel him behind you, a solid wall of heat. His hands push your dress up around your waist. His fingers hook into the sides of your panties and rip them clean off. The sound of tearing lace is obscenely loud.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters, dragging a thick finger through your soaked folds. You whimper, pushing back against his hand. “Always so fucking wet for me. Even when you hate me.”

You hear the rustle of his clothes, the unmistakable sound of a zipper, the tear of a foil packet. Then the blunt, hot head of his cock is pressing against you. He’s huge. You’d forgotten just how big he felt, stretching you, filling you.

He doesn’t push in. He just rubs the tip up and down your slit, coating himself in your arousal, teasing your clit. “You want it?” he murmurs, his lips against your shoulder blade. “You want Daddy’s cock?”

“Yes,” you sob, pushing back again, desperate to be filled.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Daddy! Please!”

He slams into you in one brutal, deep thrust. You scream, the sound swallowed by the leather seats. He fills you completely, stretching you to the brink. He stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every inch. “Tight,” he groans. “So fucking tight. Like you’ve been saving it for me.”

Then he starts to move. There’s no rhythm, no finesse. It’s pure, raw fucking. Hard, deep strokes that jolt your whole body forward with each thrust. His grip on your hips is iron-tight, sure to leave bruises. The sounds are filthy—the slap of skin on skin, his ragged grunts, your choked-off cries.

“This is where you belong,” he snarls, pounding into you. “Taking my cock. My cumslut. My fucktoy. You think running changes that? You think changing your name or your city erases what you are? Mine.”

Each word is punctuated by a vicious thrust. You’re so close already, the coil in your belly winding impossibly tight. “Daddy, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Come on my cock. Now.”

It hits you like a seizure. Your vision whites out. A guttural scream tears from your throat as you shatter, clenching around him in violent pulses. Your body convulses, and you feel a hot gush of release soak your thighs and the seat beneath you. You squirt, hard, the force of it taking even you by surprise.

He fucks you through it, his pace never slowing, drawing the orgasm out until it’s borderline painful. “That’s it,” he groans. “Fuck, look at you. Making a mess. My good girl.”

You’re boneless, sagging against the seat, but he’s not done. He pulls out, flipping you onto your back. He pushes your legs up and apart, hooking them over his shoulders, and drives back into you. This angle is deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

“Look at me,” he demands, his face hovering over yours, slick with sweat. You force your eyes open. His gaze is fierce, possessive, unhinged. “You’re coming back with me. You’re going to be my queen. No more running. No more hiding. You’re mine. Say it.”

You shake your head, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. “I can’t… you hurt me…”

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. “I know,” he murmurs against your lips. “And I’ll spend the rest of my fucking life making it up to you. But you’re mine.” He thrusts hard, making you gasp. “Now say it.”

The pleasure is too much. The feel of him, the raw need in his eyes, the love you’ve never been able to kill. “I’m yours,” you whisper.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!” you cry out as he hits that spot again.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You! Daddy! I belong to you!”

A savage triumph lights his face. “Good girl.” His thrusts become erratic, frantic. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna put a baby in you. Make sure you never leave again.”

The filthy promise pushes you over another edge. This orgasm is different—deeper, longer. It starts as a slow roll and builds into a crashing wave. You feel the tension snap, and another, more powerful stream of release gushes out of you, soaking his lower stomach and the seat. Your body locks up, muscles spasming uncontrollably. You can’t breathe. You can’t see. The pleasure is a white-hot brand, burning through every nerve ending. You hear a high, keening sound—it’s you—and then the world tilts, fragments, and goes blissfully, utterly dark.

You come to slowly, awareness seeping in. You’re curled on your side on the soft leather seat. You’re warm. There’s a heavy, familiar weight around you—his arm, holding you tightly against his chest. His even breaths stir your hair. He’s dressed again. You’re wrapped in what feels like his suit jacket. It smells like him.

The limo is still moving.

Your body feels used, wrecked, profoundly satisfied. Sore in the best way. You can feel the sticky evidence of both of you drying on your inner thighs.

And beneath the physical satisfaction, a cold, sharp reality is already starting to pierce the haze.

You’re in his car. You came for him. You called him Daddy. You told him you were his.

You let the monster back in.

You close your eyes, a single, hot tear escaping and soaking into the leather beneath your cheek. You let yourself sink back into the warmth of his embrace for just a moment longer, knowing with a dreadful, certain clarity that when morning comes, the regret will be a physical thing, a stone in your gut.

But for now, in the dark, moving through the anonymous city, you pretend.

(full version contains you trying to ignore jungkook but he gets injured and you end up letting him in his house but only to use him as your personal annoying dildo)

The days after you left the garage settled into a new rhythm. You were back in your world of tailored skirts, high heels, and a prestigious—if mind-numbingly boring—internship at your father’s investment firm. Jungkook was back in his world of grease, roaring engines, and stubborn cosmos seedlings.

Your main connection was the rectangle of light in your hand.

You: [Image of a perfectly frothed cappuccino with a leaf design] Overpriced bean water. You’d hate it.

JK: Looks like shit. Bet it tastes like perfume. [Image of his chipped mug filled with tar-black coffee]

You: [Video of a fat, grumpy-looking pigeon waddling on your balcony] New roommate. Better manners than you.

JK: Tell it if it shits on your floor, it’s cleaning it up. [Image of a stray cat napping on a stack of tires]

You: [Selfie from your sterile office, making a dramatic, bored face] Dying. Send help. Or explosives.

JK: [Image of a fully rebuilt, gleaming engine] This is more fun. Stop whining, princess. Earn your trust fund.

The flirting was constant, a low-voltage current humming between you.

You: This pencil skirt is a crime against humanity. So tight.

JK: Don’t tease me. I’m trying to concentrate.

You: On what?

JK: On not driving over there and ripping it off you with my teeth.

He’d send a picture of his hand, slick with oil, wrapped around a wrench. You’d send a picture of your thigh, the edge of your lace panties just visible. He’d respond with a shot of the garden, the cosmos finally sprouting tiny green shoots. “Watering them. Thinking of you.”

It was sweet. It was infuriating. It was everything and nothing.

Your dad caught you at dinner one night, smiling down at your phone like an idiot. “Who’s the lucky person making my daughter smile at her lettuce?” he asked, a knowing glint in his eye.

“Just a friend,” you said quickly, locking the screen.

“A friend with a garage?” he asked mildly, and your head snapped up. He just smiled and took a sip of wine. “Eat your salad.”

The rhythm was comforting. Until it wasn’t.

You were scrolling through Instagram one evening, curled on your sofa, when his story popped up. It was a picture of Jungkook, a rare, easy smile on his face, his arm slung around the shoulders of a pretty girl. She was leaning into him, grinning at the camera. The caption read: “Troublemaker’s back.”

Your blood went cold. It felt like a physical punch to the gut. The girl was tall, pretty, with long, shiny hair. She looked comfortable with him. She looked like she belonged there, in his space, under his arm.

You stared at it. You watched it loop. Your fingers trembled. You tapped his name to call him.

It rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.

You called again. Voicemail.

A third time. Nothing.

The cold in your veins turned to a hot, reckless anger. So that was it. He was busy. With her. You were just the bratty girl from the garage. A temporary distraction. He’d moved on. He had a life. Friends. Pretty girls who weren’t mafia princesses with too much attitude.

Fine.

You got up. You put on the shortest, tightest black dress you owned. You did your makeup dark and smudgy. You didn’t think. You just needed to not feel this.

The club was a throbbing mass of bodies and bass. You posted a story the second you got in—a blurry shot of the dance floor, the neon lights. You ordered a double vodka cranberry and downed it. Then another.

You posted another story. You dancing, your head thrown back. A guy’s hands on your waist from behind. You didn’t know him. You didn’t care. You tagged the location.

Another drink. Another story. This time, a different guy, leaning in close, saying something in your ear. You laughed, a hollow, loud sound, and posted it.

The texts started coming in.

JK: Where are you?

JK: Answer your phone.

JK: Y/N. Stop.

You ignored them. You ordered another drink. The music was too loud. The lights were too bright. A guy, bigger than the others, kept hovering. You’d shake your head, turn away, but he’d find you again. His hand landed on your arm, gripping too tight.

“Come on, baby, dance with me,” he slurred, his breath smelling of beer.

“I said no,” you snapped, trying to pull away.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, his grip tightening, pulling you closer. Panic, sharp and sobering, lanced through the alcohol haze. You shoved at his chest, but he was solid. “Let me go!”

Then he was gone. One second his hand was on you, the next he was stumbling back, a massive shape having shoved him aside with terrifying ease.

Jungkook.

He looked furious. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping. His eyes were black pits of rage in the strobe lights. He didn’t say a word to the guy. He just turned that rage on you, grabbed your upper arm in a vise-like grip, and started dragging you through the crowd.

“Get off me! Let go!” you shouted, struggling, but he was a force of nature. He shoved people aside, his presence so intimidating they just moved. He hauled you out of the main room, down a corridor, and into a large, empty hotel bathroom, slamming the door and locking it.

He finally let go of your arm, and you stumbled back against a sink. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he roared, his voice echoing off the tiles.

“Me? What’s wrong with you? Who was that girl?” you screamed back, the hurt and vodka making you reckless.

“That is not the point right now!” he yelled, running a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Posting your location, getting wasted alone, letting strange men touch you? You can’t fight them off, Y/N! What if I hadn’t seen your stupid stories? What then?”

His words were about safety, but all you heard was criticism. Not jealousy. He wasn’t jealous. He didn’t care.

Tears of frustration burned your eyes. “Why do you care? You were busy! You have your cousin or whatever! You didn’t pick up! You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

He stared at you for a second, and then a harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “You… you did all this? This fucking stunt? Because of my cousin?”

“She wasn’t in your other pictures!” you accused weakly.

“Her son, my nephew, fell off the damn monkey bars at school and broke his arm!” he shouted, stepping closer, crowding you against the sink. “She was hysterical. I was driving her to the hospital. My phone was in the damn cup holder. That’s why I didn’t pick up. That picture was after we knew the kid was okay. She was crying, I hugged her, she made me take a stupid picture to make her kid laugh. That’s it.”

The fight drained out of you, replaced by a wave of crushing, humiliating silliness. Your bottom lip trembled. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’?” he repeated, his voice dropping, still angry but shifting. “You’re such a stupid, bratty little girl. You really thought I wouldn’t be jealous? Seeing those men’s hands on you?” His own hand came up, his thumb roughly wiping a smudge of lipstick from your cheek. “I wanted to break every bone in their bodies. I was driving here like a maniac.”

“You… you were jealous?” you whispered, the hope in your voice pathetic.

“Of course I was fucking jealous!” he snapped. “I have feelings for you, you impossible brat! But watching you put yourself in danger like that made me so much angrier. I care about you, you idiot. Your safety matters more than my fucking jealousy.”

The tears finally spilled over. You looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

He let out a long, heavy breath. The anger seemed to leave him all at once, replaced by something exasperated and fond. He hooked a finger under your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “You’re a mess. My messy, silly girl.”

You tried to turn your face away, but he wouldn’t let you. “Don’t,” you mumbled.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said, his voice softer now. “Don’t ever hide from daddy.”

The word, here in this cold bathroom, sent a shock of heat straight to your core, mixing with the shame and the relief. You sniffled.

“You scared me,” he said, simply. Then his eyes darkened again. “And you need to be punished for it.”

He took your hand and led you out of the club. You didn’t resist. He drove you back to your apartment in silence, his hand a firm band around your thigh the whole way.

Inside your apartment, he sat down on your sofa and pulled you down across his lap in one fluid motion. Your dress rode up. “W-what are you doing?”

“What I should have done a long time ago,” he said, his voice low. His hand came down on your ass, hard, through the thin fabric of your dress.

SMACK.

You yelped, more from surprise than pain. It stung, a sharp, bright heat.

SMACK. SMACK.

“You don’t get to be reckless with yourself,” he said, spanking you again, each strike punctuating his words. “You don’t get to make me that scared.”

You squirmed, but his arm was like an iron bar across your back. The spanks weren’t brutal, but they were firm, relentless. And to your utter horror, a treacherous warmth was spreading between your legs. Each smack jolted through you, making you clench around nothing. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound.

“Don’t hide,” he said, landing a particularly sharp slap on the undercurve of your ass. “I want to hear you.”

A small, choked sob escaped you. “I’m not… I’m not crying.”

He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. His hand smoothed over the heated skin of your ass. “No? Then why are you so wet, baby? I can feel it.”

You whimpered, mortified. He’d felt it through your clothes.

“That’s so cute,” he murmured, his fingers slipping under the edge of your panties, brushing against your soaked folds. You jerked against him. “My bratty girl gets wet from a spanking. You like daddy punishing you?”

“No,” you lied, your voice shaky.

“Liar.” He pushed your panties aside and slid two fingers inside you, curling them. You cried out, arching off his lap. “Soaked. For me. Always for me.”

He pulled his fingers out and lifted you, turning you around to straddle his lap. His cock was already hard and straining against his jeans. He unzipped them, freeing himself—that thick, heavy length you’d missed so desperately. He positioned you over him.

“Say it,” he commanded, his hands on your hips. “Who do you belong to?”

You sank down onto him, a slow, breathtaking stretch that made you gasp. “Daddy…”

He helped you sink all the way down until you were fully impaled, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. “Who am I?”

“You’re… you’re my daddy,” you moaned, beginning to move, riding him slowly.

His hand came up and spanked your ass again, making you clench tightly around him. “And you’re my girl. My only girl.” Another spank, this one on your other cheek. “Say it.”

“I’m your only girl,” you panted, riding him faster, the mix of pleasure and the sharp sting of his hand driving you wild.

One of his hands left your hip and smacked your clothed pussy, the impact vibrating right through your clit. You screamed, your rhythm faltering. “Daddy!”

“I own this pussy,” he growled, spanking your clit again, lighter this time, just enough to make you jolt. “This tight, perfect cunt that was made for my cock.” His other hand came up and squeezed your breast through your dress, pinching your nipple hard. “And these tits. Mine. Every fucking part of you. You belong to me. And I,” he thrust up into you, hard, “belong to you. Say it.”

Tears were streaming down your face from the overwhelming sensations. “You belong to me.”

“That’s right.” He took over, holding your hips and fucking up into you with deep, punishing strokes. “No more clubs. No more making me crazy. You want to dance, you dance for me. You want to drink, you drink with me. Understood?”

“Yes, daddy! Yes!” you sobbed, your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly.

He fucked you through it, his pace relentless. When you came, screaming, clenching around him, he didn’t stop. He kept pounding into you, his own release building. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna put another load in this greedy pussy. Mark you from the inside.”

He came with a groan, pulsing hot deep inside you, his hips grinding up against yours as he emptied himself.

But he didn’t pull out. He just stayed there, buried inside you, softening slightly. He kissed your shoulder, your neck. “Not done,” he murmured.

After a few minutes, he was hard again inside you. He lifted you off him, turned you around, and pushed you down on your hands and knees on the rug. He knelt behind you and pushed back in, one hand on your hip, the other coming down in a sharp crack on your ass.

“You made me so angry,” he said, fucking you hard and fast in this new position, spanking you with every few thrusts. “So scared.”

“I’m sorry, daddy, I’m sorry!” you cried, pushing back against him, the overstimulation already making you feel dizzy.

“You’ll be sorrier,” he promised. He fucked you until you came again, a weaker, shaky orgasm that had you squirting all over his cock and the rug below. He followed soon after, groaning as he filled you with another hot rush of cum.

He still didn’t stop. He carried you to the bed. Laid you on your back. Pushed your legs up and apart and sank into you again. This time it was slower, deeper, more intense. He watched your face as he moved, his expression a mix of anger, fondness, and raw lust. “My silly girl. My brat. Mine.”

He made you come again, his thumb on your clit, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside. You squirted again, the fluid soaking the sheets. He came a third time, his thrusts becoming ragged, his release feeling endless as he pumped it into your already overflowing pussy.

When he finally, finally pulled out, you were a boneless, trembling, sobbing mess. You were sore, overstimulated, and filled to the brim with him. He collapsed beside you, breathing heavily.

After a moment, he propped himself up on an elbow. He looked down at your pussy, glistening with your combined releases, his cum already starting to leak out. He slid two fingers back inside you, easily, because you were so open and used.

You whined weakly, too sensitive, trying to close your legs. “N-no more, daddy… please…”

“Shhh,” he soothed, but he kept fingering you slowly, watching his fingers move in and out of your slick, stretched entrance. “Just making sure you remember. All night. Every time you move tomorrow, you’ll feel me. You’ll feel how much I came inside you.”

You whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut. You were on the very edge of consciousness, exhausted from crying and coming and squirting so many times.

He pulled his fingers out, leaned down, and kissed your forehead. “Go to sleep, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

And as you drifted off, the last thing you felt was him pulling the covers over you, his big, warm body curling around yours, keeping you safe.

(the full version contains you finding out you're pregnant, you telling your father and jungkook showing you how much he'll love your growing body)

The air in your shitty studio apartment smells like ramen and defeat. You stare at your laptop screen, the numbers in your bank account mocking you. Rent’s due in a week. Your part-time job at the campus café barely covers groceries, let alone textbooks. You’ve sold what you can. You’ve cut every corner. A cold, slick feeling of panic coils in your gut. There’s one option left, the nuclear one, the one that makes your skin crawl even as you type the URL into your browser.

OnlyFans.

It’s stupid. It’s reckless. But it’s also money. Fast money. You set rules for yourself immediately: a mask, always. The camera stays below the neck. No face, ever. You’ll just… show off a little. It’s just your body. You have a nice body. You’ve been told that. You have tits that are a good handful, a waist that curves in just right. It’s an asset. You’re just leveraging an asset.

The first stream is a shaky, humiliating ordeal. Your hands tremble as you adjust the webcam. You’re wearing a simple black lace bra you bought on sale, the only nice one you own. The viewer count hovers at a pathetic ‘3’. You talk about your day, about the stupid assignment Professor Kim gave, your voice thin and nervous. You don’t even mention your bra until twenty minutes in, and even then it’s a mumbled, “So, uh, this is what I’m wearing.” One viewer leaves. You feel like crying. Then, a notification pops up.

ian_ has tipped $100.

Your breath hitches. A hundred dollars? Just like that? You wait for the demand, for the creepy request. The chat box lights up.

ian_: you look pretty.

That’s it. No ‘show me your pussy’, no ‘take it off’. Just… pretty. A weird warmth, completely separate from the shame, spreads through your chest. “Thank you,” you whisper into the mic, your voice a little more solid. “That’s… really kind.”

That becomes the pattern. You stream a few times a week, sitting in your bed, in your bras. You get bolder, teasing, running your fingers along the lace edges, tracing the swell of your breasts. You never take it off. And ian_ is always there, tipping you fifty, a hundred, sometimes just ten dollars with a simple ‘hi’ or ‘you have a nice laugh’. He never asks for more. He makes you feel… seen, but not exposed. It’s confusing.

Meanwhile, your real life gets more confusing too. Specifically, the part of your real life occupied by Jeon Jungkook.

You’ve known him forever. Annoying neighbor kid who’d pull your pigtails and put bugs in your backpack. Then he moved away, and you thought you were free. Nope. First day of university, there he is, in your Introduction to Political Science lecture, smirking at you from across the room. Three years later, you’re in the same friend group—a fact that still baffles you—and your constant bickering has mellowed into a rhythm of sharp-tongued banter. Your friends call it flirting. You call it a chronic irritation. Jungkook usually responds to the ‘flirting’ accusations by playfully smacking your friend Taehyung’s head. You just scoff. You and Jungkook? Please.

But lately, something’s shifted. The bickering has dwindled. Now, you catch him staring. Not with his usual competitive glint, but with a heavy, unreadable look. Like in the library today, his eyes locked on your shoulder, of all places. You were wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater.

“What?” you snapped, self-conscious. “Is there something on me?”

He blinked, jerked his gaze to yours, and the familiar smirk was back, but it looked forced. “Just wondering how you manage to dress like that and still have the brain cells to argue with me about economic policy.”

“My wardrobe has more range than your entire personality, Jungkook,” you fired back, but your heart wasn’t in it. He’d been blushing. Jungkook doesn’t blush.

And he’s been… weirdly protective. When your study group got too rowdy in the silent library, it was Jungkook who shushed them, his eyes finding yours. “Some of us are actually trying to work,” he’d said, but he was looking right at you.

Back in your apartment, buoyed by the steady, anonymous support of ian_, you feel a surge of confidence during a stream. The mask is secure on your face. You lean into the camera, your cleavage prominent in a deep red bra.

“You know,” you murmur, your voice taking on the sultry tone you’ve practiced, “I’ve been thinking… maybe you’d like to see a little more tonight.” The chat erupts with ‘YES’ and ‘PLEASE’. You bite your lip, playing it up. “Should I? Should I show you my tits?”

The notification flashes instantly, dominating your screen.

ian_ has tipped $500.

Your eyes go wide. Five hundred dollars. That’s… that’s your rent. Before you can even thank him, a message follows.

ian_: you don’t have to force yourself. i like you just like this.

The warmth from before floods you, intense and overwhelming. This stranger, this ian_, sees you. He cares. “I’m not forcing myself,” you say, and you realize it’s mostly true. You feel powerful. “I’m wearing pasties. See? I’m comfortable. But… thank you. That’s so sweet.”

The dynamic solidifies. You tease, you play, you feel sexy and in control online. Offline, Jungkook’s intense stares and quiet actions fray your nerves. The two worlds feel galaxies apart.

Until they collide.

You’re in the university library, tucked into a deep carrel. You’d just uploaded a few spicy, but non-revealing, photos to your OnlyFans feed—a shot of your lips biting a strawberry, a picture of your bare shoulders and collarbones still damp from a shower. You’re scrolling through the comments, a small smile on your face, when you hear a distinct, soft ping from the table next to you.

You glance over. Jungkook is there, headphones on, textbooks sprawled. His phone, face-up on the table, lights up with a notification. Your blood turns to ice.

It’s a notification from the OnlyFans app. And the preview text clearly shows your creator username.

Time stops. The hum of the library fades into a roaring silence in your ears. Your stomach plummets through the floor. No. No, no, no, no.

Before rational thought can intervene, before fear can paralyze you, a white-hot bolt of rage takes over. You’re out of your seat, your hand clamping around Jungkook’s wrist like a vice. He jumps, startled, pulling one headphone away.

“What the—?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, your voice low and venomous. You drag him, stumbling, out of the study area, down a narrow aisle of old periodicals, to the very back of the library where no one ever goes. The air is thick with the smell of dust and old paper.

You shove him against a metal shelf. “You,” you seethe, your chest heaving. “You pervert.”

Jungkook’s initial shock morphs into a guarded stillness. His eyes, usually so bright and teasing, are dark, unreadable.

“What are you talking about?” he says, but his voice lacks its usual confidence.

“Don’t you fucking play dumb with me!” You’re almost shaking. “Your phone! I saw it! You’re subscribed to me! You’ve been watching me? Tipping me? What the fuck, Jungkook? Is this some fucking joke to you?” The humiliation burns, hotter than the anger. “Are you showing my videos to everyone? To Taehyung? To Jimin? Oh my god.” The rage suddenly cracks, and raw, cold fear seeps in. Your voice drops to a terrified whisper. “You’re going to ruin me.”

That’s what breaks his silence. His expression, which had been closed off, shatters into something pained, urgent. “No,” he says, firm and immediate. He reaches for you, but you flinch back. He drops his hands. “Y/N, no. Look at me. No one knows. I would never—I could never hurt you like that. Never.”

The sincerity in his voice is a physical thing, a wall against your panic. You stare at him, your breath coming in short gasps. The fear is still there, but the edge of the hysteria blunts.

“Why?” is all you can manage to choke out. “Why would you do this? To mock me? To hold it over me?”

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, looking more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him. He’s blushing again, a deep red creeping up his neck. “I recognized you,” he admits, his voice rough. “The first stream. You leaned forward to adjust the lamp, and your sweater slipped. There’s a mole. Right here.” His finger hovers near your shoulder, not touching. “On your left shoulder. I’ve known that mole since we were twelve.”

You instinctively clutch at your shoulder, as if you can hide it.

“I tried to stop,” he continues, his gaze dropping to the floor before forcing itself back to yours. “I swear I did. But you… you were just so… you talk so sweetly on there. You’re so gentle with them. You have this little laugh when you get a donation that makes my chest feel tight. And I knew you were struggling. I heard you on the phone with your landlord last month in the hallway. I just… I wanted to help. Without making you feel like a charity case. Tipping you seemed… safe.”

The confession hangs in the dusty air. Your mind reels. All those tips, the kindness, the respect… it was Jungkook. Annoying, competitive, pigtail-pulling Jungkook.

“Prove it,” you hear yourself say, your voice steadier now, edged with a challenge. “Prove you’re not lying. Prove you haven’t told anyone.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He unlocks his phone, opens his messaging app, and hands it to you. It’s a chat thread with his best friend, Yoongi. You scroll up. Way up. Months back.

The messages are… staggering.

Jungkook: dude. i found her. she’s on OF.

Yoongi: who?

Jungkook: you don’t need to know. but she’s my girl.

Yoongi: …you’re a stalker.

Jungkook: SHUT UP. she’s wearing a mask but it’s her. i know it is. her voice. her laugh. fuck.

Jungkook: she just talked about having ramen for dinner again. she can’t keep eating that shit.

Jungkook: someone called her ‘babygirl’ in the chat and i almost threw my laptop. she’s not 

their babygirl.

Yoongi: you’re actually pathetic.

Jungkook: i know. but she’s so pretty. she sounds so tired today. i just sent her $100. told her she’s pretty.

Yoongi: you’re a lost cause.

Jungkook: i think i’m in love with her. i’ve always been in love with her.

On and on it goes. Pages of Jungkook ranting, worrying, simpering over you. Yoongi roasting him mercilessly. It’s so raw, so embarrassingly earnest. A laugh bubbles out of you, sharp and disbelieving. You look up at Jungkook. His face is crimson, his eyes squeezed shut as if in pain.

“You,” you giggle, the tension snapping. “You’re such a fucking loser. ‘My girl’? Really?”

He cracks one eye open. “Shut up,” he grumbles, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

“All this time,” you say, stepping closer, the phone forgotten in your hand. “All that money. Just because you have a crush?”

“Not a crush,” he corrects, his voice dropping, his eyes opening fully to lock onto yours. The vulnerability is gone, replaced by that familiar, intense heat, but now it’s directed, undisguised. “It’s never been just a crush.”

The air between you changes. It crackles, thick and charged. The fear, the anger, the humiliation—it all melts away, replaced by something else entirely. A reckless, pulsating curiosity. You’re holding his secret. He’s holding yours. You’re standing in a dark corner of a library, and the boy you’ve fought with for most of your life has been pouring his heart out over you for months.

A boldness, born from the persona you’ve cultivated online and the power of this revelation, surges through you. You look him up and down, a slow, deliberate smirk spreading across your face. “You know,” you say, your voice a low purr, “for someone who’s been watching me for so long, you’ve been surprisingly… gentle. All that tipping. All those sweet comments.” You take the final step, closing the distance until you’re a breath away. Your hand, of its own volition, drifts down between his legs, palm pressing firmly against the hard bulge straining against his jeans. “Is that all you are, Jungkook? Soft?”

He groans, a deep, ragged sound that seems to be torn from his chest. His hips jerk involuntarily into your touch. His hands fly up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his eyes blazing.

“Prove it,” you whisper, taunting him. “Prove you’re not all talk.”

That’s all the invitation he needs. He crashes his lips onto yours. It’s not a soft, exploratory kiss. It’s all-consuming hunger. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips to claim you. You kiss him back with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He tastes like mint and coffee and pure, unadulterated Jungkook. He breaks from your lips to trail desperate, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, until his teeth find that mole on your shoulder. He bites down, not enough to break skin, but enough to make you cry out and arch into him.

“Your tits,” he pants against your skin, his hands sliding down to palm you through your thin sweater. “God, they’re so fucking perfect. I’ve wanted to see them, touch them, for so fucking long. The fucking pasties, Y/N, you were killing me.”

A thrill shoots through you. “You want to see?” you taunt, breathless. “You’ve seen so much of me for free, Jungkook. Seems unfair.”

He pulls back, his eyes wild. “What do you want?”

You look pointedly at the prominent erection tenting his pants. “Show me yours.”

A wicked, shameless grin spreads across his face. That’s the Jungkook you know. Cocky. Confident. Without a shred of hesitation, he works the button and zip of his jeans, pushing them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs out, thick and hard, the tip already glistening. Your mouth waters. You’ve seen cocks on your streams, in comments, but this is real. This is his.

“Happy?” he rasps, his hand wrapping around the base, giving himself a slow stroke. His eyes never leave yours.

“It’ll do,” you say with a feigned nonchalance that makes him laugh, a dark, sexy sound. You reach out, wrapping your fingers around him, mirroring his grip. He’s hot and heavy in your hand, silken skin over iron-hard flesh. You stroke him, twisting your wrist on the upstroke the way you’ve read about. His head falls back against the bookshelf with a soft thud, a guttural groan escaping him.

“Fuck, just like that,” he encourages, his hips pushing into your fist. “You’re such a quick learner, you little cockslut.”

The filthy word sends a jolt of pure arousal straight to your core. You’re soaking through your panties. “You like that?” you murmur, speeding up your strokes. “You like me touching your big cock after watching me for so long? Bet you jerked off to me, didn’t you? Bet you came thinking about my tits.”

“Every fucking night,” he admits, his voice strained. His hands leave your face to grab your waist, pulling you flush against him so your clothed heat grinds against his thigh. “Thought about these hands on me. Thought about this mouth.” He kisses you again, deep and dirty. “Need to be inside you, Y/N. Now. Can’t wait.”

The need in his voice mirrors your own. You’re throbbing, empty, desperate. “Then fuck me,” you demand against his lips. “Since you’ve been such a good boy.”

He curses, a string of profanity that would make a sailor blush. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he growls, spinning you around with surprising ease. Your hands fly out, bracing against the cold metal shelf. Behind you, you hear the rustle of his jeans, the tear of a foil packet—he came prepared, the bastard—and then the slick sound of him rolling a condom on.

His body presses against your back, his heat enveloping you. One hand snakes around to cup your breast, squeezing hard, while the other pushes your skirt up and your panties aside. “Since when,” he whispers hotly in your ear, his cockhead nudging against your soaked entrance, “did my sweet, bratty little neighbor turn into such a fucking needy slut?”

You push back against him, a wordless plea. “You don’t know the half of it,” you smirk, looking over your shoulder.

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers by slamming into you in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream, the sound muffled as you bite his arm. He’s big, so much bigger than you imagined, stretching you impossibly full. There’s a sharp burn that quickly melts into a flood of overwhelming pleasure. “Jungkook!” you wail.

“That’s it, say my name,” he grunts, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in, setting a punishing, deep rhythm right from the start. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, sure to leave bruises. “Fuck, you’re tight. So fucking perfect for me. My perfect little whore.”

Each thrust rocks you into the bookshelf. The metal rattles softly. Someone could walk by. Someone could hear. The danger only fuels the fire. He leans over you, his chest against your back, his mouth finding your neck again. He sucks hard, marking you, claiming you. You know there will be a dark purple bruise there tomorrow. The thought makes you clench around him.

“Shit, you’re gonna milk me dry,” he moans, his rhythm faltering for a second. One of his hands leaves your hip and finds its way under your sweater, under your bra, pinching your nipple roughly between his fingers. You cry out, the mix of pain and pleasure sending shockwaves through your system.

“Harder,” you beg, your own voice foreign to you, thick with lust. “Don’t you fucking dare hold back on me now.”

He laughs, a breathless, exhilarated sound. “Bossy fucking thing.” He nips at your earlobe. “You want it harder? You want me to fuck you like the desperate little fucktoy you are?”

“Yes! God, yes, Jungkook, please!”

He obliges. His thrusts become harder, faster, more frantic. The shelf rattles louder. Books tremble. His fingers on your nipple twist and pull. His teeth scrape along your shoulder. You’re a mess of sensation, of filthy words and animalistic grunts. You feel the coil in your belly tightening, winding to an impossible degree. You’re babbling, begging, chanting his name like a prayer.

“I’m gonna come,” you sob, your legs shaking. “Jungkook, I’m gonna—”

“Come for me, darling,” he commands, his voice ragged with his own impending release. “Soak my cock. Let me feel it.”

It’s the ‘darling’ that does it. The unexpected tenderness amidst the filth. Your orgasm erupts, violent and all-consuming. You scream, your vision whiting out as you convulse around him, a gush of wetness soaking both of you. The pleasure is so intense, so sharp, it steals the air from your lungs, the strength from your bones. Your legs buckle.

Jungkook holds you up, his arms like steel bands around you, fucking you through it, chasing his own peak. “That’s it, love, that’s it,” he grunts, his movements becoming erratic. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m—!”

With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you and stills. A long, broken groan is torn from his throat as he pulses within you, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades as he rides out his own climax.

For a moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing mingling with his, the smell of sex and dust, and the faint, distant sound of someone shuffling books a few aisles over.

You’re both slumped against the shelf, spent. He slowly pulls out, hissing at the sensitivity. He disposes of the condom and quickly tucks himself away before turning you around to face him. You’re a wreck. Your lips are swollen, your hair is mussed, your neck and shoulder are a map of red bites and darkening bruises. His aren’t much better; you can see the red marks of your nails on his neck where you gripped him.

He looks at you, his eyes soft, sated, full of a wonder that makes your heart clench. He leans in and kisses you, slow and deep and sweet, so at odds with the frantic fucking of moments before.

You break the kiss, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face as you catch your breath. You reach up and trace the bite mark on his neck. “You know,” you say, your voice hoarse, “my engagement’s been dropping lately. Could use a boost.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Think you’d be up for a… guest appearance sometime?” You let your hand drift down his chest. “My viewers would love you. They’ve been asking for a male voice.”

He throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and full and happy. He pulls you into his arms, holding you close. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice laced with pure adoration. “And yes. Fuck yes. Anything you want.”

He kisses your temple. You stand there in the silent, dusty library, wrapped up in the boy who was your rival, your secret admirer, and now, very clearly, something much more.

(the full version contains jungkook participating in your OF stream, face fucking you, spanking you and then making you squirt multiple times before giving you aftercare)