𝓇𝒾𝑒 ۫ ꣑ৎ

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x f!Reader (enemies/rivals to lovers, fake dating)

⋆˚࿔ Genre: Smut (18+), Enemies with Tension, Fake Dating, Revenge, Jealousy, Porn with (some) Plot, Mutual Pining & Pettiness

⋆˚࿔ Rating: Explicit / 18+ / MDNI

⋆˚࿔ Word Count: ~9k words

⋆˚࿔ Summary: You hate Jeon Jungkook. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself every time he smirks, crowds your space, or flexes those stupid inked arms. He’s been begging for your best friend’s number for months, and you’ve blocked him every single time. Until your ex starts parading his new girlfriend at the annual group beach trip and you decide petty revenge is worth swallowing your pride. Fake date Jungkook for three days—let him grope, kiss, and claim you in front of everyone. In return? One unblocked number and one shot at your best friend. What could go wrong? Thin walls, shortest bikinis, performative moans, pool grinding, and three nights of escalating torture later… the “fake” part is the first thing to break.

⋆˚࿔ Warnings & Tags: explicit sexual content • heavy smut • enemies to lovers • fake dating • revenge sex • jealousy/possessiveness • sexual tension buildup • public teasing/PDA • pool grinding • dry humping • performative masturbation/fake sex noises • thin walls voyeurism • mutual edging/teasing • bathroom jerk-off scene • rough sex • multiple positions • multiple orgasms • overstimulation • dirty talk (degradation + praise mix) • spanking • choking (light) • hair pulling • marking/hickeys • creampie • unprotected sex • brat taming vibes • possessive behavior • no actual cheating but heavy ex-related jealousy trigger • car sex tease (dry humping + mutual masturbation)

Jungkook had been gunning for your best friend’s number since the night she laughed too hard at one of his dumb jokes and accidentally touched his arm. Four months of him cornering you at every group hangout—“Just give it to me, I’m not gonna ghost her”—and you blocking him every single time because you knew exactly how he operated: charm, sex, vanish. He never denied it either; he’d just shrug, smirk, and say, “Not my fault they catch feelings.” You weren’t about to let him add her to the list. Meanwhile your own mess was louder. Your ex—same friend group, same circles—had dumped you in the ugliest way possible six months back: public texts, half-assed apologies, then straight into someone new like you’d never happened. Everyone had warned you both from the start: dating inside the group was suicide. Egos too big, history too tangled, fallout too permanent. You’d rolled your eyes and said it’d be different. It wasn’t. Now every gathering felt like walking into a room where the air still remembered how he used to look at you, and he pretended it never happened.

The living room was already loud—someone blasting a playlist, bottles clinking, laughter cutting through the smoke haze. You stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching your ex lean into his new girlfriend on the couch like the rest of the group hadn’t spent two years pretending the three of you weren’t a walking disaster.

He hadn’t looked at you once tonight. Not even a pity glance. Just that easy arm around her shoulders, thumb rubbing circles on her bare skin the way he used to do to you.

You felt the familiar burn crawl up your throat. Petty didn’t even cover it anymore.

Jungkook was sprawled in the armchair across the room, black tee stretched over his shoulders, sleeves rolled to show the ink crawling up his forearms. He caught your stare and raised one pierced brow, slow smirk already forming like he knew exactly what was coming.

You didn’t give him time to speak first.

You crossed the room in six steps, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him up. He didn’t resist—just rose smoothly, towering now, that stupid amused glint in his eyes.

“Kitchen. Now.”

He followed without a word, hands in his pockets, boots scuffing the floor like he had all the time in the world.

The second the door swung shut behind you, you rounded on him.

“Fake date me for the beach trip.”

Jungkook’s head tilted. The smirk grew.

“Come again?”

“You heard me. three days. You act like my boyfriend. Touch me, kiss me, whatever it takes to make it look real. I want him to choke on it.”

He stepped closer. Not aggressive—just enough that you had to tip your chin up. You hated how aware you were of the heat rolling off him, the faint cedar-and-smoke scent that always seemed to cling to his skin.

“And what exactly do I get out of playing your little revenge boyfriend, princess?”

You already knew what he’d ask for. You’d been rehearsing this in your head for three days.

“Her number. No more blocking. You get one clean shot.”

His eyes darkened instantly. Victory. Not for you—for her. The way his jaw flexed, the way his gaze sharpened, told you everything. He wasn’t here negotiating because he gave a shit about your pride or your ex. He was here for the green light he’d been chasing for months.

You swallowed the tiny, stupid sting of it. Yeah, you’d noticed him before—the way his hands flexed around a beer bottle, the low rasp when he laughed at something dirty, the deliberate way he’d lean too close just to watch you bristle. Your body reacted even when your brain screamed shut the fuck up. But it was nothing. A flicker. Barely there. You could hate him and still feel your pulse jump when he got in your space. Didn’t mean anything.

“You serious?” he asked, voice low.

“Dead serious. But listen carefully—” You jabbed a finger into his chest. “If you so much as make her cry, I will ruin you. I will tell her every single thing you’ve ever said about girls in front of me. I will screenshot every disgusting group chat. I will make sure she never looks at you again. Clear?”

Jungkook studied you for a long second. Then he laughed—low, rough, the sound vibrating through the tiny space between you.

“You really think I need to blackmail someone into giving me a number?”

“I think you’ve been trying for four months and failing because I keep saying no. So yeah. I think you do.”

He stepped even closer. Your back hit the counter. His hands braced on either side of your hips—caging without touching.

“You’re offering me a straight shot at your best friend… in exchange for me pretending I can stand you for three days?”

“Exactly. And you have to sell it. No half-assing. No smirking like you’re doing me a favor. If we’re doing this, we do it right.”

He looked down at your mouth, then back up. Voice dropped.

“You gonna let me touch you in front of everyone? Gonna let me kiss you when he’s watching?”

Your pulse slammed against your throat. You forced your voice steady.

“Within reason. Nothing that makes me look desperate.”

“Reason,” he repeated, mocking. “Right. So I can put my hand on your thigh under the table. Pull you onto my lap by the fire. Kiss your neck when you’re pretending to ignore me. That kind of reasonable?”

Heat flooded your face. You hated him for saying it out loud—and hated yourself for the way your thighs pressed together.

“Yes. That kind.”

Jungkook’s gaze flicked over your features like he was cataloging every crack in your armor.

“You hate me that much you’d rather fake it with me than show up alone?”

“I don’t hate you. I just know exactly what you are.”

“And what’s that?”

“A walking red flag with nice arms and zero follow-through.”

He grinned—full, dangerous.

“You’ve been looking at my arms, huh?”

“Shut up.”

He leaned in until his mouth was right beside your ear. His breath was warm. You felt the faint brush of his lips when he spoke.

“Deal.”

Before you could pull back he wrapped one arm around your waist and yanked you flush against him.

Hard chest. Solid. His heartbeat thumped against your tits through the thin fabric of your top. His cock—half-hard already—pressed into your stomach like a threat. His cologne hit you like a slap: cedar, smoke, something darker underneath.

You froze.

He dipped his head, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“three days, princess. You’re mine in front of everyone. No backing out. No bitching when I get handsy. And when it’s over… I get her number. No games.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt. You meant to shove him. You didn’t.

“Fine. But if you cross a line—”

“I won’t.” His voice was quieter now. Almost serious. “not with you,with her maybe”

You swallowed. His grip tightened for half a second—like he felt the hitch in your breath—then loosened.

You shoved him back. Hard.

He let you. Stepped away with that same lazy smirk, adjusting himself through his jeans without shame.

“Get the fuck off me, asshole.”

“You’re the one who pulled me in here, remember?”

“I’m serious, Jungkook. This is fake. Don’t get it twisted.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, rings glinting under the kitchen light.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But the way he looked at you—like he’d already won something you didn’t even know you were betting—made your thighs clench.

You turned toward the door.

“Pack light. I’m not carrying your shit.”

He laughed again. Low. Private.

“Yes ma’am.”

You flipped him off over your shoulder and walked out before he could see how badly your hands were shaking.

Behind you, the door clicked shut.

In the living room your ex was still laughing with his girlfriend. The sound grated like nails.

Jungkook came out a minute later, grabbed a beer from the fridge, cracked it open, and dropped onto the couch right beside you.

Close.

Too close.

His thigh pressed against yours.

You didn’t move.

He leaned back, arm stretching along the back of the couch—fingers brushing the nape of your neck like it was nothing.

Across the room your ex finally looked over.

His smile faltered for half a second.

Jungkook noticed.

He turned his head, met your eyes, and very slowly—deliberately—leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Not deep. Not obscene.

Just enough.

You felt the room shift.

Felt eyes on you.

Felt Jungkook’s fingers tighten on your neck for one heartbeat before he pulled back.

“Ready for the beach, baby?” he murmured. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

Your heart slammed so hard you were sure he could feel it.

You forced a smile. Sharp. Dangerous.

“Born ready, asshole.”

The drive down had been three hours of tension wrapped in leather seats and bass-heavy playlists. Jungkook’s Tesla hummed quietly under you both—no engine roar, just smooth electric glide and the occasional ping of his phone lighting up with messages he ignored. You’d sat shotgun in cutoff denim and the tiniest black bikini top you owned, strings knotted so tight they dug into your skin, bottoms riding high enough that every bump in the road reminded you how exposed you were. He’d kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the gear selector, rings catching sunlight. Every time you shifted, his eyes flicked over—quick, deliberate, like he was cataloging.

“You trying to kill him or me?” he’d asked once, voice lazy over the music.

“Him. Obviously.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

He hadn’t pushed further. Just smirked and turned the AC colder until your nipples peaked against the thin fabric. You’d crossed your arms and stared out the window the rest of the way.

Now the beach house smelled like salt and sunscreen and someone else’s weed. The group had already claimed the deck—cooler open, music thumping, laughter rolling over the crash of waves. Your ex was there, shirtless, new girlfriend perched on his lap in a pastel one-piece, his hand splayed possessively across her stomach. He hadn’t even looked up when you walked in. Not a flicker. Just kept talking low in her ear, making her giggle.

It burned worse than sunburn.

You didn’t wait. Grabbed Jungkook’s wrist—inked, warm, veins standing out—and pulled him through the sliding doors, down the hall, into the room you’d been assigned. One queen bed. One. Paper-thin walls shared with your ex’s room on the other side. Perfect.

You kicked the door shut and flipped the lock. The click sounded too loud.

Jungkook leaned back against it, arms crossed, watching you like you were a show he’d paid for.

You turned, hands on hips, bikini strings shifting with every breath.

“Rules.”

He lifted one brow.

“Act obsessed. Touch me, kiss me, grope me—whatever sells it. Make it look like you can’t keep your hands off me. But behave. Three days. Then you go chase whoever you want.”

He pushed off the door in one smooth motion. Closed the distance until your back hit the dresser. His hands found your bare waist—hard grip, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath catch. His thumb slid deliberately under the thin string at your hip, tugging it lightly, letting it snap back against your skin.

“Behave?” His voice dropped low, mocking. “You’re standing here basically naked, begging for dick with your eyes, and you want me to behave?”

Your clit pulsed. You clenched hard—thighs pressing together—but forced your face to stay sharp.

“I’m serious, Jungkook.”

“So am I.” He leaned in, mouth hovering near your ear. Breath warm. “You think this is hard for me? Pretending I want you? Please. I’ve been waiting months for a clear shot at her. Three days of this—” His hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your tit, not quite touching nipple. “—and then I get to fuck your best friend without you cockblocking me every five seconds? That’s not a chore. That’s a fucking reward.”

You swallowed. Hated how your body reacted—how the casual cruelty of it made heat pool low in your stomach.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re wet already.” He didn’t touch between your legs—just let his fingers trace the edge of the bikini bottom, slow, taunting. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll play the part. I’ll make him think I’m obsessed. I’ll pin you against every wall in this house if that’s what it takes. But let’s be real—” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. Dark. Amused. “You’re the one who’s gonna have trouble remembering this is fake.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later. Maybe.” He smirked, finally stepping back, but not before giving your hip one last possessive squeeze. “For now, let’s go give your ex something to stare at.”

You exhaled hard through your nose. Adjusted the strings that had shifted under his grip. Your skin still burned where he’d touched.

“You touch me like that in front of everyone and I’ll knee you in the balls.”

“You’d have to get close enough first.” He opened the door, held it for you like a gentleman. “After you, baby.”

You walked past him, shoulder brushing his chest on purpose. Felt him chuckle under his breath.

Outside, the deck was still loud. Your ex finally looked up—eyes sliding over you, then over Jungkook standing close behind, hand already settling low on your back, fingers splayed across bare skin.

His jaw ticked. Just once.

Jungkook noticed.

He leaned down, lips brushing your temple in a kiss that looked soft from a distance but felt like a brand.

“Smile, princess,” he murmured against your skin. “Showtime.”

You forced a grin. Sharp. Dangerous.

Inside, your pulse hammered.

Three days.

You could survive three days.

The pool deck smelled like chlorine, charcoal smoke, and coconut oil. Speakers thumped low bass under the late-afternoon sun. Everyone was half-drunk already—beers sweating in koozies, laughter sharp over the sizzle of burgers on the grill. Your ex sat on a lounger with his girlfriend between his legs, her back to his chest, his chin hooked over her shoulder while he scrolled his phone. He’d glanced your way once when you walked out in the black strings, eyes sliding down and away like you were background noise.

Jungkook hadn’t said a word about it. Just handed you a fresh beer from the cooler, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary, then steered you toward the edge of the pool with a hand low on your spine.

You played along. Laughed too loud at his jokes, leaned into his side, let your fingers trail down his inked forearm when he spoke. The group ate it up—someone whistled, another yelled “get a room”—but your ex stayed focused on his phone. The indifference cut deeper than any stare.

Then Jungkook moved.

One second you were standing beside him; the next he hooked an arm around your waist and yanked you backward onto his lap. No warning. No hesitation. His thick thighs spread yours open as you landed straddling one of them, the hard muscle pressing right against your soaked center through the thin bikini fabric. Your breath punched out.

He settled back against the lounger like it was the most natural thing in the world, one arm banding across your stomach to keep you pinned, the other resting casually on your thigh. Fingers splayed wide. High enough that his thumb grazed the crease where leg met hip.

You wrapped both arms around his neck to steady yourself, nails digging lightly into the short hairs at his nape. Leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.

“You’re pushing it.”

“You’re dripping on my leg already,” he murmured back, voice so low only you could hear. “Feels like you’re the one pushing.”

You shifted—subtle grind, just enough to drag your clit along the ridge of his thigh. Heat shot straight through you. His grip tightened on your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. You felt him thicken beneath you—cock swelling against your ass through his trunks—but his face stayed lazy. That same infuriating smirk, eyes half-lidded like he was bored.

“Three days of this,” he said quietly, lips barely moving against your temple, “and I get to bury myself in someone who actually wants it. Worth every second of playing house with you.”

You clenched around nothing. Hated how the words landed—crude, casual, aimed like a blade. Hated more how your body responded anyway.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll make sure she sees every screenshot first.”

He chuckled. Low. Private. Hand slid higher up your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you ached most.

“You won’t. You want this too bad.”

Across the pool your ex finally looked over. Watched. Jaw tight. Then turned back to his girlfriend like it didn’t matter.

Jungkook noticed. His thumb stroked once—slow, deliberate—along the edge of your bikini bottom.

“He’s looking now. Smile for him.”

You forced a grin. Tilted your head back against Jungkook’s shoulder. Let your hips roll again, slower this time. His cock jerked under you. He didn’t react outwardly—just squeezed your hip harder, like a warning.

Later, when the sun dipped lower and skin started to pink, he stood and tugged you up with him.

“Sunscreen,” he announced to no one in particular. Grabbed the bottle from the table. “Can’t have my girl burning.”

He sat on the edge of a lounger and pulled you between his spread thighs, facing away. Everyone was watching now—casual glances turning curious. Your ex included.

Jungkook squirted lotion into his palm. Warm hands hit your shoulders first—slow circles, working down your spine. Fingers slipped under the thin ties at your back, tugging them just enough to loosen without untying. Knuckles grazed the sides of your tits as he spread the lotion higher. Thumbs brushed the outer curve, then—deliberately—dragged across your nipples. “Accidentally.” They were already hard. The contact sent a jolt straight to your clit.

You arched. Couldn’t help it. Bit your lip so hard you tasted copper to keep the sound inside.

He leaned forward, chest to your back, mouth at your ear.

“You’re shaking.”

“Shut up.”

“Gonna come just from this? Pathetic.” His voice stayed even, amused. “Imagine how easy the next part will be. Few more days and I’m balls-deep in someone who doesn’t fight it every step.”

You clenched again. Felt the slick slide between your thighs, soaking through the bikini. His erection pressed insistently against your lower back now—rock-hard, unashamed—but he kept rubbing lotion like it was routine. Thumbs circled your nipples once more. Slow. Firm.

A tiny whimper escaped before you could stop it.

He pinched lightly—sharp enough to make you gasp—then smoothed it over like nothing happened.

“Good girl,” he whispered. Just for you. “Keep it together. We’ve got an audience.”

You turned your head slightly. Caught your ex staring. Eyes dark. Hand frozen on his girlfriend’s thigh.

Jungkook’s fingers dipped lower, tracing the dip of your waist, then back up. Every brush felt electric. Your clit throbbed in time with your pulse.

“Three days,” he reminded you quietly. “Then I’m done pretending. And you’ll still be wet thinking about it.”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned back into him harder. Let him feel how badly you hated that he was right.

The house settled into that heavy coastal quiet after dark—waves distant, crickets loud, everyone drunk enough to crash fast. Except next door.

It started soft: her giggle, muffled through the drywall. Then his low murmur, the kind he used to save for late nights when he thought you were asleep. Bedframe tapped once, twice. Then rhythmic. Steady. Her moans filtered through—high, performative, the exact pitch that used to make you roll your eyes when it was you under him.

Now it just made your stomach twist.

You sat up in the dark, sheets tangled around your legs. Jungkook was already awake on his side of the bed, back to you, scrolling his phone with the screen dimmed. He hadn’t said much since the pool—just stripped to sweatpants and collapsed face-down like the performance had drained him.

The creaking picked up speed. A slap of skin. Her gasp. His grunt.

You snapped.

You slid out of bed, bare feet silent on the cool floor. Dug through your bag, pulled out the silk slip you’d packed on a petty whim—black, thin as tissue, no bra, hem skimming the very top of your thighs. You slipped it over your head. Fabric whispered against skin. Nipples peaked instantly against the cool air and the sheer material. No panties either. Why bother?

You climbed onto the bed, straddling the edge closest to the shared wall. Knelt up, hands braced on the headboard. Gave it one experimental tap—light, testing. The wood thudded softly against the wall.

Then you started.

Breathy at first. Soft enough to build.

“Jungkook…”

Louder.

“Harder… yes, fuck, right there…”

You rolled your hips slow, deliberate—mimicking the motion, ass arching, silk riding up to bare everything below the waist. Headboard knocked again, steadier now. You let your voice break on his name, drawn out, filthy.

“Oh god… Jungkook, don’t stop…”

Across the room he froze. Mid-scroll. Phone screen lighting the sharp line of his jaw. Shirtless, sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips, the deep V of his pelvis disappearing under gray cotton. Tattoos gleamed under the faint hallway light leaking through the door crack—ink crawling over his shoulder, down his ribs, abs tight and shadowed.

He turned his head slowly.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?”

Voice rough. Low. Dangerous.

You glanced over your shoulder, hair falling across one eye. Smirked.

“Selling it. Thin walls, remember?”

You arched harder. Pushed your chest forward so the silk pulled taut across your nipples—dark peaks visible, obscene. Rolled your hips again, grinding air like you were riding him deep. Moaned louder.

“Yes… fuck me like that… Jungkook…”

His eyes dropped to where the slip barely covered you—ass out, thighs parted, the shadowed line between them slick even in the dark. His throat worked. Cock twitched visibly, thickening fast behind the thin fabric until it tented straight up, head outlined, straining.

He threw a pillow at you. Hard. It hit your shoulder.

“You’re fucking insane.”

But he didn’t move to stop you.

Didn’t look away.

Jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. Breathing heavy now—chest rising and falling faster than before. One hand fisted the sheet beside his hip. The other hovered near his waistband like he was fighting not to touch himself.

Next door the rhythm faltered. Slowed. Like they were listening.

You smiled wider. Banged the headboard again—three sharp knocks.

“Right there… fuck, you feel so good…”

You dragged the words out, voice wrecked on purpose. Let your head tip back, throat exposed, lips parted. Rolled your hips in slow circles, thighs trembling from the strain of holding the position.

Jungkook’s eyes were black now. Pupils blown. He shifted—once—trying to ease the pressure in his sweats. Didn’t work. The outline only got clearer, thicker. A wet spot darkened the gray at the tip.

“Keep going,” he said finally. Voice gravel. “See if he can fuck her through the noise you’re making.”

You laughed—breathless, mean.

“Jealous?”

“Of him?” He snorted. But his hand finally moved—dragged slow across his abs, down to palm himself through the fabric. Not stroking. Just holding. Pressing. “Nah. Just thinking how easy the payoff’s gonna be.”

You clenched at the words. Felt the slick slide between your thighs. Kept moving anyway.

“Then enjoy the preview, asshole.”

You slammed the headboard harder. Moaned his name like a curse.

“Jungkook… coming… fuck—”

Next door went quiet. Dead silent.

Jungkook’s grip on himself tightened. Knuckles white.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just watched.

Breathing ragged.

Cock throbbing visibly against his palm.

You held his stare over your shoulder. Let the silence stretch. Let the fake moans fade into heavy breaths.

Then you dropped forward onto your forearms—ass still up, silk bunched at your waist, everything on display.

“Your move” you whispered.

He didn’t move.

But he didn’t look away either.

The pool water was still cool from the morning, sun high and merciless, turning everything gold and glaring. The group had claimed the shallow end—floaties drifting, beers floating in a net, someone blasting reggaeton that pulsed under the surface. Your ex was on a raft with his girlfriend, her legs wrapped around his waist while he paddled lazily, both of them laughing at nothing. He hadn’t looked your way once since breakfast. Not even when you walked out in the same black strings, nipples already tight from the breeze.

Jungkook was already in the water when you slid in—back against the wall, arms spread along the edge, tattoos dark against wet skin. He watched you approach without moving, eyes half-lidded, water dripping from his hair down the line of his throat.

You didn’t hesitate.

Wrapped your legs around his waist the second you were close enough. Ankles locked at his lower back. Arms looped around his neck. Pulled yourself flush until your chest pressed to his, clit settling right against the hard cut of his abs through the thin barrier of your bikini bottoms and his trunks.

You rolled your hips once—slow, deliberate. Dragged yourself along the ridges of muscle. Friction immediate. Electric. Your breath hitched.

He didn’t flinch. Just let his hands slide under the water to grip your ass—fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, spreading you wider against him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Low. Rough. Meant only for you.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice pitched breathy and wrecked.

“Fuck me like you hate me, Kook… ruin me…”

You ground down harder. Clit catching on every defined line of his stomach. Soaked through already—bikini useless, slick sliding between you both. You were aching, swollen, so close just from the slow drag that your thighs trembled around him.

His grip tightened. Knuckles white against your flesh. He tilted his head so his mouth hovered at your temple.

“Keep humping me like a desperate little slut and see what fucking happens.”

The words landed like a slap. Your pussy clenched—hard, involuntary. You knew he didn’t mean it the way your body heard it. Knew this was still about the number. About winning your best friend after days of blue-balling himself for the performance. It stung—sharp and stupid—but the sting only made you grind slower. Deeper. Chasing the edge.

You rolled again. Moaned softly against his neck—fake enough to carry over the water, real enough to make your own clit throb.

“Harder… please… fuck—”

His fingers flexed. One slipped under the string at your hip, tugging it aside just enough that bare skin met bare skin for a heartbeat before he yanked it back. Teasing. Torturing.

“You’re dripping all over me,” he muttered. Voice gravel. “Gonna leave a mess on my abs for everyone to see?”

You arched. Pressed your tits harder against his chest. Felt his cock—thick, rigid—jutting up between you, trapped against your inner thigh. He was rock-hard. Had been since you climbed on. But his face stayed cool. That same infuriating smirk.

Across the pool your ex finally glanced over. Watched the way your hips moved under the water. The way Jungkook’s hands owned your ass. His jaw ticked. Then he turned back to his girlfriend, kissing her neck like it erased what he’d just seen.

Jungkook felt the shift. Leaned in closer.

“He’s watching now. Give him something to remember.”

You moaned louder—breathy, broken. Rolled your hips in tight circles. Clit grinding relentlessly. You were right there—teetering, thighs shaking, breath coming in short gasps.

“Gonna come… fuck, Kook—”

He growled low in his throat. Fingers digging deeper. Holding you exactly where the friction was worst.

“Do it. Come on my stomach like the needy little thing you are. Then maybe I’ll let you breathe.”

You shattered quietly—back arching, nails raking down his shoulders, a choked whimper swallowed against his neck. Waves of it rolled through you, pussy pulsing around nothing, slick flooding the space between you.

He didn’t move. Just held you through it. Breathing hard against your hair.

When you finally loosened your legs, he let you slide down until your feet touched the pool floor. His hands stayed on your hips—steadying, possessive.

“Good girl,” he said quietly. Mocking. “Two more days. Then I get what I actually want.”

The reminder hit like cold water. You shoved off him. Turned away before he could see the flush on your face wasn’t just from coming.

“Fuck you.”

“Soon,” he shot back. Low enough that only you heard.

You climbed out. Didn’t look back.

The second night hit different.

Next door didn’t even pretend to be subtle anymore. The giggles turned straight into gasps within minutes of lights-out. Then the headboard started—slow at first, then insistent, rhythmic, the kind of pace that says they’re not worried about noise. His low groan filtered through the drywall. Her name again. Sharp. Possessive.

You lasted maybe seven minutes flat before the burn in your chest turned into something hotter, meaner.

You didn’t bother with buildup this time.

Slipped the silk over your head in the dark—same slip, same nothing underneath. The fabric caught on damp skin as it slid down. You didn’t climb onto the bed. Didn’t bang the headboard.

You walked straight to the foot of it and stood there, facing him.

Jungkook was already sitting up, back against the headboard, knees bent, forearms resting loose on them. Shirtless. Sweats low. The hallway light from under the door carved sharp shadows across his abs, the ink on his ribs, the obvious bulge he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore. He’d been staring at the shared wall like it owed him money.

His eyes lifted when you stepped into the faint glow. Narrowed.

You didn’t say anything.

Just started.

Hips rolling in slow, filthy circles—like you were sinking down onto something thick and real. One hand trailed up your stomach, cupped your tit through the silk, thumb circling the nipple until it peaked harder. The other hand drifted lower. Fingers pressed flat against your clit over the soaked fabric. You rubbed—firm, steady circles, letting the wet sound carry.

Your voice came out wrecked on purpose.

“Jungkook… fuck… your cock feels so good inside me…”

You pinched your nipple harder. Let your head fall back a little. Moaned louder—drawn-out, pornographic, the kind of sound that bounces.

“Deeper… please… stretch me out…”

His breathing changed first. Sharper inhales. Chest rising faster.

You kept your eyes on him. Watched his jaw lock. Watched his fingers flex against his own thighs like he was holding himself back from lunging.

“Gonna cum so hard on you… all over your dick…”

You sped up the circles between your legs. Hips grinding into your hand. Silk clinging wetly now, outlining everything. Nipples dark and straining against the thin black.

He shifted once—small, restless. Cock jerked visibly under the sweats, head pushing at the waistband, a dark spot already spreading.

“What the actual fuck,” he rasped. Voice cracked open. “Are you trying to kill me?”

You smiled—slow, mean. Kept rubbing.

“Just giving him something to think about. You mad?”

His laugh was bitter. Short.

“Mad?” He dragged a hand down his face. “You’re standing there fingering yourself to my name while your ex fucks someone else five feet away. And you’re asking if I’m mad?”

You arched into your own touch. Let a real whimper slip—small, involuntary.

“Sounds like you’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” He leaned forward. Elbows on knees now. Eyes locked on where your fingers moved. “I’m sitting here with the hardest dick of my life because you won’t stop performing. But yeah—sure. Call it jealousy.”

You slowed your circles. Teased. Let the silence stretch except for the wet slide of your fingers and the muffled creak next door.

“Then do something about it.”

He stood so fast the bed groaned.

Two steps and he was in your space—close enough that his heat hit you like a wall. Cock straining obscenely between you, almost brushing your stomach through the fabric. He didn’t touch you. Just towered. Breathing ragged.

“You want me to snap?” Voice low. Dangerous. “Keep this up and tomorrow I won’t be faking shit anymore. I’ll bend you over every surface in this house and make you scream my name for real. See how funny it is then.”

Your thighs trembled. Pussy clenched around nothing.

He stepped back abruptly. Turned. Stormed into the bathroom.

Door slammed.

You stood frozen. Heart hammering. Fingers still between your legs—slow now, almost absent.

Then the sounds started.

Slick. Fast. Rough. His hand working himself like he hated it. Low curses—“shit… fuck…”—then your name, hissed through clenched teeth when he came. Sharp. Angry. Like it was ripped out of him.

Silence.

The door opened again.

He walked out slower. Face flushed. Hair sticking to his forehead. Still half-hard, sweats ruined. Eyes dark, dangerous, locked on you like prey.

He stopped a foot away.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “You push me one more time. I stop playing nice. Understand?”

You swallowed. Throat dry.

Didn’t answer.

He climbed back into bed. Turned his back.

You stood there another minute—silk clinging, thighs slick, body screaming.

Then you slid under the covers. Didn’t touch him.

Didn’t sleep.

Just lay there in the dark, replaying the sound of your name on his lips when he broke.

And waited for tomorrow.

The last full day felt like walking around with a live current running under your skin. Every glance, every brush, every second of eye contact carried too much weight now. The performance had stopped being performance somewhere between the pool yesterday and the bathroom door slamming last night. Now it was just raw, suffocating need wrapped in the excuse of revenge.

Jungkook didn’t let go of you in public. Hand planted firm on your lower back the second you stepped onto the deck for breakfast—fingers splayed wide, pinky deliberately tracing the top curve of your ass every time you moved. Not subtle. Not accidental. Just enough pressure that you felt it in your clit every step. When you sat at the long outdoor table for lunch, he slid in beside you, thigh pressing yours, then pushed his knee between your legs under the tablecloth. Didn’t move it. Just held it there—hot, solid, unmoving—letting the heat of him seep through your bikini bottoms while everyone else talked over grilled shrimp and cold beer.

You tried to focus on the conversation. Failed.

He leaned in during a lull, lips brushing your ear like he was sharing a secret.

“Still dripping from last night,” he breathed, voice so low it vibrated against your skin, “or is that fresh?”

Your nails dug into the meat of his thigh—hard. Hard enough to leave crescents through his board shorts. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just smirked against your temple, slow and mean, then pulled back like nothing happened.

The rest of the day was the same torture in slow motion. His thumb stroking the inside of your wrist when he passed you a drink. His chest brushing your back when he reached over you for something on the counter. Every fake couple moment laced with real heat—his breath too hot, his grip too tight, his eyes too dark when no one was looking.

By dinner your thighs were slick again. You hated him for it. Hated yourself more.

Lights out. House quiet except for the waves and the faint, predictable start next door—soft moans, bed creaking, same rhythm like clockwork.

You didn’t wait long.

Same black silk slip. No bra. No patience. You stood at the foot of the bed again, facing the wall they shared. Started slow—hips rolling in lazy circles, one hand sliding up to palm your tit through the fabric, the other dipping between your thighs. Fingers pressed over soaked cotton, rubbing firm, deliberate circles over your clit. Wet sounds filled the room almost immediately.

You let your voice out—breathier than before, but still loud enough to carry.

“Jungkook… fuck… need you so bad…”

Headboard tapped once. Twice. Light. Teasing.

You heard the sheets rustle behind you.

Didn’t stop.

“Want your cock… deep… please…”

Footsteps—fast, heavy.

He didn’t go to the bathroom this time.

He lunged.

One hand clamped around your wrist—the one between your legs—yanking it away. The other grabbed your opposite shoulder and spun you. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of you. He pinned both wrists above your head with one massive hand, forearm braced beside your face, caging you.

His eyes were black. Pupils blown. Jaw so tight it looked painful.

“You think you can keep doing this shit?” Voice wrecked—low, shaking with fury and something darker. “Moaning my name like that, touching that dripping cunt right in front of me, making me jerk off like a fucking teenager every night?”

You opened your mouth—didn’t get a word out.

He crashed his mouth to yours.

Filthy. Violent. No buildup. Teeth clashing, tongues shoving, biting down on your lower lip until you tasted copper. You moaned into it—real this time—hips bucking forward instinctively. His free hand ripped the slip down in one brutal yank—thin straps snapping, silk pooling at your waist. Cool air hit your tits. Then his mouth was there—hot, wet, sucking hard on one nipple, teeth grazing just shy of too much. He pulled off with a wet pop, moved to the other, bit down. Left dark purple blooms across your chest like signatures.

“This what you wanted?” he growled against your skin. “Me losing it?”

You couldn’t answer. Could only arch into his mouth.

His hand shot down. Yanked your panties to the side—fabric tearing a little at the seam. Two thick fingers plunged in without warning—deep, curling viciously against that spot inside that made your knees buckle. Thumb found your clit and ground down—fast, relentless circles.

You cried out—sharp, broken. Real.

“Jungkook—”

“Say it again,” he snarled. Fingers pumping harder. “Say my name like you mean it this time.”

You did. Over and over—whimpered, gasped, begged—while he fucked you open with his hand. The heel of his palm slapped against your clit with every thrust. Wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Your thighs shook. Vision blurred at the edges.

He bit the side of your neck—hard enough to bruise—then licked the mark like an apology he didn’t mean.

“You’ve been teasing me for days,” he rasped against your throat. “Walking around soaked, grinding on me, coming on my abs in the pool like it’s nothing. You think I don’t feel it? Think I don’t want to bury myself in this tight little cunt and make you scream for real?”

Your walls clenched around his fingers—hard. You were right there—teetering, shaking, nails scraping down his shoulders.

“Come,” he ordered. Voice rough. “Come on my fingers. Let him hear how fucking wet you get for me.”

You shattered.

Back arching off the wall, thighs clamping around his wrist, a choked sob ripping out of you as you pulsed around him—wave after wave, slick coating his hand, dripping down your thighs. He didn’t stop—kept curling, kept grinding—drawing it out until you were whimpering, oversensitive, legs giving out.

He caught you when you sagged. Held you against the wall with his body. Fingers still buried deep. Breathing ragged against your neck.

“We’re not done,” he murmured. Low. Dangerous. “Not even close.”

You trembled. Couldn’t speak.

Just nodded.

Because he was right.

He didn’t let you catch your breath.

Still pressed against the wall, fingers buried to the knuckle, he growled low against the side of your neck—teeth grazing skin.

“This what you wanted?” Voice rough, wrecked. “My fingers stretching you instead of your pathetic little show?”

You tried to answer—got nothing but a choked gasp as he curled them harder, thumb grinding your clit in tight, merciless circles. Your knees buckled. He caught you with his body, chest to chest, then yanked his hand free.

Before you could protest the loss, he spun you. Shoved you forward—face-down onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against your burning cheek. He grabbed your hips, yanked them high, ass up, knees spread. One palm cracked down—hard. The sting bloomed red-hot across your skin. You yelped. He did it again. Harder. The sound echoed sharper than your fake moans ever had.

“Count them,” he ordered.

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Too busy arching back, thighs trembling.

He didn’t wait for compliance.

Lined up. One brutal thrust—thick, unrelenting—filling you so completely your breath punched out in a broken sob. No slow stretch. No tease. Just raw, deep invasion. Your walls fluttered around him, trying to adjust, but he didn’t give you time. Pulled back halfway and slammed in again. Set a punishing rhythm—fast, mean, hips snapping against your ass with wet slaps that drowned out everything next door.

One hand fisted in your hair—yanking your head back until your spine arched painfully sweet. The other wrapped around your throat—not choking, just tight enough to make your head swim, blood rushing loud in your ears.

“So fucking wet,” he snarled against your ear. “Dripping for me the whole damn trip. Say you hate me now, liar.”

You tried. The word came out mangled—half moan, half curse.

“I—fuck—hate—”

He laughed—dark, breathless—and thrust harder. Deeper. The angle hit that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyes.

“Louder.”

“I hate you—”

He yanked your hair tighter. “Bullshit.”

He flipped you without warning—onto your back. Grabbed your thighs, hooked them over his shoulders, folded you in half. The new angle was devastating—deeper, relentless. Every thrust punched the air from your lungs. Your vision blurred white at the edges. Hands scrabbling at his shoulders, nails digging into ink and muscle.

He leaned down, mouth crashing to yours again—messy, biting—then pulled back just enough to watch your face.

“Look at me when you come.”

His hand slid between you. Fingers found your clit—rubbed vicious, fast circles while he pounded. The dual sensation snapped something inside you. You came hard—walls clamping down, fluttering, a silent scream tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop. Kept fucking through it, drawing it out until you were shaking, oversensitive, tears pricking your eyes.

“Again,” he growled.

You didn’t think you could. But he kept going—thumb grinding mercilessly—and the second one hit like a freight train. Back arching off the bed, thighs quivering around his neck, a broken “Jungkook—” spilling out.

He pulled out abruptly. You whined at the emptiness.

Flipped you again—this time straddling him. He sat back against the headboard, cock slick and throbbing, glistening with you. Grabbed your hips—bruising grip—and pulled you down hard.

“Ride it.” Voice wrecked. “Like you mean it. Show me how bad you wanted this cock.”

You did.

Bounced desperately—fast, sloppy, tits in his face. He latched onto one nipple—sucking hard, teeth grazing—then the other. Hands bruising your hips, guiding you, slamming you down harder when your rhythm faltered.

“That’s it… fuck… take it all.”

You were close again—embarrassingly fast. Clit grinding against his pelvis every time you bottomed out. He felt it—felt you tightening.

“Not yet.”

He flipped your wrists above your head—pinned them to the headboard with one hand. The other gripped your throat again—light, controlling.

Then he took over.

Fucked up into you—raw, relentless. Deep, punishing strokes that made the bedframe slam the wall. No more performance. Just need.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

You shattered a third time—silent this time, body locking, walls pulsing so hard it dragged him over with you. He buried himself to the hilt—guttural “fuck… mine…” torn from his throat as he came. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, spilling out around his cock as you clenched through the aftershocks.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Just held you there—still pinned, still full—breathing ragged against your neck.

You didn’t argue.

Couldn’t.

Just trembled in his grip, slick and spent and stupidly full.

And for once, the room next door was silent.

Breakfast dragged. The group was loud—someone recounting last night’s bonfire stories, plates scraping, coffee steaming—but the air around your table felt charged. You sat in the same loose tank and shorts, hair still messy from sleep you barely got. The hickeys on your neck were impossible to miss: dark purple blooms trailing from under your jaw down to your collarbone, fresh ones overlapping the old like he’d wanted to overwrite every mark your ex ever left.

Your ex noticed the second you walked out. His fork paused halfway to his mouth. Jaw locked. Eyes flicked over the bruises—slow, deliberate—then to Jungkook, who was leaning back in his chair, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, sipping coffee like he owned the morning. Jungkook met the stare. Held it. Smirked once. Then looked back at you, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh under the table—high, casual, pinky grazing the damp edge of your panties where his cum was still leaking slow and warm.

You clenched around nothing. Bit the inside of your cheek to keep quiet.

He leaned in under the pretense of reaching for the salt.

“You’re leaking all over the chair, princess,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “Gonna leave a wet spot for everyone to see?”

You dug your nails into his wrist. Hard.

“Keep your voice down, asshole.”

“Why? Afraid they’ll hear how much you liked getting filled up?”

You glared. He just smiled—slow, lazy—and squeezed your thigh once before pulling his hand away.

The drive home was worse.

Tesla hummed quiet. Autopilot on. Highway empty. You stared out the window, thighs pressed together, replaying the night: the way he’d pinned you, the stretch, the way he’d growled mine when he came. Your face was hot. Pulse still thrumming low.

Silence stretched until it snapped.

“So,” he said, voice light, teasing. “I think I earned that number. Best fake boyfriend of the year. Oscar-worthy performance.”

You didn’t answer. Kept staring at the passing signs.

He glanced over. Grinned.

“What, no thank you? I sold it. Made him choke on his coffee this morning.”

Still nothing.

“Come on. I was perfect. Handsy, obsessed, couldn’t keep my mouth off you. She’s gonna love hearing how devoted I was.”

Your fists clenched in your lap.

“Bet she’s easier,” he continued, casual. “Won’t block my number for months. Won’t make me jerk off alone in the bathroom every night like some desperate loser. Probably says please when she comes.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“You’re such a dick.”

“And you’re blushing.” He laughed—low, warm. “Jealous already? That’s cute.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Liar.” He reached over, fingers brushing your knee, sliding higher. “You’ve been squirming since breakfast. Still feeling me?”

You smacked his hand away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. I can still taste you on my tongue.”

Heat flooded your face. You crossed your arms.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re wet again. I can smell it from here.”

“Shut up.”

He laughed harder. Then:

“Fuck this.”

Autopilot pinged. He flicked it off. Hauling you over the console in one smooth motion—strong hands on your hips, dragging you straight onto his lap. Straddling him. Skirt riding up. His cock already half-hard under his jeans, pressing up against your soaked panties.

“What the hell—”

“Shut up for a second.” He gripped your hips. Ground you down slow—letting you feel the thick ridge of him. “You’ve been pouting the whole drive. What’s wrong, baby? Mad I might text her?”

You smacked his chest—once, sharp.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah. Your favorite kind.” He grinned up at you. “Admit it. You hate the idea of me touching anyone else now.”

“I don’t care who you fuck.”

“Bullshit.” His hands slid under your skirt. Fingers digging into bare ass—spreading you, pulling you harder against his bulge. “This pussy’s been clenching every time I mention her. You’re soaked through your panties just thinking about it.”

You rolled your hips once—couldn’t help it. Clit dragging against denim.

He groaned softly. “There she is.”

“I hate you.”

“Keep saying that while you grind on my dick like you’re starving.” He leaned up, lips brushing yours. “Maybe I don’t want her number anymore.”

You froze. “What?”

“Maybe I want the girl who fights me every step. Who moans my name like it’s a curse. Who cums so hard her thighs shake and she still calls me an asshole after.” His mouth hovered over yours. “Maybe I want the brat who makes me lose my fucking mind.”

You stared at him. Heart slamming.

Then you kissed him—hard, messy, tongue shoving in like you were trying to win an argument. He kissed back just as rough. One hand fisted your hair—tugging your head back to suck a fresh bruise over the old ones on your neck.

“Still so fucking wet,” he murmured against your skin. “Gonna ruin another pair for me?”

His other hand slipped between you. Fingers rubbing slow circles over your clit through the drenched cotton.

You whimpered into his mouth. Rolled your hips faster.

“Thought you hated me?” he teased, voice low between kisses.

“I do… fuck… don’t stop…”

“Liar.” He nipped your lip. “This pussy’s dripping for me. Say it.”

“Shut up.”

“Say it and I’ll make you cum right here.”

You smacked his chest again—half-laugh, half-moan. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

“And you love it.” Fingers pressed harder. “Come on, princess. Tell me who this belongs to.”

“Shut up and make me cum, asshole.”

He laughed—dark, pleased—and sped up his fingers. You ground down shamelessly, panting against his mouth, thighs trembling.

He pulled back just enough to smirk against your swollen lips.

“We’re not done fighting about this.”

“Good,” you breathed. “I’m not done hating you yet.”

The car kept cruising. Autopilot long forgotten.

His hand stayed between your legs the rest of the drive—teasing, never quite letting you finish.

And when you finally pulled into your driveway, he didn’t kill the engine right away.

Just looked at you—flushed, marked, still straddling him.

“Inside,” he said quietly. “Now.”

You smiled—sharp, dangerous.

“Make me.”

He did.

masterlist taglist

a/n:

hi luvs ♡ it’s rie

soooo this little thing has been rotting in my drafts for an embarrassing amount of time and i finally decided to set it free into the wild. is there a plot? absolutely not. is there a purpose? also no.

it’s not my best work (in my opinion), but i didn’t want it collecting dust forever, so here we are.

think of this as a tiny in-between piece while i work on bigger and better things. i’ve got a two-shot coming soon and a series idea i’m really excited about, so please stay tuned for those!!

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook (bsf roommate) x f!Reader

⋆˚࿔ Genre: Smut (18+), Angst, Emotional Sexual Tension, Jealousy

⋆˚࿔ Rating: Explicit / 18+ / MDNI

masterlist taglist about me

She only meant to find her best friend that night. One wrong door, one quick glance inside and there he was. Fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips, water still on his skin, eyes locking on hers like he’d been expecting her.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cover up. Just looked at her for a long second before saying, low and calm, “Wrong door”

She backed out fast, heart racing, telling herself it was nothing. But it wasn’t.

Now every time she’s in that house, the air feels different. His eyes find her across the room while Suho talks and laughs, completely clueless. A brush of his hand against her side in the kitchen that lasts too long. His voice close one night “Watch yourself.” The moment in the dark when his mouth hovered over hers—close enough to feel the heat—before he pulled back hard "Go back to your best friend, sweetheart."

She keeps telling herself she can stop this. That one mistake doesn’t have to mean anything.

Then her phone lights up late at night: Door’s open.

And she’s already moving.

a/n: hi luvs ♡ it’s rie

i’m soo excited to finally share my next two-shot , i had fun writing this and i can’t wait for you all to read it

part 1 drops this week!!

really hope you guys end up loving this one as much as i loved creating it. if you wanna be added to the taglist, drop a 🖤 in the comments or check my taglist info and let me know

tell me if y’all are excited for this one 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆

i was not active for a few days ive been really sick for the past few days and needed some time to reset !

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x f!Reader (best friends to lovers, long-distance)

⋆˚࿔ Genre: Smut (18+), Angst, Pining, Friends with Tension/Benefits, Emotional Sexual Tension, Jealousy, Porn with (some) Plot, Reconnection

⋆˚࿔ Rating: Explicit / 18+ / MDNI

⋆˚࿔ Word Count: ~10k+ words

⋆˚࿔ Summary: Years of late-night FaceTime calls with your long-distance best friend Jungkook started as innocent catch-ups… then turned into something else entirely. Instructions. Edging sessions. Filthy praise. You saved every recording—especially the one labeled “34 + 35”. He was never supposed to find it. He was never supposed to fly to Seoul and fuck you like he’s been starving for you since the very first call.

⋆˚࿔ Warnings & Tags: explicit sexual content • heavy smut • long-distance mutual masturbation • FaceTime/phone sex • guided masturbation • dirty talk • praise kink • degradation kink • edging • orgasm denial • multiple orgasms • overstimulation • accidental voyeurism • jealousy • possessive behavior • rough sex • unprotected sex • creampie • multiple creampies • cum play • light impact play (spanking) • choking (light, non-breath-restricting) • hair pulling • nipple play • oral sex references • squirting • marking • no actual poly or cheating but brief date with another man (leads to jealousy trigger) • cum eating (brief, self-tasting)

⋆˚࿔ Additional Notes: This is shameless, plot-light smut with heavy emotional undercurrents. The sex is filthy, drawn-out, and escalates dramatically once they’re in the same room. If degradation, possessiveness, or intense jealousy dynamics bother you, please skip. just completely inspired by 34 + 35 - ariana grande song

The apartment in Gangnam was quiet except for the low hum of the city filtering through the half-open window—neon lights painting faint streaks across YN’s bedroom ceiling. She lay on her stomach across the duvet, phone propped against a stack of pillows, wearing nothing but an oversized black tee that used to be his from high school. It still smelled faintly like cedar and whatever cologne he’d worn back then, even after years of washing. She told herself she kept it for nostalgia. Lies.

The FaceTime ringtone cut through the stillness. She answered on the second one, and there he was: Jungkook in his study across an ocean, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the black ink of his forearm tattoos stark against the white button-down. Behind him, the same orderly chaos—textbooks stacked like architecture, a single desk lamp throwing gold across his sharp jaw and the faint shadow of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave.

“You look like you’ve already given up on today,” he said first, voice low and rough from a full day of lecturing. He leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms overhead so the shirt pulled tight across his chest and the fabric rode up just enough to show a sliver of toned abdomen. He didn’t fix it. “What time did you even wake up?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile. “Early enough to regret it. Had a meeting at nine that could’ve been an email. You? Still terrorizing freshmen with derivatives?”

“They terrorize themselves. One kid today asked if the chain rule was named after actual chains. I almost retired on the spot.” He dragged a hand through his hair, mussing it worse. “But yeah, long day. Grading midterms until my eyes crossed. Needed to see a friendly face before I lose my mind completely.”

The words landed softer than he probably meant. YN felt that familiar tug low in her stomach—the one she’d learned to ignore years ago. She shifted, letting the hem of the tee ride higher on her thighs, bare legs stretching across the sheets. His gaze flicked down for half a second. She pretended not to notice.

“You always say that like I’m doing you a favor,” she teased, voice deliberately light. “I’m literally just lying here procrastinating sleep. You’re the one with actual responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities are overrated. I’d trade them for your couch and a bottle of soju right now.” He tilted his head, studying her through the screen. “You’re wearing my old shirt again. Still fits?”

Her pulse skipped. “Barely. I’ve gained… personality since high school.”

“Looks like it fits exactly the way it should.” His tone stayed casual, but the way he said it—slow, eyes lingering on the way the fabric clung to the curve of her breasts—felt anything but. “You always sleep in that thing when you’re stressed. What’s going on?”

She exhaled through her nose, debating how much to give him. “Nothing major. Just… the usual. Swiped on some guy last week. We’re supposed to meet tomorrow. Drinks, maybe dinner if he doesn’t bore me to death in the first twenty minutes.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change, but something tightened around his mouth. “Another app casualty. What’s this one’s deal? Finance bro? Gym rat? Trust-fund poet?”

“Software engineer. Nice jawline, decent conversation over text. Claims he can cook. Jury’s still out.” She shrugged, trying to sound indifferent. “Figured I should at least try. Can’t keep living like a nun.”

He made a low sound—half laugh, half something darker. “You’re not a nun. You’re just picky. There’s a difference.”

“Picky, huh?” She arched a brow, rolling onto her side so the tee slipped off one shoulder. The strap of her bralette peeked out, thin black lace against skin. “Says the guy who hasn’t dated anyone longer than three weeks since grad school.”

“I date. I just don’t announce it.” He leaned closer to the camera, elbows on the desk, forearms flexing as he clasped his hands. “And when I do, it’s because they’re worth the time. Not because I’m trying to prove something.”

The jab landed. She felt heat crawl up her neck. “I’m not proving anything. I’m just… curious. Bored. Horny. Pick one.”

His laugh was quiet, almost private. “All three, probably.” He paused, eyes tracing the line of her exposed collarbone. “You ever think maybe you’re looking in the wrong places?”

Her breath caught. For one dangerous second the line between banter and something else dissolved. She could feel the weight of his stare like fingers on her skin.

“And where should I be looking, Professor?” The title came out huskier than she intended.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. If anything, his gaze sharpened. “Somewhere that actually knows you. Someone who doesn’t need an app to figure out what makes you tick.”

Silence stretched, thick and humming. She licked her bottom lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how dry her mouth felt.

“Careful,” she said softly. “That almost sounded like you were volunteering.”

He held her eyes for a long beat. Then the corner of his mouth lifted—just enough. “I don’t volunteer. I get requested.”

Heat flooded her core so fast she had to press her thighs together under the covers. She forced a laugh to cover it. “Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he corrected, voice dropping lower. “There’s a difference.”

She swallowed. “Noted.”

He changed the subject after that—asked about her latest project at work, told her about a ridiculous theorem one of his colleagues was obsessed with—but the undercurrent stayed. Every time he shifted and the light caught the ink curling around his bicep, every time his voice roughened from fatigue, she felt it: the slow, inevitable burn of wanting something she’d convinced herself she could never have.

Later, after they said goodnight and the screen went dark, YN didn’t move for a long time. She lay there staring at the ceiling, thighs still pressed tight, replaying the way he’d looked at her—like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart under his hands.

She opened the dating app anyway. Swiped right on three more guys she’d probably never message.

Distraction. Always distraction.

But when she finally slid a hand between her legs that night, it wasn’t any of their faces she pictured.

It was his—sharp eyes, low voice, the slow roll of “I don’t volunteer. I get requested” echoing in her head while her fingers circled exactly the way she wished his tongue would. The next few dates blurred together like bad playlist skips—polite small talk over overpriced cocktails, awkward laughs at jokes that weren’t funny, hands brushing too soon or not at all. YN kept swiping anyway, telling herself momentum would eventually drown out the quiet ache that settled in her chest every time Jungkook’s name lit up her screen.

Then came Minho.

Software engineer, thirty-one, profile pictures heavy on gym mirrors and city rooftops. Messages sharp, flirty without trying too hard. He asked real questions, remembered details, made her laugh twice in under ten minutes of texting. When he suggested drinks at a low-lit bar in Itaewon and followed it with “no pressure, but I’d like to kiss you if the vibe’s right,” her stomach flipped in a way it hadn’t in months.

She said yes.

The date itself was good—better than good. Conversation flowed, his hand rested lightly on the small of her back when they walked, and when he leaned in outside the bar to brush his lips against hers, slow and deliberate, she felt the first real pulse of want coil low in her gut. He pulled back just enough to murmur against her mouth, “I’d really like to take you home tonight. Only if you want.”

She wanted. Or thought she did.

But the second the words left his mouth, panic bloomed sharp and cold beneath the heat. She’d had sex before—scattered, fumbling encounters in university that left her more confused than satisfied. She knew the mechanics. She didn’t know herself. Not the spots that made her breath hitch, not the pressure that turned ache into something shattering, not the rhythm her body actually craved. The thought of lying under him, clueless and performing, made her throat close.

She smiled, kissed him again—quick, deflecting—and promised to text about next time. He didn’t push. That made it worse.

Two nights later the humidity in Seoul was suffocating, windows open, fan doing nothing but stir the thick air. YN sprawled on her bed in nothing but black cotton boyshorts and a cropped tank, skin sticky, hair piled messily on top of her head. The FaceTime call connected at 11:47 p.m. her time, 9:47 a.m. his.

Jungkook appeared shirtless.

He must have just finished a workout or a shower; damp strands of black hair clung to his forehead, a towel slung around his neck, droplets tracing slow paths down the ridges of his collarbone, over the dark ink that wrapped his shoulder and spilled across his pec. The desk lamp behind him cast everything in warm amber, turning the sweat on his skin into something almost obscene.

He didn’t bother covering up. Just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, biceps flexing without effort.

“You look like you’re melting,” he said, voice still rough from sleep or maybe just the early hour for him. “Air-con broken again?”

“No. Just Seoul trying to kill me.” She shifted, propping herself higher on the pillows so the tank rode up, exposing the soft dip of her waist and the waistband of her shorts. “You look like you just finished filming thirst-trap content for your students.”

He snorted, wiping the towel across his neck. “They’d fail the next quiz if I did. What’s got you up this late? Another date?”

She exhaled, long and slow. The words felt heavier than they should.

“Yeah. Minho. The one I told you about.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “The rooftop guy. How’d it go?”

“Good. Really good, actually.” She dragged her teeth over her bottom lip. “He… wants to sleep with me. Asked tonight. I said maybe next time.”

A beat of silence. His jaw ticked once.

“And you’re freaking out because…?”

She laughed, but it came out brittle. “Because I have no idea what I’m doing, Jungkook. Like—zero. I’ve had sex, sure, but it was always… fast. Drunk. Awkward. I don’t even know what I like. Where to be touched. How fast, how hard, if I even get there the normal way. What if I just lie there like a dead fish while he’s expecting some porn-star performance? I’d rather die.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just watched her through the screen with that steady, dissecting gaze he used when he was solving something complicated.

“You’re not clueless,” he said finally, voice low and even. “You’re just uncharted. There’s a difference.”

Her pulse kicked hard. “Uncharted. Cute metaphor, Professor.”

“Not a metaphor. A fact.” He uncrossed his arms, leaned forward so his face filled more of the frame, tattoos shifting with the movement. “You’ve never mapped it out properly. Never taken the time to figure out what actually makes your breath catch, what makes your hips move on their own, what gets you so wet you can’t think straight.”

Heat exploded under her skin so fast she had to press her thighs together. She tried to keep her voice steady. “And how exactly do I… map it?”

“You experiment.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. “Alone. No pressure, no audience. Start slow—neck, collarbone, the insides of your arms. Then lower. Stomach. Hips. Inner thighs. Tease yourself until you’re aching, then go where the ache leads. Light first. Then firmer. Circles, strokes, taps. Pay attention to what makes your toes curl versus what just feels nice. Build it. Edge it. Learn your own rhythm.”

Every word landed like a slow drag of fingers. She could picture it—his voice in her ear while her hand moved exactly where he described. She swallowed hard.

“You make it sound like a research project.”

“It is.” The corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed dark. “Hypothesis: certain touches make you soak through your shorts. Test it. Record the results. Adjust variables. Repeat until you know your body better than anyone else ever will.”

She laughed shakily, but it sounded more like a breath. “And then what? Hand him the lab report?”

“No.” His voice dropped lower, almost intimate. “Then when he touches you, you know exactly how to guide his hand. Or tell him to fuck off if he can’t keep up.”

Silence stretched again, heavy with humidity and something else.

She shifted, the movement making the tank slip higher, the underside of her breast almost visible. His gaze flicked down—deliberate this time—then back to her face.

“You’re blushing,” he said quietly.

“It’s hot in here.”

“Sure it is.” He dragged the towel across his chest again, slower this time, like he knew exactly what the motion did to her. “Try it tonight. After we hang up. Start small. See what happens.”

“And report back?” The question came out huskier than she meant.

His smile was slow. Dangerous. “Only if you want extra credit.”

She felt the words settle between her legs like a hand. Her clit throbbed once, traitorous and sudden.

“Noted,” she managed.

They talked for another twenty minutes—work, weather, nothing important—but the undercurrent stayed. Every time he shifted and the light caught the ink on his ribs, every time his voice roughened on a yawn, she felt it coil tighter.

When they finally said goodnight, she didn’t hang up right away. Just watched the screen go dark, heart hammering.

Then she slid her hand down her stomach, past the waistband of her shorts, and did exactly what he’d told her.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Imagining his voice the entire time.

“Light first. Then firmer. See what makes your hips move on their own.”

Her back arched off the bed at the first real press.

She didn’t come that night—not fully—but the edge he’d put her on stayed for hours, humming under her skin like a live wire.

And when she finally drifted off, it was his low, steady “Only if you want extra credit” looping in her head, over and over, until sleep took her.

The weeks bled into each other like ink on wet paper, humid Seoul nights stacking one on top of the next. YN’s dating life stayed lukewarm at best—Minho texted sporadically, suggesting another drink, but she kept pushing it back with vague excuses. The real reason sat heavy in her phone history: longer and longer FaceTime calls with Jungkook that started innocent and ended with her thighs trembling under the sheets.

It began small. One call, she mentioned offhand that the “mapping” experiment had gone… okay. “But I keep getting stuck at the same point. Like my body knows what it wants but won’t tell me the combination.”

Jungkook had been mid-sip of coffee, shirt already gone because “LA decided to hit 38°C today.” The black ink curling over his shoulder and down his ribs caught the morning light filtering through his blinds. He set the mug down slowly.

“Then stop guessing. Be systematic.” His voice was calm, professorial, but lower than usual. “Next time, start at your clit but don’t go straight for it. Circle the hood first—light, barely there. Then drag one finger down the outer lips, back up, repeat. No penetration yet. Just tease until you’re dripping. See how long you can hold off before you crack and press harder.”

She’d laughed, nervous, cheeks burning. “You’re turning this into a fucking flowchart.”

“Precision matters,” he said, eyes locked on hers through the screen. “You want to know what makes you come undone? Then learn the variables.”

That was the first time she kept the camera on while following his instructions.

At first it was clinical—almost. She angled the phone high, so only her face and collarbones showed, the rest hidden under the duvet. Her giggles broke the quiet every time her breath hitched. “This feels ridiculous. I’m literally taking notes from my best friend like he’s my personal sex ed teacher.”

He didn’t laugh back. Just watched, jaw tight. “Keep going. Slower circles. Tell me when the pressure feels good versus when it feels like nothing.”

“Now it’s… better. Shit. Tingling.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Good. Stay there. Don’t chase it yet. Breathe through it.” His chest rose and fell visibly, slower than before, nipples dark against taut skin. “Describe it. Exact sensation.”

“Hot. Pulsing. Like everything’s drawing tight but not enough.”

“Then add a second finger. Flat, not pointed. Slide along the sides—never directly on the clit. Edge it. Pull back when you get close.”

She whimpered once—small, involuntary. His hand flexed on the desk, knuckles white.

The next call, she didn’t bother with the duvet. Just a thin silk slip the color of midnight, lace trim barely skimming the tops of her thighs. When she shifted to prop the phone higher, one strap slid down her shoulder. She left it there.

Jungkook appeared shirtless again, this time with sweat beading along his sternum. “You trying to kill the AC or something?” she teased, voice lighter than she felt.

“It’s broken. Again.” His eyes dropped to the fallen strap, lingered, then flicked back up. “Nice slip. New?”

“Impulse buy. Figured if I’m doing ‘homework,’ might as well look the part.” She stretched lazily, back arching so the silk pulled tight across her nipples, visible through the thin fabric. “Your turn. Any updates on the heat wave?”

“Still brutal.” He leaned back, arms spreading along the back of his chair so every line of his torso flexed—abs contracting, the deep V disappearing into low-slung sweats. “You ready for round two?”

“Born ready.” She smirked, but her pulse hammered in her throat.

This time the instructions came slower, more deliberate.

“Legs wider. Let me see how you’re touching.” His voice had dropped an octave. “Show me the rhythm. Slow-motion replay.”

She hesitated only a second before angling the camera lower—still not full exposure, but enough that the silk rode up, revealing the damp patch darkening her black lace boyshorts. She hooked a finger under the fabric, pulled it aside just enough.

“Like this?” She circled her clit with the pad of her middle finger—slow, feather-light.

His breath audibly caught. “Yeah. Exactly like that. Now press a little firmer. Small, tight circles. Count to ten, then stop. Repeat.”

“You’re evil.” But she obeyed, hips lifting off the mattress on the third round. “Fuck… it’s building fast.”

“Don’t come yet.” The command was quiet, almost gentle, but iron underneath. “Edge it twice more. Tell me how close you are each time.”

“Eight… nine… close. Really close.” Her thighs trembled. “Stopping… god.”

“Good girl.” The praise landed like a slap of heat. His hand had disappeared below the frame now—she could see the subtle flex of his forearm, the way his bicep tensed in rhythm. “One more. This time, two fingers inside. Curl them up, press against the front wall. Thumb on your clit. Slow grind.”

She moaned—open, shameless. “Jungkook… I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.” His voice was rougher now, strained. “Hold it. Squeeze around your fingers. Feel how wet you are. Tell me.”

“Soaked. Dripping down my thighs. Please…”

“Please what?”

“Let me come.” It came out desperate, cracked.

He exhaled hard through his nose. “On three. One… two… three. Now.”

Her back bowed off the bed, a broken cry tearing from her throat as the orgasm hit—sharp, blinding, thighs clamping around her own hand. Through the haze she saw him: head tipped back, throat working, the rapid flex of his arm below frame speeding up before he groaned low, body jerking once, twice.

Silence after. Heavy breathing on both ends.

She laughed shakily, dazed. “That… escalated.”

“You escalated it.” His voice was wrecked, eyes half-lidded. “Wearing that slip. Arching like that. You knew what you were doing.”

“Maybe.” She dragged a finger through her own wetness, brought it to her lips—slow, deliberate—tasting herself while holding his stare. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

His jaw ticked. “I didn’t.”

The call ended soon after—mutual goodnights that felt obscene in their politeness—but the shift was permanent now. No more pretending the tension was accidental.

The next night she answered in nothing but lace-trimmed boyshorts and a cropped tank that ended just under her breasts. When she leaned forward to adjust the phone, the hem lifted enough to flash the underside curve.

Jungkook appeared in only black boxer briefs, claiming the apartment was “still a furnace.” The outline of him—thick, half-hard—was impossible to ignore.

“New uniform?” she asked, voice husky.

“Fair’s fair.” He palmed himself once through the fabric—casual, like stretching. “You gonna behave tonight?”

“Never.” She slid a hand down her stomach, fingers dipping under the lace. “What’s the lesson plan, Professor?”

His smile was slow, predatory. “Tonight we work on endurance. You don’t come until I say. And I’m going to make it hurt so good you’ll beg for the numbers.”

She shivered. “Challenge accepted.”

The calls had long since stopped pretending to be casual. Now they were scheduled like appointments—late Seoul nights when the city quieted and his California mornings still carried the haze of sleep. YN answered one humid Thursday in nothing but sheer black lace panties and a cropped silk camisole that ended inches above her navel, the fabric so thin her nipples peaked against it the second the AC kicked on. She propped the phone against pillows, legs bent at the knees, thighs parted just enough that the camera caught the shadow between them.

Jungkook appeared in low gray sweats, no shirt, hair still damp from a shower. The tattoos on his ribs shifted with every slow breath. He didn’t greet her with small talk anymore.

“You’re already wet, aren’t you?” His voice was gravel, eyes dragging down the screen like he could feel the heat radiating off her.

She didn’t deny it. Just hooked a finger under the lace edge and tugged it aside, exposing slick folds to the cool air. “Been thinking about this all day. Couldn’t wait.”

“Show me how much.”

She slid two fingers down, parting herself, letting him see the shine coating her entrance. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped when she brushed her clit—already swollen, hypersensitive from days of edging herself to the memory of his last command.

They pulled up a video together—some soft-lit amateur clip they’d both saved to a shared note. A woman on her knees, mouth working slow and deliberate over a thick cock; the man’s hand gentle in her hair, guiding without forcing. At first they dissected it clinically.

“See how she keeps her tongue flat under the head?” Jungkook’s tone was steady, almost academic. “The pressure’s constant but not aggressive. Builds him up without rushing the finish.”

YN mirrored the motion with her fingers—circling her clit in wide, lazy loops, mimicking the slow drag of tongue. “Like this?”

“Slower.” His voice dropped half an octave. “Make it ache first. Let the need coil so tight you can’t think.”

Her hips rolled forward on instinct. A breathy moan slipped out—soft, testing. His jaw clenched visibly; the outline of his cock thickened against the gray cotton, straining the fabric.

“Fuck… you’re leaking,” he muttered, palming himself once through the sweats—slow, deliberate. “Keep that rhythm. Don’t speed up. Tell me how close.”

“So close… pulsing. God, Jungkook—”

“Stop.”

She froze, fingers hovering, thighs shaking. The denial hit like ice water and fire at once. “You’re cruel.”

“And you love it.” He tugged the waistband down just enough to free himself—thick, flushed, the head glistening. He wrapped a fist around the base, stroking once, eyes never leaving her screen. “Now resume. But match my pace. Slow. Up. Down. Feel every inch of the build.”

They synced without words—her fingers sliding in shallow thrusts, his hand gliding over his length in the same unhurried rhythm. Breathing grew ragged on both ends. The video played on, forgotten; all that mattered was the wet sounds filling the call, the way her clit throbbed under her touch, the flex of his forearm as he worked himself.

Mid-edge, when she was trembling and glassy-eyed, she let the words slip—breathless, teasing.

“What if we tried something like… 34 plus 35?”

He huffed a low laugh, hand still moving. “That’s just 69. Basic addition. You and your weird math jokes.”

The obliviousness sent a fresh gush of wetness between her thighs. She bit her lip hard enough to sting, imagining his mouth on her while she took him deep—tongues and lips and no space for air. The fantasy burned hotter because he didn’t catch it. Didn’t know how badly she wanted to flip positions, straddle his face, grind down while she swallowed him whole.

“Yeah… basic,” she murmured, voice wrecked. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

“Not stopping until you’re shaking.” His strokes sped fractionally—still controlled, but the vein along his shaft stood out stark. “Rub faster now. Small, tight circles. Imagine it’s my tongue instead—flat, pressing, flicking just enough to make you sob.”

She obeyed. Moans turned sharp, desperate. Her free hand gripped the sheet, knuckles white.

“Jungkook—please—”

“Not yet.” His voice cracked on the command. “Hold it. Squeeze around nothing. Feel how empty you are. How much you want to be filled.”

She whimpered—loud, broken. The denial stretched unbearable seconds into eternity.

Then, finally: “Now. Come for me.”

Her body seized—back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around her hand as the orgasm tore through her in brutal waves. She cried out his name, raw and unguarded. On screen, his head fell back, throat working, abs contracting hard as he spilled over his fist in thick, pulsing ropes—groaning low, wrecked.

They stayed like that—panting, spent, screens still open. No rush to speak.

After a long minute, he dragged a hand through his hair, voice hoarse. “You keep pulling that 34 35 shit… one day I’m gonna make you explain it.”

She laughed—shaky, satisfied. “Maybe I will. When you’re ready to solve it properly.”

He smirked, dark and knowing, even if he still didn’t get the subtext.

The tension didn’t break. It only thickened.

The next call came two nights later, no preamble, no casual check-in. YN answered in a sheer white camisole so thin the dark circles of her nipples pressed against the fabric like they were begging to be seen. No bra. No shorts—just black lace panties that rode high on her hips. She sat cross-legged on the bed, phone angled to catch the way the silk clung to the undersides of her breasts when she breathed.

Jungkook appeared shirtless again, but this time the pretense was gone. Gray sweats low on his hips, the thick ridge of his cock already outlined against the cotton before either of them spoke.

“You’re not even trying to hide it anymore,” he said, voice rough, eyes dragging from her chest to the damp spot darkening the lace between her thighs.

“Neither are you.” She shifted, letting her knees fall wider, the camisole strap slipping down one shoulder. “I see the flush on your neck. The way your forearm flexes when your hand disappears. You’re already touching yourself, aren’t you?”

He didn’t deny it. Just palmed the length of himself through the fabric—slow, deliberate. “Hard not to when you show up like that. What do you want tonight?”

“Show me.” Her voice came out breathier than she meant. “Stroke with me. Let me watch.”

A beat of heavy silence. His jaw ticked once, twice. Then he reached for the phone, angled it lower until the camera framed his lap: sweats shoved down just enough, cock thick and flushed in his fist, the head already slick. He gave one slow pump, eyes never leaving hers through the screen.

“Your turn.”

She hooked the lace aside, fingers sliding through her wetness before circling her clit—matching the lazy rhythm he set. Their breathing synced almost instantly: shallow inhales, soft exhales that turned ragged fast.

“Slower,” he commanded, voice gravel-low. “Match me. Feel every drag.”

She obeyed, hips rolling forward on the third stroke. A soft moan slipped out—his name tangled in it. His grip tightened visibly, thumb swiping over the slit, spreading pre-cum. “Fuck… say it again.”

“Jungkook…” She sped up fractionally, testing. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that. Tight circles. Don’t stop.” His strokes grew firmer, forearm flexing with each pull. The wet sounds filled the call—hers slick and obscene, his rougher, fist gliding over skin.

Tension coiled unbearable. She arched, free hand pinching a nipple through the sheer fabric until it ached. “I’m close… god, watching you—”

“Not yet.” His voice cracked on the denial. “Wait for me. Squeeze around your fingers. Imagine it’s mine stretching you instead.”

She whimpered—loud, desperate—but held the edge, thighs trembling. His head tipped back for a second, throat working, abs contracting hard.

“Now.” The word tore out of him.

She shattered first—back bowing, a broken “Jungkook—” spilling from her lips as her orgasm ripped through her, walls pulsing around nothing, slick coating her fingers. Seconds later he followed: low, guttural groan, hips jerking as thick ropes spilled over his fist, painting his stomach.

They stayed connected, panting, screens still open. No rush to speak.

After a long minute he huffed a quiet laugh, wiping his hand on the sheet. “Just friends helping friends, right?”

“Right.” Her voice was wrecked, smile shaky. “Totally platonic.”

The lie hung between them, thinner than the camisole still clinging to her sweat-damp skin.

She didn’t bother fixing the fallen strap next time. He didn’t bother mentioning the heat.

The bar lights were too dim, the music too loud, Minho’s hands too careful. YN tried—god, she tried—to stay present. His mouth on her neck should have felt good; instead it registered as wrong texture, wrong pressure. Every slide of his fingers along her thigh echoed Jungkook’s low “slower… build the ache” in her head. She arched into the touch anyway, chasing the ghost of commands that weren’t his.

They made it to his apartment. Clothes shed in the hallway, bed sheets cool against her back. He settled between her legs, kissed down her stomach, and she closed her eyes—picturing dark ink curling over broad shoulders, a voice rough with control. When his tongue flicked her clit, tentative, she moaned without thinking.

“Jungkook…”

The name slipped out—soft, wrecked, unmistakable.

Minho froze. Pulled back. The silence was louder than the city outside.

“What?” His voice was flat, confused. “Who the fuck is Jungkook?”

She sat up fast, heart slamming. “Shit—Minho, I—”

He was already rolling off the bed, grabbing his boxers. “You’re serious right now? You’re thinking about someone else while I’m—” He gestured between them, face twisting. “Never mind. Just… get dressed.”

The ride home was silent except for the hum of the taxi. She stared out the window, thighs still slick with unspent want, shame burning hotter than arousal ever had.

Next FaceTime, two nights later. She answered in the same silk slip, hair loose, trying for casual. Jungkook appeared shirtless, study lamp casting harsh shadows across his clenched jaw.

“So?” he asked, voice even. Too even. “How’d it go with Minho?”

She forced a smile, light. “It was good. Really good, actually. Your tips worked. I didn’t freeze up or anything.”

His eyes narrowed—sharp, predatory. The flush on his neck wasn’t from heat this time. His hand flexed on the desk, knuckles white. “Glad it helped.” The words came out clipped, smile tight enough to crack.

She felt the shift like a door slamming. He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Tell me exactly how good.”

Her pulse kicked. “Just… good. I came. Twice.”

Something dark flickered across his face—jealousy, raw and unfiltered. He didn’t speak for a long second, just stared, breathing slow and deliberate.

“Twice.” He repeated it like tasting poison, not convinced. “Must’ve been real thorough, then.”

The air between pixels crackled, thick with everything he wasn’t saying.

The FaceTime connected at 1:14 a.m. Seoul time. No hello. No small talk. Jungkook’s face filled the screen—jaw locked, eyes black with something feral, shirt already gone, sweats shoved down just enough to free his cock. It stood thick and flushed in his fist, the head slick from the few strokes he’d already given himself before answering.

“Strip.” The word came out low, guttural. “Everything. Now.”

YN’s breath caught. She was still in the same sheer slip from earlier—thin straps, lace hem barely skimming her ass. Her hands moved before her brain caught up: fingers hooking the straps, sliding them off her shoulders. The silk pooled at her waist, then she pushed it down her hips, kicking it off the bed. Naked. Exposed. Camera angled low enough to show the sheen already coating her inner thighs.

“Legs wide. Let me see how fucking wet you are from lying to me.”

She spread her knees, hooking them over the edge of the mattress. Her pussy glistened under the lamp light—swollen, dripping, clit visibly throbbing. She didn’t touch yet. Waiting for permission like he’d trained her.

“Touch. Slow. Two fingers. Spread yourself open so I can watch.”

She obeyed, parting her folds with trembling fingers. The cool air hit her clit and she whimpered—soft, needy.

“Imagine it’s my mouth instead.” His voice dropped darker, filthy. “My tongue flat against you, dragging up slow, then flicking your clit—sharp, fast, over and over until your hips buck. Then I suck it hard. Pull it between my lips. Teeth grazing just enough to make you cry.”

Her fingers circled faster on instinct. “Fuck… Jungkook—”

“Not yet.” He stroked himself in long, deliberate pulls—base to tip, thumb swiping the slit. “Edge it. Get right to the brink, then stop. You don’t come until I say. You don’t deserve it after letting some other guy think he could make you feel this.”

The jealousy bled through every word—raw, possessive. She moaned louder, fingers plunging inside, curling against that spot he’d taught her. Her thumb worked her clit in tight circles. Heat coiled viciously low in her belly.

“Close… so close—”

“Stop.”

She yanked her hand away with a broken sob. Thighs shaking. Pussy clenching around nothing. “Please… I need—”

“Greedy little bitch.” He sped up his strokes—wet sounds loud through the speaker. “Again. Same pace. Imagine me pinning your thighs open, tongue fucking into you while my fingers rub your clit. You’re dripping down my chin and you still can’t come.”

Second edge. She got there faster—body already primed, desperate. Back arching, moans turning sharp and frantic.

“Stop.”

She cried out—frustrated, wrecked. Tears pricked her eyes. “Jungkook, I can’t… please—”

“One more.” His voice cracked with restraint. “Then you get to come like the filthy slut you are. For me. Only me.”

Third time she didn’t hold back. Fingers thrusting deep, palm grinding against her clit. The pressure built unbearable—hot, liquid, unstoppable.

“Now.” He growled it. “Come. My filthy slut—come all over your hand while I watch you fall apart.”

She shattered. Hard. Back bowing off the bed, a choked scream tearing from her throat as her pussy spasmed, gushing slick in messy pulses that soaked the sheets beneath her. Legs trembling uncontrollably. His name spilled from her lips again and again—raw, reverent.

On screen, Jungkook’s head fell back. Abs clenched. Hand flying over his cock. “Fuck—YN—” He came with a low, broken growl—thick ropes spilling over his fist, painting his stomach, dripping down his knuckles. His whole body jerked with it, chest heaving.

They stayed there—panting, wrecked, screens still open. No words for a long minute.

Then he dragged a hand through his hair, voice rough but softer. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She laughed shakily, dazed. “More than okay.”

He didn’t know the red recording light had blinked on in the corner of her laptop the second the call connected. Didn’t know she’d angled the phone just right to capture every filthy command, every moan, every drop. The file saved automatically.

Named: 34 + 35

The conference email had landed in Jungkook’s inbox three days earlier—some last-minute panel on applied mathematics at Seoul National University. He’d booked the flight without overthinking it, telling himself it was just work. The fact that it put him in the same city as her for forty-eight hours was incidental. Convenient. Nothing more.

He texted her from Incheon Airport: “In Seoul till Sunday. Dinner tomorrow? Your place?”

Her reply came fast: “Yes. Bring nothing but yourself. I’ll order jjajangmyeon.”

When he knocked on her door the next evening, the hallway smelled like rain and fried food. She opened it barefoot, in loose cotton shorts and a thin tank top that clung just enough to remind him of every pixel he’d stared at for months. Her hair was messy, face bare except for a swipe of gloss. She smiled—easy, familiar—and pulled him into a hug that lasted one heartbeat too long.

“You’re taller than I remember,” she mumbled against his shoulder.

“You’re smaller.” He squeezed once before letting go, inhaling the faint citrus of her shampoo. “Or maybe I just missed you.”

They ate cross-legged on her living room floor, containers spread between them like old times. Laughter came easy—stories about his chaotic undergrads, her office drama, the way Seoul felt smaller now that he was back in it. Every time their chopsticks clinked or their knees brushed under the low table, the air tightened. She caught him staring at the curve of her neck when she tipped her head back to laugh. He noticed the way her thighs pressed together when he leaned in to wipe a smear of black bean sauce from her chin with his thumb.

“You’ve got sauce… right here.” His voice stayed low, casual. His thumb lingered a second longer than necessary, pressing just enough to feel her pulse jump.

“Thanks.” She licked her bottom lip after, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Can’t have you thinking I’m a messy eater.”

“I already know you are.” The words came out darker than he meant. She didn’t flinch—just held his gaze until the moment stretched thin and hot.

They cleaned up in comfortable silence, shoulders brushing in the tiny kitchen. When she bent to load the dishwasher, the hem of her shorts rode up, exposing the soft crease where thigh met ass. He looked away too late. She straightened, smirking like she’d caught him.

“Couch is yours tonight,” she said, tossing him a spare blanket. “Unless you want the floor. Professor’s choice.”

“Couch is fine.” He caught the blanket, fingers brushing hers. “I don’t plan on sleeping much anyway.”

She paused in the doorway to her bedroom, one hand on the frame. “Jet lag?”

“Something like that.”

Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then lower—quick, deliberate—before she disappeared down the hall. “Night, Jungkook.”

“Night.”

The apartment went quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and distant traffic. He tried to sleep. Tried scrolling his phone, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. Nothing worked. The undercurrent from dinner still buzzed under his skin—every glance, every accidental touch replaying like a loop he couldn’t pause.

Around 2:37 a.m. he gave up. Sat up on the couch, blanket pooled around his waist. Her laptop sat open on the coffee table, screen dark except for a single glowing file icon in the middle of the desktop. Paused. Title: 34 + 35.

Curiosity—sharp, insistent—won.

He reached over, tapped the trackpad. The video resumed without warning.

His own voice filled the dim living room, low and filthy.

“Imagine my mouth instead—tongue flicking your clit, sucking hard.”

The camera angle was perfect: her on the bed, legs spread wide, fingers buried deep, back arched so hard her breasts lifted toward the ceiling. Sweat glistened on her skin. Her moans were desperate, broken—“Please… Jungkook, I can’t—”

His stomach dropped. Cock twitched instantly, thickening against the soft cotton of his sweats. He should have closed it. Should have shut the laptop, walked away, pretended he hadn’t seen.

He didn’t.

Instead he dragged the volume slider up a notch. Watched himself on screen—shirtless, hand working his length in brutal rhythm while he commanded her.

“Not yet, you greedy little bitch—hold it.”

Her body jerked at the denial, thighs trembling, a thin string of slick connecting her fingers to her entrance. She sobbed his name again—raw, pleading. Then the permission came.

“Now. Come. My filthy slut—come all over your hand while I watch you fall apart.”

She shattered. Back bowing off the mattress, a choked scream ripping out as she gushed—messy, uncontrollable pulses soaking the sheets beneath her. Her hips bucked like she was riding his face, his cock, anything to chase the aftershocks. On screen, his groan followed seconds later—low, wrecked—thick ropes spilling over his fist.

Jungkook’s breathing turned shallow. He was rock-hard now, painfully so, the head of his cock leaking against the fabric. He palmed himself once—slow, testing—through the sweats. The friction sent a jolt straight up his spine.

He replayed the last thirty seconds. Her face when she came—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream, his name falling from her lips like prayer. Again. The sound of her squirting, wet and obscene. Again. His own voice growling “my filthy slut” like ownership.

His hand slipped under the waistband. Wrapped around himself. One slow stroke—base to tip—spreading pre-cum. Another. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, eyes glued to the screen where she was still trembling through aftershocks, fingers still inside herself, milking every last pulse.

The video looped back to the beginning. “Strip. Everything. Now.”

He sped up—fist tight, rhythm matching the frantic pace he’d set on cam months ago. His abs clenched, breath coming in harsh pants. The couch creaked under him. He didn’t care. All he could see was her—writhing, begging, coming undone because of him. For him.

He imagined walking into her room right now. Waking her with his mouth between her thighs. Making her come again—real this time, not pixels. Making her say his name while he fucked her through it, slow and deep, until she couldn’t remember anyone else’s.

The edge hit fast. Too fast. He groaned low—her name tangled in it—hips jerking as he spilled over his fist, hot and thick, soaking his sweats and the blanket. His whole body shuddered with it, vision blurring for a second.

Silence rushed back in. The video kept playing—her soft whimpers fading into heavy breathing.

The apartment was still dark except for the blue glow spilling from the laptop on the coffee table. YN had woken with a dry throat, the sheets tangled around her legs, body still humming from dreams she couldn’t quite shake. She padded barefoot down the hallway in the tiniest sleep slip she owned—black silk, barely grazing the tops of her thighs, thin straps already slipping off her shoulders, no bra, no panties. Just skin and want.

She stopped dead in the doorway to the living room.

Jungkook was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the screen. The video was paused on a single frame: her own face mid-orgasm, mouth open in a silent scream, his voice frozen mid-sentence somewhere off-camera. “My filthy slut—come all over your hand while I watch you fall apart.” The timestamp glowed in the corner. He’d watched the whole thing. Multiple times, judging by the way his breathing was still uneven, the obvious ridge straining against his sweats.

He didn’t flinch when he saw her. Just lifted his gaze slowly—dark, unreadable, pupils blown wide.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she whispered, voice cracking on the last word.

He stood. Slow. Deliberate. Every inch of the movement predatory, like a predator deciding the chase was over.

“Why keep it?” His voice was low, rough from lack of sleep and something darker. He took one step toward her. “Why label it ‘34 + 35’ and leave it right there on your desktop like a fucking invitation?”

She swallowed hard. The air between them felt flammable. “Because…” Her back hit the wall as he closed the distance. “Because when you’re gone—when it’s just me and the silence—it gets me off harder than anything else. Hearing you call me your slut. Watching you lose control because of me. I replay it until I can’t breathe. Until I come so hard I cry.”

The confession hung there—raw, shameless.

Something snapped in his expression. Not anger. Hunger. Pure, unfiltered need.

He crossed the last two strides in a heartbeat. One hand slammed against the wall beside her head; the other fisted the front of her slip and yanked her forward. Their mouths crashed together—rough, desperate, no preamble. His tongue pushed past her lips immediately, claiming, tasting the faint mint of her toothpaste and the lingering sweetness of the jjajangmyeon from earlier. She moaned into it—loud, broken—fingers digging into his bare shoulders, nails biting skin.

He tasted like coffee and restraint finally gone.

He spun her so her front pressed to the wall, cheek against cool plaster. The slip rode up instantly, exposing her ass. His erection ground against her from behind—thick, hot, insistent—while his free hand dragged up her thigh, bunching the silk until it bunched at her waist.

“You’ve been getting off to me for months,” he growled against her ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Fucking yourself raw to my voice while I was on the other side of the world, clueless. You think I’m not gonna make you pay for that?”

“Please,” she gasped, hips pushing back against him instinctively. “I need it. Need you.”

“You’ll get it.” His hand slid between her legs—two fingers plunging straight into her soaked heat without warning. She cried out, knees buckling. He caught her around the waist, holding her upright. “So fucking wet already. Dripping down your thighs just from watching me watch you. Pathetic.”

He pumped his fingers once, twice—curling hard against that spot that made her vision white—then pulled out. She whimpered at the loss.

“On your knees.”

She dropped without hesitation, carpet burning her skin. He shoved his sweats down; his cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, the head already slick with pre-cum. She opened her mouth automatically, tongue out, but he fisted her hair instead, tilting her head back.

“Not yet.” He stroked himself once—slow, deliberate—letting the tip drag across her bottom lip, smearing wetness. “You don’t get to taste until I’ve had mine.”

He hauled her up by the hair, spun her again, bent her over the back of the couch so her ass was high, chest pressed to the cushions. The slip was rucked up around her waist now—useless. He kicked her feet wider.

“Look at you.” His palm cracked against her ass—sharp, stinging. She jolted, moaning. “Ass up, pussy dripping, begging for it like the greedy little slut you are.”

Another slap. Harder. The sound echoed. Her skin bloomed red instantly.

“Say it.”

“I’m your greedy little slut,” she gasped, voice wrecked. “Please—fuck me. I need your cock.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease in. One brutal thrust and he was buried to the hilt—thick, stretching her open in one go. She screamed—half pain, half pleasure—nails digging into the couch fabric.

“Fuck—tight,” he groaned, hips snapping forward again. “Been dreaming about this cunt for months. Squeezing me like you were made for it.”

The pace was merciless from the start—deep, punishing strokes that slapped skin against skin, his balls hitting her clit with every thrust. One hand wrapped around her throat from behind—not choking, just possessive—fingers pressing just enough to make her head spin. The other cracked down on her ass again, then again, turning it bright red.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, pace brutal. “Me fucking you raw while my voice still echoes in your head? While you’re still clenching around the memory of my fingers?”

“Yes—god, yes—” She was babbling now, words slurring. “Harder. Deeper. Mark me. Make me yours.”

He pulled out suddenly—leaving her empty, aching—and flipped her onto her back on the couch. Legs spread wide, slip torn at one strap so one breast spilled free. He hooked her knees over his shoulders, folded her in half, and slammed back in—deeper angle, hitting that spot relentlessly.

“Look at me.” His hand gripped her jaw, forcing her eyes to his. “You don’t get to close them. You watch while I ruin you.”

She obeyed—eyes glassy, lips swollen. He fucked into her harder, thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight, fast circles.

“Come,” he ordered, voice raw. “Come on my cock like you came for the video. Scream my name. Let the whole fucking building know who owns this pussy.”

The command tipped her over. She shattered—back arching off the cushions, walls clamping down so hard he groaned like it hurt. A gush of wetness coated them both; she sobbed his name—“Jungkook—fuck—Jungkook—”—over and over as wave after wave ripped through her.

He didn’t stop. Kept pounding through it—chasing his own edge—until his rhythm stuttered. “Gonna fill you,” he snarled against her mouth. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

One last brutal thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside her—hot, thick pulses that made her clench again, milking him dry. His forehead dropped to hers, both of them shaking, sweat-slick, breathing like they’d run miles.

For a long minute, neither moved. The laptop was still open—video long since ended, screen dark. The room smelled like sex and sweat and something possessive neither of them wanted to name yet.

He pulled out slowly—watching his cum leak from her swollen entrance, mixing with her own wetness. She whimpered at the loss.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice softer now. He scooped her up—legs around his waist—and carried her to the bedroom. Laid her on the sheets still warm from her earlier sleep.

He stripped the ruined slip off her completely, then shed his sweats. Climbed in beside her, pulling her back to his chest, one arm banded around her waist, the other sliding between her thighs to cup her possessively.

“We’re not done,” he whispered against her ear, already half-hard again against her ass. “Not even close.”

She shivered, pressing back into him. “Good.”

The city lights flickered through the curtains. Dawn was still hours away.

And neither of them was sleeping tonight.

The bedroom door barely clicked shut before Jungkook had her back on the mattress—face-down, ass up, still leaking his first load down her thighs. He didn’t give her time to catch her breath. One hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest to the sheets; the other guided his cock back inside her in one long, punishing slide. She gasped—raw, oversensitive walls fluttering around him.

“Thought we were done?” he murmured against her ear, hips already rolling in slow, deep circles that dragged every ridge along her front wall. “We’re just getting started.”

He fucked her like that for long minutes—lazy but brutal, grinding so deep she felt him in her stomach. Then he pulled out, flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over his elbows, and folded her in half again. Missionary this time, but slower. Deeper. Every thrust deliberate, eyes locked on hers the entire time. No words—just the wet slap of skin, her sharp inhales, his low grunts when she clenched around him. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripped onto her collarbone. She reached up, nails raking down his chest, leaving red trails over ink.

“Look at me,” he ordered when her eyes fluttered shut. “Watch while I fill you again.”

She did. Held his stare through the next orgasm—hers first, walls pulsing so hard he groaned like it hurt. Then his—hips stuttering, cock throbbing as he pumped another hot load deep inside her, so much it leaked out around him when he finally stilled.

They didn’t stay there long.

He carried her to the living room floor—rug burning her back as he laid her down, spread her thighs wide, and sank back in from above. Reverse this time: she straddled him facing away, ass bouncing as she tried to ride. He didn’t let her control it. Hands clamped on her hips, yanking her down hard onto every upward thrust, setting a punishing rhythm. His palm cracked against her ass—once, twice—until the skin glowed red again.

“Bounce harder,” he growled. “Show me how bad you wanted this.”

She obeyed—hips rolling, back arching, moans turning into sharp cries every time he bottomed out. He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing fast circles until she came again—shaking, gushing around his cock, soaking his thighs. He followed seconds later, spilling inside her with a low “Fuck—take it all.”

Next was the wall—her back slammed against it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms locked around his neck. He fucked her standing, gravity driving him deeper with every snap of his hips. One hand braced beside her head; the other gripped her throat—not choking, just possessive pressure that made her eyes roll. She bit his shoulder to muffle her screams when the next orgasm hit. He bit her neck in return—hard enough to bruise—growling against her skin as he came again, flooding her until it dripped down her thighs and onto the hardwood.

They stumbled to the kitchen. He lifted her onto the counter—cold granite shocking her overheated skin. Legs spread wide, heels hooked on the edge. He stepped between them, thrust back in without warning, pace brutal again. The sound of skin slapping echoed off the tiles.

“You’re dripping everywhere,” he rasped, watching his cock disappear into her over and over. “My cum, your cum—such a filthy fucking mess.”

He reached past her, yanked open the drawer she kept her toys in—the one he’d once casually recommended she buy from during one of their calls. The small bullet vibrator landed in his palm. He clicked it on—low buzz filling the room—then pressed it straight to her swollen clit.

“No—Jungkook—too much—”

“You’ll take it.” He kept thrusting—deep, steady—while the vibrations wrecked her. “Come again. Milk me dry.”

She shattered almost instantly—sobbing, thighs shaking uncontrollably, walls spasming so hard he cursed under his breath. He didn’t stop the toy. Kept it pressed firm while he fucked her through another, then another—orgasms stacking until tears streamed down her cheeks, pleasure so sharp it bordered pain. When he finally came again—growling her name, hips jerking—he pulled out just enough to watch the last creampie leak out, mixing with her slick on the counter.

Dawn was bleeding pink through the curtains by the time they made it back to the bed. Bodies slick with sweat, cum, and exhaustion. They collapsed—her sprawled across his chest, his arm banded around her waist like he was afraid she’d disappear.

No grand declarations. No whispered I-love-yous. Just heavy breathing and the faint scent of sex hanging thick in the air.

He reached for the sheet, dragged it over them, then used a corner to gently wipe the sweat and mess from between her thighs. His touch was careful now—almost tender. He traced the fresh hickey blooming on her neck with his thumb, low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Fucked you stupid,” he murmured, voice wrecked.

She laughed—hoarse, spent. “Worth it.”

His eyes drifted to the laptop still open on the nightstand. The file name glowed in the dim light: 34 + 35.

He quirked a brow, thumb still stroking her skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shifted—slow, deliberate—until she was straddling his hips again. His cock—still half-hard—twitched against her slick folds. She leaned down, lips brushing his, voice a soft, filthy whisper.

“Means I wanna 69 with you.”

She kissed him then—slow, deep, tongues sliding together like they had all the time in the world. He smirked against her mouth, hands sliding down to grip her ass—fingers digging in, pulling her flush so her wet heat dragged along his length.

“Noted,” he said, voice dark with promise. “But next time? You’re gonna beg for it properly.”

She rolled her hips once—teasing, testing. “Challenge accepted.”

The city outside woke slowly. Inside, they stayed tangled—marked, wrecked, irreversibly changed.

No going back.

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A/N :

hi hi… i’m finally back after almost six months and i return with something very different from my usual style 👀

this one-shot is mostly smut very fast paced with a very light plot, heavily inspired by me looping 34+35 by ariana grande way too many times and honestly… i had way too much fun writing it.

if you enjoyed it, please show some love — reblogs, likes, comments, all of it really helps more than you know <3

i’ll be focusing on one-shots for a while as i get back into my rhythm before diving into series again. if you’d like to be tagged in future works, check out my taglist and let me know ♡

thank you for being here. truly.

thank you again for reading. really. it means a lot. ♡