Sometimes.

Most of the time, he knew the effect he had on people. He was attractive and fully aware of it — used to the stares, the flirting, getting approached constantly.

But what he never seemed to grasp was how deep it really was.

And that was exactly what was happening now.

After that night, he acted like everything was perfectly normal. Still called you bro even after he’d been face deep in your pussy. Still teased and joked around with you like the two of you hadn’t crossed a line you could never uncross.

Not a single mention of it. Not even a slight hint.

However, the worst part wasn’t the lack of acknowledgement. It was that he hadn’t kissed you or touched you since. Not once. Not even accidentally.

And it was killing you.

Now, being in the same room with him was becoming unbearable again — not from your guilt this time, not from tension, but from the temptation and restraint it took to not pounce on him the second he walked in.

And he didn’t make it easy.

He’s in a matching tracksuit today, unzipped just enough to show the black tank top underneath. A silver chain sits against his chest, glinting with every step he takes. His hair is parted down the middle, soft layers curling at the ends, framing his stupidly handsome face.

“Hey, whatchu cooking?” he asks as he strolls into the kitchen, voice lazy, warm.

You inhale slowly, trying to steady the tiny quiver threatening to peek through your voice. It was getting bad. Jungkook had never made you nervous before, not like this. Not to the point where you had to physically contain yourself.

“Nothing fancy…” you mumble, snapping your gaze back down the pot the second you realize you were openly checking him out. “You going somewhere?”

“No,” he chuckles, leaning a hip against the counter. “Why?”

‘Why’ he asks, like he’s not sex on legs right now. Like he doesn’t look good. It’s not even about the outfit anymore — it’s quite the casual outfit. But he makes it look way more outgoing than it actually is. 

But you wouldn’t tell him how good he looks.

He’s your best friend, not your boyfriend. Yeah, he licked and dragged his nose against your pussy just days ago, but he still wasn’t your boyfriend! Getting head from your best friend was fine, but you drew the line at compliments.

“Just asking,” you mutter, stirring the pot shakily, the spoon clanging against the sides. “How was your day?”

“Relaxing,” he says, tone going soft. “Took the day off, didn’t realize how tense I usually am when I’m streaming.”

“Well, you’re usually being watched by thousands of people,” you remind him. “That’s not a normal job. Maybe it’s time to start giving yourself more breaks.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in that cocky little smirk. He shakes his head slowly. “Can’t afford that. I’m in the top five streamers in the world right now, baby. Might get that collab with Kai Cenat soon.”

“Look at you,” you sing, smiling at him, dragging the words out just enough to tease.

He gets flustered at that, confidence cracking for a second as his cheeks tint pink, nose scrunching. 

“Stop it, stop it,” he mutters, half-laughing, glancing off to the side like he suddenly doesn’t know where to look. Cute. “Need help with anything?”

There’s a couple things you could think of. He could help relieve the absolutely disgusting ache between your thighs, the one that’s been building up since after that night. Maybe he could use his nose again.

Or try something different — maybe he could sink his long tattooed fingers inside of you, curl them against that sweet spot that actually makes you moan out loud. Rub his cock against your folds, tease your entrance a little. Or even just sit there willingly for you to get off just by looking at him, though that wouldn’t satisfy the burning need to feel his mouth on you again, or better yet, his dick splitting you open and pounding into you relentlessly.

But instead of asking him to fuck your brains out…

You just have him help around in the kitchen. Like a normal goddamn person and not some horny desperate bitch whose every thought circles back to his tongue on her pussy.

“Still humble enough to help your best friend cook?” you tilt your head, teasing lilt in your tone.

“Always,” he clicks his tongue, already reaching for the chopping board and knife. “You know I'd never switch up on my day ones.”

You let out a small chuckle as he settles beside you. The atmosphere softens, dipping into something almost domestic — quiet music humming in the background, the low simmer of the stove, cooking food to eat dinner together.

“And you?” he adds, starting on the vegetables. “How did today treat you?”

“Today was… it was okay,” you say quietly. 

“That’s it?” he laughs under his breath. “Okay?”

“I don’t know what to say,” you chuckle, but it comes out a little thinner than you mean it to. You suddenly become aware of how close he’s standing — the subtle heat of him, the way his arms move beside you. You lift your brows at him, trying to play it off. “I’m in the presence of a celebrity.”

“Oh please,” he scoffs. He glances at you again, the smile still lingering on his lips, but there’s a slight crease coming between his brows now — observant. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod quickly, like if you say it fast enough, it’ll sound convincing. Like it’ll end the conversation before he can look too closely.

You’re okay.

In the normal sense, at least. Mentally, emotionally — you’re fine. Functioning and stable.

Physically is an entirely other story.

He needs to step away from you immediately. Because if he stays this close for even a second longer, you’re not entirely sure you won’t do something reckless.

He doesn’t say anything more. Doesn’t bring up that night when he’d knelt between your legs in the dim light of your bedroom, his breath hot against your core. Doesn’t ask you what’s wrong or why you’re acting so weird.

It’s happening again — this maddening cycle you seem to find yourself in when it comes to Jeon Jungkook. Just like after he hopped into the shower with you, dick pressed up against your back, staring at your breasts, only for him to act so casual the rest of the week.

You’re losing your mind.

Every inhale draws in his scent — clean shampoo mixed with the faint musk of his cologne — making your pussy ache for friction. You press your legs together subtly, but it only worsens the need, your pussy clenching around nothing, desperate for him to just touch you.

And Jungkook standing beside you, chopping onions effortlessly, shouldn’t have you this wet. You can practically feel your arousal dripping out of you.

The silence between you is loud. So loud you can hear it even over the audible bubbling of the sauce in the pot. Over the occasional tap of the knife hitting the cutting board from Jungkook. Over Ariana Grande’s sultry voice from the TV speakers you’d put on before cooking, her lyrics about wanting to get ‘Nasty’ tonight making you hope Jungkook’ll somehow get the hint.

But he doesn’t seem bothered. Not one bit. 

God, you were getting really tired of this nonchalant bullshit.

It’s now been a week.

An entire week since that night. Seven whole days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.

And Jungkook still hasn’t acknowledged you. Not in the way you wanted him to, at least.

Not a suggestive touch. Not a flirty comment. He still hasn’t brought that day up.

Nothing.

So you decided you’d make him acknowledge you.

Despite the chilly weather creeping through the apartment, you started wearing shorts around the house every chance you got. Not just shorts — short shorts. The ones you rolled up at your hips, the curve of your ass peeking out from the bottom whenever you bent over.

If he was looking, you didn’t catch it.

He’d glance at you the same way he always did — eyes big and glossy, infuriatingly composed. Just the same neutral expression he wore every other day.

He’d check in about the most ordinary things — what you were watching, what you were cooking, where you were headed — his tone casual, almost absentminded. Sometimes he’d walk right past you without saying anything at all — like you were just another piece of furniture in the apartment.

Meanwhile, your entire body reacted to every small thing. The sound of his footsteps. The faint scent of his clothes. His presence overall.

Then he’d disappear into his room like he hadn't once had his head between your thighs.

You started taking long showers again.

Longer than usual.

The mirror was fogged up beyond recognition, your reflection reduced to nothing but a blurred silhouette. Steam would slip out slowly from beneath the bathroom door, like you were boiling yourself alive in there. The water ran far past what was reasonable. Past responsible. You couldn’t even bring yourself to give a shit about the inevitably hefty water bill.

You were starting to give up.

You didn’t know how much longer you could be around Jungkook before you did something humiliating — like corner him, grab him by that stupid chain around his neck, and start begging him to fuck you.

It was getting pathetic, truly.

You couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t focus. Every little sound he made had your stomach flipping. His laugh through the wall. The low murmur of his voice talking to his chat while on stream.

So you left.

Just like last time.

“Hello?” Jennie greets, blinking in confusion when she opens the door to find you standing on her porch, unannounced and visibly spiraling.

“Jen, I can’t do it,” you whine immediately, brushing past her and walking straight into her apartment like you live there. “We’re going over there tomorrow to start moving my stuff into here.”

She shuts the door slowly, eyebrows lifting. “What happened?”

She follows you back toward the living room, where her freshly washed laundry is spread everywhere — some folded, others waiting to be folded. You don’t even acknowledge that you’ve interrupted her routine, simply curling up on the couch like you belong there.

You hadn't told Jennie about that night with Jungkook. Not about what happened. Not even about the shower.

When you escaped to her place after the shower incident with Jungkook, she didn’t question it. You practically lived here half the time anyway. It wasn’t unusual.

But this time, she knew it wasn’t just to come over to chat, sip on wine, and laugh.

She lowers herself on the carpet in front of the couch, mirroring your crossed legs as she looks up at you, offering you her undivided attention. “Talk.”

“I think I have a crush on Jungkook.”

Jennie freezes completely, eyes widening as she blinks at you like the words didn’t quite register the first time. Her gaze locks onto your face, searching it carefully, as if she’s waiting for you to crack a smile and admit you’re joking.

You don’t. 

Her mouth parts slightly, but nothing comes out. She just stares.

The longer the silence stretches, the more your confidence starts to crumble. Your shoulders shift awkwardly, fingers fidgeting in your lap as you avoid her eyes for a moment.

Jennie’s still staring.

And it’s starting to make you nervous.

“Like… our Jungkook?” she asks slowly. “The one you live with, Jungkook?”

“Yes, Jen, that Jungkook,” you snap, panic making your tone more aggressive than you mean it to be. “Who the hell else would I be talking about?”

“I don’t know!” she shouts, shrugging helplessly as she shakes her head. “Surely there’s another one out there!”

She resumes folding the clothes she’d abandoned the moment you barged into her apartment in a frenzy, the motions quick and slightly frantic — each piece snapped into neat folds before being tossed into a growing pile beside her.

“A- are you sure you do, though?” she asks quickly, folding so fast that what’s supposed to be a relaxing routine looks more like a workout. “I mean, I’ve always seen him as a brother. I assumed you did too.”

“Oh my god, ew,” you groan, the sound muffled as you drag your hands down your face. “Please don’t say that. Don't ever say that again.”

“I’m serious!” she insists, the folding coming to a halt. “Maybe you’re just lonely. Or maybe it’s been a while and you’re confusing proximity with feelings!”

“Trust me, my brain is not confused,” you mutter.

She tilts her head. “Why don’t you just hit up Eunwoo again?”

“Fuck no,” you scoff. “He was hot, yes. But he was so… boring. Every time I slept with him, I had to fake it and get the job done myself.”

Jennie gasps dramatically. “No way.”

Her mouth hangs open before a grin threatens to pull at her lips. She tries to fight it. She really does. But the concept of the Cha Eunwoo being boring in bed makes her burst out laughing anyway.

“Jennie!” you shriek. “Focus!”

“Okay! Okay!” she says quickly, holding up her hands as the laughter dies down, though a stubborn smile still lingers at the corner of her lips. She inhales, trying to compose herself, eyes flicking back to you with renewed curiosity. “Well, when did this start?”

You go quiet.

How do you tell your best friend that you’ve been intimate with your other best friend — the one she’s known just as long — without detonating the group dynamic?

She says your name.

Not softly. Not gently. Warningly.

“Okay,” you inhale. “We took a literal shower together and then he noticed I started acting weird after that and I told him I couldn’t stop thinking about him in a way I shouldn’t and then he went down on me and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since and we haven’t talked about that night at all and it’s driving me crazy and I am so close to fucking that man it’s ridiculous!”

Silence.

On her end, at least.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, breath coming out in short pants like you’ve just sprinted a mile. Everything else suddenly feels too loud in the aftermath of your rambling — the low hum of the heater pushing warm air out of the vents, the slight crackling of the candles lit around her home.

Jennie, however, is completely silent.

She sits there frozen, sweatpants half-folded in her lap, eyes wide and fixed on you, obviously still processing what you just said.

“Well?” you demand, because you cannot sit in this silence any longer. “Say something!”

“I’m sorry,” she says carefully, lifting both hands to her temples and rubbing circular motions like she’s massaging her brain. “I’m just trying to process the fact that my friend ate my other friend's pussy.”

“Jennie!” you shriek again, horrified.

“Okay! Look… you want my honest answer?” she asks, straightening her posture like she’s about to give you a lecture.

You squint at her suspiciously. “I don’t know… do I?”

She doesn’t wait for your approval.

“I think you’re being dramatic, babes.”

You scoff softly, offended. “Excuse me?”

“I do,” she repeats, shrugging. “You’re spiraling instead of just talking to him. I mean… maybe you just need to bring it up to him. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

You chew on your bottom lip, doubt creeping in again. “I don’t know…”

“I mean, it’s clear he wants to fuck you too,” she adds bluntly.

“Ugh,” you moan at the mere thought of it, dropping your face straight into your palms when the image alone makes you unreasonably horny.

“Behave,” Jennie warns, teasingly.

“But what if you’re wrong?” you ask, doubt rushing in instantly. “What if he’s not bringing it up because he regrets it?”

“Oh my god,” Jennie groans, throwing her head back. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“It’s not insane to think that, Jen!” you argue, slapping your hands against the counter. “People regret things all the time!”

She says your name sternly.

“Men who eat don’t regret that shit.”

Your lips pucker up to the side, completely unashamed.

“He did eat it pretty good,” you admit.

“Alright.” Jennie physically recoils, face twisting as she returns to the pile of laundry. “I really, really do not want to hear what Jungkook is like in bed.”

“Oh, because I wanna know about Taehyung?” you retort back immediately.

“Hey! You haven’t known Taehyung for over five years, have you?” she shoots back, grabbing a balled-up pair of socks and tossing it at you. “All I’m saying is, if Jungkook regretted it, he would’ve avoided you. He hasn’t, has he?”

“I mean… no,” you admit, grabbing the socks from your lap and absentmindedly fiddling with them. “But we live together. There’s not much avoiding he could do even if he tried.”

Jennie tilts her head slowly, narrowing her eyes at you. “You did.”

You blink. “That’s- that’s different! I came here. He streams like six hours a day, he can barely leave the apartment.”

“Exactly,” Jennie counters calmly. “He streams like a maniac and still finds a way to talk to you.”

You open your mouth, ready to argue again, but the words stall.

You think about it.

About that night he helped you cook dinner. The casual way he’d ask where you were going whenever he heard your keys jangling, or how he’d check in on you in general.

You swallow.

“Okay, well… how do I even bring this up?” you ask, a little helpless. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not good at this.” you say, as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.

The smirk spreading across her face immediately makes you nervous.

“I might have an idea…” she says slowly.

You hesitate, already regretting asking. “That is…”

“Depends,” she says, tilting her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “How bad do you wanna piss him off tonight?”

Jennie was a nasty little shit.

But she was, annoyingly, way better at this than you’d ever be. When it came to guys, she just got it. After all, she had plotted on Taehyung for an entire year before he finally asked her out. 

So, reluctantly, you listened.

Her idea of getting Jungkook's attention was raunchy — send him nudes, your bare body laid out like an offering on his phone screen while he was on stream. You thought it was insane, your stomach twisting with a mix of terror and thrill as you fumbled with your keys at the apartment door.

This was an idea that could either fix everything or ruin your life in under five seconds. But quite frankly, it seems a little less nerve-wracking than actually having a conversation about how you want to fuck your best friend, who is also your roommate. 

It’s nearing eight when you get back home, Jungkook usually ends streaming at nine. The apartment is dark, blinds already down, and on the kitchen counter, a candle flickers softly — he always leaves it on for you when you get home late.

You quietly head into your room, the door easing shut with a soft click that barely muffles Jungkook’s voice filtering through the thin walls — raspy and low from hours of streaming making your thighs clench involuntarily. He’s bantering with his chat, chuckling at some dumb comment, and just the sound of it hits you like foreplay, already getting you wet.

It’s clearly been a while since anything’s touched you right.

Back at Jennie’s place, you asked her to show you her own pictures as examples. Whatever, you had showered her that one time she was plastered — it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before.

It’s not like you hadn’t taken a nude before. In high school, you’d snap quick ones for that one boyfriend who begged. But you stopped doing that in college — potentially getting leaked being your worst fear at the time. You were just inexperienced as this wasn’t something you normally did now, all your boyfriends after high school and random hookups, you just invited them over and got the deed done.

So when you’re clad in a matching set you had bought for nobody but yourself, you stretch out on the bed, cool sheets kissing your bare thighs as you prop your arm high. You think of the advice Jennie gave — what angles were the best, to spread your legs a little, arch your back.

You take a few — one of your ass in the lacy black thong, twisting just enough to get it in the frame, one of your body stretched out across the bed, legs slightly parted, and one without the bra.

You stare at them. Delete one. Retake another.

When you’re satisfied, you toss your phone beside you across the duvet and reach for your bra, pulling it back on like you aren’t about to send Jungkook a picture of your bare boobs anyway. Your pulse is a little too fast as you lean over, grabbing your laptop from your bedside and flipping it open.

The screen lights up your face as you click into the browser, fingers moving quicker, and pull up Twitch. The layout loads before you type in his username.

mnijungkook

You click on the stream marked LIVE, and there he is, blessing your vision.

His hair is a tousled mess, dark strands falling over his forehead while the shorter pieces curl up at the ends. He’s slouched in his gaming chair, the white sweater baggy and oversized, zipped only halfway up his chest to reveal a tantalizing sliver of his creamy skin. That silver cross necklace dangles heavy against his collarbone, clear glasses perched on his nose — both from Chrome Hearts, a heavy purchase he let himself indulge in, and a reminder of the ridiculous amount of money he makes from streaming alone.

It’s clear he’s not wearing a shirt underneath, and you can’t help it when a jealous twinge knots in your stomach, sharp and possessive. Thousands of thirsty girls are tuned in right now, flooding the comments with crude comments and desperate pleas for him to notice them.

He’s taking a break from gaming, just chilling, fingers gently brushing his own lips, that silver ring on his thumb glaring.

It’s the perfect opportunity. And you know just how to steal his attention from his pathetic chat.

You reach for your phone, unlocking it quickly. Messages. His contact. The thread opens, painfully casual — just stupid fucking TikTok’s and you telling him where you were leaving for the day. You click the photos option, scrolling briefly before landing on one of the many raunchy photos you’d just taken.

With trembling fingers, you select one. 

Your finger hovers over the send button, hesitating just for a second. Your chest tightens as you glance back up at the screen, at him — smirking and chuckling, probably at some stupid comment he read. Cocky fuck.

Yet, you need that really bad.

You inhale deeply, then press it.

The message sends instantly. The word Delivered shows up underneath the photo, and a second later, the faint ding of his phone echoes through the walls.

Only then do you exhale.

It takes a moment for the stream to catch up, a slight delay that makes the anticipation worsen. But then he’s picking up his phone from the desk, unlocking it absentmindedly as if it’s nothing.

Delivered switches to Read.

You watch closely. His eyes widen — just slightly. He shifts in his chair, clearing his throat, trying to keep his composure like thousands of people aren’t watching him, like his chat isn’t ready to read into every tiny reaction.

Then he realizes the reflection in his glasses.

His hand comes up almost immediately, pushing them up into his hair as his eyes skim the comments flooding in. He scans the chat with clear paranoia now, reading too fast, like he’s trying to catch if anyone noticed anything they shouldn’t have. He gulps, throat bobbing, tension settling in his shoulders before his focus drops back down to your message.

You drop your gaze back to your phone.

And almost immediately, three little bubbles appear.

“Alright, chat,” you hear Jungkook announce, pulling the glasses out of his hair and setting them down on the desk. “Something came up. I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Maybe. I love you all, night.”

It’s abrupt. Just a quick sign-off like he’s trying to get out of there as fast as possible without making it obvious.

The stream ends.

A rush of excitement hits you instantly. You shut your laptop and push it aside, your heart racing now that you won’t have to watch him through a screen anymore.

Seconds later, he’s busting through your door without knocking — like he usually would.

“Hey,” he calls in Korean, the word rough and edged with frustration as he trudges into your room, stopping at the edge of your bed. He doesn’t sit down — instead, he towers over you, face leaning closer to yours, his gentle scent wafting into your space. “What’re you doing?”

His brows are knitted tight, and his ears flush a deep red that creeps down his neck. Your gaze drops instinctively — his sweater hangs as he’s bent slightly, and you can’t help but look inside, where he is, in fact, not wearing a shirt underneath. Then your eyes trail lower as they lock onto the unmistakable bulge straining against his gray sweats.

“Dunno what you mean,” you shrug, forcing a pout onto your lips, playing dumb and feigning innocence. “Just wanted to show you this set I got.”

“Bull. Fucking. Shit,” he spits, leaning even closer until his face hovers mere inches from yours, the necklace dangling from his neck and swinging forward, the cool metal nearly brushing your chest. “You can’t do that while I’m streaming. Thousands of people, and you send me that?”

“What?” you chuckle, light and breathy. “Would you rather I walked in and asked you?” 

“Are you being serious right now?” he scoffs in disbelief.

You look up at him, fighting back a smile that threatens to creep up on your lips, your body aching with need — not just from how devastatingly attractive he looks, but from the frustration in his eyes when he’s mad. You can practically feel your arousal gushing out of you, and you press your thighs together for a moment of friction.

“I told you to wait until after, didn’t I?” he presses, tone low and warning. “There are a lot of people watching me, I don’t think you realize how closely they notice things.”

“And yet, they didn’t see anything,” you counter, tilting your head with a teasing arch of your brows, voice dripping with mock innocence. “What are you all worked up for?” 

He doesn’t say anything, just shuts his eyes and turns his head, a low exhale escaping through his nose, chest rising and falling as he seeks composure.

Your lips hover near his ear, breath warm and ragged as you whisper, “What’re you gonna do, Jungkook? Did you end the stream for nothing?”

He turns back to you, gaze silently shifting down your body instead of talking back, before snapping back to your eyes. It flickers lower, to your lips.

Without warning, he crashes into you, mouth claiming yours in a kiss that’s everything but gentle — lips attacking yours with animalistic force. He growls low in his throat, the vibration rumbling against your mouth as his tongue thrusts past your teeth.

He shifts, climbing onto the bed. He gets on top of you in one fluid motion, body pinning yours to the mattress, hips settling between your thighs. You can feel his stiff cock press right up against your core, the hard length grinding against the soaked lace of your thong. 

Jungkook pulls back from your mouth with a wet smack, lips glistening with mixed salivas, eyes dark and low as he looks toward the nightstand drawer beside your bed. He yanks it open with a rough tug, rummaging inside for a second before pulling out your pink vibrator. 

“How did you…” you start, voice cracking, trailing off into nothing as embarrassment consumes you. 

“Think I can’t hear this shit?” he rasps, that signature smirk curling at his lips. “Always thought about what you look like when you use it. Can I see?”

You nod slowly, almost in a daze, teeth sinking deep into your bottom lip. Jungkook hooks a finger into the thin string of your thong, brushing the sensitive skin of your hips as he drags the lace down inch by inch. The fabric peels away, clinging to your wet folds before he tugs it free, leaving it dangling halfway down one leg.

He settles lower as he stares down at your pussy, lips parted in hunger. Slick coats your lips, dripping out of your entrance. A low groan rumbles from his chest, and he brings a hand down, palm pushing your thigh wider before he dips a finger between your folds. 

“Missed you,” he mutters quietly, the words not aimed at you but at your pussy, like he’s greeting an old lover.

So fucking stupid. But it sends a fresh gush of arousal flooding out of you anyway, your walls clenching around nothing, aching to be filled. 

Jungkook’s thumb flicks the power button on the base of the pink vibrator, and an insistent buzz vibrates through his palm. The sound fills the room, mixing with your ragged breaths as he lowers the toy, pressing it directly against your clit. A sharp moan spills from your lips at the contact, your body arching off the bed as the buzzing pulses straight into your core, sending sparks of pleasure to your cunt.

His gaze snaps up from where he’s focused, locking onto your face — your mouth parted open in a silent gasp turning vocal, brows furrowed and eyes shut in ecstasy. Jungkook drinks in your expression, cock twitching in his pants, and a whine slips from his throat.

He leans in without a word, capturing your lips in a deep, hungry kiss. His free hand slides up your neck, fingers curling around your throat — not squeezing, just holding you there, feeling your pulse against his palm. All the while, he angles the vibrator firmer against your clit, pushing the buzzing head into you, increasing your pleasure as the vibrations drill deeper.

He breaks the kiss just enough for his breath to fan against your lips. “Knew you were desperate for something,” his mouth trails lower, lips brushing lightly over your jawline, nipping at the sensitive spot below your ear. “Was waiting for you to do something bold.”

Turns out, Jungkook wasn’t as oblivious as you thought.

He just loved tormenting you.

He noticed the shift in your demeanor after that night — of course he did. The way you couldn’t maintain eye contact the next day, the way you kept conversation short, how you went stiff and tense whenever he entered the same room as you. You got all weird again, just like you did after the shower.

And if he hadn’t known any better like last time, he probably would’ve asked you what was wrong. But he didn’t. Because now, he did know. 

This time, he wanted to see how long it took before you broke, before you finally begged him to fuck you the way you wanted. The way he wanted.

What he didn’t know was that you knew how to play this game better (Jennie, technically — but he didn’t need to know that).

You meet his eyes with a smug, lazy smile spreading across your swollen lips. “Got what you wanted?” you ask, tone laced with challenge, your hand reaching up to thread fingers through his messy hair, tugging lightly.

“Maybe,” he admits, a low chuckle slipping from his lips. His hand trails down from your throat, fingers skimming over the black lace before dipping into the cup of your bra. He squeezes your breast fully, palm engulfing the soft, heavy flush. “Didn’t know you could be such a brat when you want something, though.”

You’re embarrassingly close, the tight knot in your lower belly twisting, ready to snap and flood your body with release. If he wasn’t laying between your thighs, his strong hold prying your legs wide open to expose your dripping cunt, you’d be closing them in on the toy. 

“Feel good?” he rasps, dark eyes consuming your pleasure. “I know it does. You love this thing, don’t you? Can hear you use it every fucking night.”

“Kook, I’m- g- gonna…” you moan out, the words fracturing into a whimper as the pressure builds. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his sweater, clutching a fistful over his broad shoulder.

Big mistake.

Because just then, Jungkook yanks the toy away from your clit, the sudden absence ripping the vibrations from your cunt. He flicks the switch off with his thumb, the loud buzzing dying to silence, broken only by your ragged pants.

You look up at him, completely puzzled. “You cannot be serious…” you breathe, voice hoarse with disbelief. 

“Mmm,” he muses. “Why should I let you cum?”

“I can’t fucking stand you,” you scoff, the words laced with amusement even as frustration bubbles up in your chest. 

“Yeah, I don’t really like brats either,” he shoots back, lips curling into a smirk. He pushes up onto his knees between your legs, spreading his own, the muscles in his quads flexing against his sweatpants. Gripping the undersides of your thighs, he yanks you forward, draping them over his lap. The shift hoists your hips off the bed, leaving your pussy bared beneath him, folds slick and swollen. “Maybe I shouldn’t give you what you want at all, hm? Leave you here to fend for yourself?”

“Careful,” you still tease, pissing him off further, fully aware he could drag out the edging all over again. “You almost sound like your ego’s bruised.”

“Keep talking like that, and you’ll get nothing,” he threatens, though he’s not intimidating at all. Deep down, you’re positive he wasn’t leaving this room until his cock gets some attention. Not this time.

He flicks the switch on again, the low buzz of the vibrator filling the room with that familiar, torturous hum. Slowly, teasingly, he drags the toy between your legs, the vibrating tip ghosting over your inner thigh first. Then, with the barest pressure, he presses it against your clit for a split second before he yanks it away again. A desperate whimper escapes your lips, hips bucking instinctively, as if that’ll help.

“Beg,” he demands, voice rough and commanding, repeating the torment. Another light tap against your clit before it’s gone again.

“Jungkook,” you pant, shutting your eyes as your face starts to burn, a mix of anger and desperation surging through you. You have half a mind to bring your foot up and shove him off the bed.

“Jungkook,” he mocks dramatically, chuckling as he holds the toy behind his back, teasing you as if your cunt wasn’t brutally throbbing right now. “That’s not begging, baby.”

He brings the toy down again for just a millisecond. And finally, a deep groan tears from your chest, raw and desperate. “Okay! Please! Please just… just touch me, I can’t…”

Satisfied, a smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth as he finally presses the toy firmly against your pussy. The vibrations pulse straight into your core, intense and relieving, buzzing against the swollen bud that’s been throbbing for his attention. You throw your head back against the pillow, an almost pornographic moan ripping from your throat.

“Take your top off,” he murmurs, face flushed and mouth gaped open. He grips the vibrator steady, circling it slowly now.

You waste no time, fumbling with shaky hands to reach behind your back. Your fingers pinch the hooks of the bra, unhooking it with a snap, the lacy fabric loosening instantly. You peel the straps down your arms before flinging it across the room.

Now you’re completely naked, skin prickling in the cool air while he remains fully clothed.

His eyes roam you like you’re a masterpiece. From your swollen lips to your collarbones, lingering on the swell of your tits, then lower to where the toy assaults your cunt. His brows knit together, a pained grimace twisting his features as his cock strains painfully against the confines of his pants. He shifts uncomfortably, biting his lower lip, but he focuses on you.

Emboldened by the way his gaze drinks in your nudity, you snatch his free hand from your thigh — the one with intricate tattoos that you’ve been dying to be touched with. You bring it up to your lips, entering his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, skin warm and soft against your tongue. It’s filthy and tempting, an example of what your mouth could do to his cock if he’d just let you.

He watches, mesmerized, jaw slacked like a fucking idiot. You pull them out, slick and shiny, guiding his hand downward without breaking eye contact, trailing it between your breasts, across your stomach until they hover at your entrance.

Begging paid off with Jungkook — you feel it when he doesn’t hesitate, thrusting those two fingers deep into your sopping cunt in one smooth motion. Your pussy swallows them effortlessly, so wet and ready that they slide in all the way to his knuckles.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans in Korean, the word dragging out in a deep, throaty moan.

You gasp sharply at the sweet stretch of his fingers filling your pussy after torturous teasing, back arching as you clutch the cool metal of his necklace, yanking him down hard against you. He collides with your body, mouths fusing in a frantic kiss. His fingers remain plunging deep inside your slick pussy, curling with every stroke.

“Faster,” you whisper against his swollen lips.

He complies instantly, his fingers slamming in and out of your dripping cunt at a brutal pace, your arousal coating his hand and trickling down his wrist.

“Y- yes, oh my god,” you cry out, hoarse voice cracking. “Just like that. Feels so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” he asks breathily, tongue licking that sensitive spot just underneath your ear, then he bites down lightly on your earlobe, tugging it between his teeth.

You whimper in response, a needy moan escaping as you bite your lower lip.

His mouth moves lower, tongue tracing wet paths along your neck, sucking marks into your collarbone, then lapping at the swell of your breasts. He reaches your tit, tongue swirling around your hardened nipple before he latches on, sucking hard and pulling it deep into his warm mouth.

Your fingers thread into his thick, black hair, gripping the soft strands tightly as waves of pleasure ripple through you.

“Do you think you finally deserve to cum?” Jungkook murmurs, eyes looking up at you. He leans in, pressing a trail of wet kisses along your ribs.

“Yes!” you cry out, your voice a high, breathless whine laced with desperation. “I do! Please, let me cum.”

“Yeah? You want it that bad?” he taunts, stupid smirk plastered on his face.

“So bad,” the words spilled out in a broken gasp. Your hips snap upward on instinct, pussy clamping down hard around his plunging fingers.

But he’s just as stubborn as you are, refusing to fully give you what you want. He slides his wet fingers out of you, turns the vibrator off once again, and throws it beside you carelessly.

“I’m going to fucking kill you-” you snap, sitting upright in a surge of frustration.

Jungkook shoves you onto your back by your shoulders. He picks a knee up, straddling your hips, locking you tight on either side of your waist to cage you in place. 

“I don’t think you deserve it just yet,” he says, voice low and gravelly. His fingers pinch the zipper of his sweater, dragging it down slowly. The fabric splits apart, exposing his bare chest — skin flushed, chest heaving up and down.

Your gaze lowers, catching the elastic band of his Calvin’s peeking above the waistband of his gray sweats. Beneath the thin fabric, his stiff cock strains upward, creating a massive, throbbing bulge.

“Will you finally let me touch you?” you murmur, voice laced with desperate hope, your fingers twitching at your sides, aching to wrap around his cock.

“Nah,” Jungkook denies with a slow shake of his head. “You’re gonna lay there and watch me.”

His fingers hook into the waistbands of both his boxers and sweats, yanking them down in one rough motion until they bunch around his muscular thighs. His cock bounces free, big and heavy. A low, needy whine escapes his lips at the sudden release from its confinement. 

Without hesitation, he grips his length with his right hand, still slick from your dripping arousal as he smears it all over his shaft in a firm, twisting pump. His fist moves up and down slowly, squeezing the base before sliding to the head, thumb rubbing the sensitive slit to coax out more pre-cum he uses as lube. His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, head tipping back as the relief and pleasure consumes him.

Yet his eyes snap open again, like he can’t risk missing even a second of you underneath him like this. His gaze drifts down your body — your breasts rising and falling, palms resting on his thighs, eyes glued to his body — as his fist slides along his cock, the wet sounds filling the room with his rough, panting breaths.

Saliva pools in your mouth, and you swallow hard as your pussy clenches at the sight above you. Memories of his body in the shower — cock dangling heavily between his thighs, already impressive in its soft state. But with it right in front of you like this, fully erect, it’s an entirely new level.

“Kook…” His name falls from your lips in a breathless awe as you stare, absolutely gagged by the monster he’s been hiding in his pants this whole time. 

He moans low and guttural in response, eyes locked onto yours as his tattooed hand pumps his thick cock faster in rapid, relentless strokes that make his biceps flex and bulge. A sheen of sweat begins to form on his toned chest and stomach, making his skin glisten. The silver cross pendant on his chain bounces with every brutal twist of his wrist, while his messy, damp hair shakes with the force of his movements, strands sticking to his forehead.

Underneath him, you squeeze your thighs together tightly, creating pressure to ease the throbbing ache.

“You’re so fucking difficult to live with,” he admits through gritted teeth, voice breathy and strained. “Every day you make it hard.”

“Yeah? Why is that?” you counter, tone sultry and teasing as your gaze devours every inch of him.

“Have to fight… ngh- t- the urge to not fuck you,” he moans out, the confession ripping from him, hips beginning to buck into his hand.

Suddenly, the guilt over your obsessive fantasies washes away, and you don’t feel entirely bad anymore — not when it’s clear he’s been living with the same desperate hunger.

“Then fuck me,” you gasp out, desperation hungrily laced in your tone as you arch your hips toward him, granting him permission — though he hardly needs it at this point.

“No,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Not today.”

“Why not?” you challenge, a slight pout forming at your lips.

“‘Cause you’ve been fucking with me all week,” he pants, arm jerking with every stroke. “Think I haven’t n- noticed the shorts you’ve been wearing? Showering even longer than you already do? And then you mess with me while I’m streaming?”

“Was trying to get your attention,” you reason, face getting warm as another wave of arousal gushes out of you. “Got it now, haven’t I?”

“Brat,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Though a smirk pulls at his lips, dimple peeking through his cheek. 

You bite your lip, eyes locked on his cock. The muscles in his forearm flex as he works himself closer to the edge, his breath coming out raggedly. He leans forward suddenly, his free arm shooting out to steady himself onto the headboard above you. 

“Gonna let me cum on you? Huh?” he pants, voice strained with the building pressure. 

You nod frantically, lost in a haze of your own denied arousal, pussy still throbbing from his earlier torment.

“Where do you want me, baby?” he moans, slowing his strokes just enough to hold it out a second longer.

Your hands move on instinct as you grab fistfuls of your hair and sweep it all to one side, baring the full swell of your breasts. You push the soft mounds together with your arms, jutting your chest toward him slightly like an offering, the movement making your tits jiggle enticingly, begging for his release to paint you.

The sight undoes him. His arm falters for a second before a deep groan rumbles from his chest as the first hot rope of cum erupts from his cock, splattering across the tops of your breasts. He keeps pumping, fist squeezing tighter at the base to milk out every last bit. The rest paints your skin from collarbone to nipple, warm and sticky. His abs clench sharply with each release, body shuddering and breath hitching into whiny grunts.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes fluttering shut as a wave of dizziness crashes over him from the intensity. He pushes himself off the bed, legs unsteady as he stands and kicks his pants the rest of the way down his thighs, letting them pool on the floor. “Hold on.”

You watch him walk out of the room, completely bare in your presence. The sight makes your thighs clench involuntarily for what feels like the millionth time tonight, arousal flooding from your aching pussy, wet and slimy as it coats the insides of your thighs. 

You remain sprawled on the bed, sighing deeply in contentment. Your clit throbs with neglected need, but the satisfaction of finally getting him to break is greater. After days of agonizing casualness with Jungkook — brushing past each other in the kitchen like nothing had happened, fueling your frustration — here you were, naked beneath him just moments ago and his warm jizz sticking across your skin.

The door creaks open again, and he saunters back in with a damp washcloth in one hand.

“You nut in my hair,” you whine as you touch the sticky strands clinging to your skin.

“Lucky you,” he teases, chuckling as he kneels beside you on the bed. He brings the warm rag to your chest, gently wiping away the fluid. The cloth glides over your breasts, catching every drop.

“No,” you pout, lips puffing out as you tilt your head to inspect the mess in your hair, fingers combing through. “It wasn’t even hair wash day today.”

“Oh, stop it,” he whines, amusement lacing his husky tone as he tosses the rag aside. “C’mere, I’ll make it up to you.”

He climbs back onto the bed, strong hands gripping your knees and forcing them wide apart as he settles between your thighs.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out, gaze locked on the mess between your legs. “So fucking wet.”

“It’s your fault,” you shoot back, a lingering grudge laced in your tone.

“Really? After that shit you pulled earlier?” he counters, a smirk tugging at his lips as his fingers slide up your inner thigh. Without warning, he pushes two of them straight into your sopping entrance as he curls them just right, brushing that sensitive spot inside of you.

You hum low in your throat, the sound turning into a needy whine. “You weren’t paying attention to me,” you still complain, even as you chase the friction of his fingers.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, fingers thrusting in and out with a gentle rhythm. The wet sounds of your pussy taking him fill the room, obscene and intoxicating. “Didn’t wanna coddle you. Just wanna give you your space.”

“It’s okay,” you moan, words dissolving into a whisper as you reach down, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer to your heat. “Just make me cum, I deserve it.”

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees, no hesitation in his tone.

His lips latch onto your clit with a firm suck, tongue flicking out to circle the sensitive nub. It pulls a sharp cry from your lips, thighs trembling against his hands as he holds you open, devouring you like he’s starved. His fingers continue working inside you, scissoring and stretching your walls while his mouth alternates between sucking hard and lapping his tongue over your folds.

Your back begins to arch off the mattress, every muscle in your core clenching as that neglected orgasm quickly surges back up after the endless edging he’s put you through. 

Then he nudges the tip of his round nose right against your clit, the firm press combined with the low vibrations of his own moaning sending you over the edge. You release with a choked cry, soaking his fingers and dripping down his chin. Waves of pleasure rip through you, grinding your wet folds against his face to chase every last spark. He doesn’t pull away — instead, he laps at you greedily, fingers replaced with his tongue as he drinks down every last bit of your arousal, and his nose still rubs up and down over your throbbing clit until you’re trembling.

When he finally pulls back, his lips glossy with your juices, cheeks bloomed pink — it’s like deja vu from last time. He rises slowly, hovering over you again, caging you in with his broad frame. But this time, there’s no teasing. He just leans in, capturing your mouth in a gentle kiss, tongue sliding past your lips to feed you the taste of your own essence. You moan into his mouth, sucking on his tongue as your hands roam up his back.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp, then drops his head onto your chest. A tired moan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he goes limp. “Didn’t even fuck you and I’m exhausted.”

You laugh breathlessly, the sound light despite the ache in your own limbs, tips of your nails massaging his scalp. “Still gotta shower.”

“Too tired to stand up,” he says quietly.

“We can take a bath,” you suggest softly. “I’ll wash you up.”

“Sounds nice,” he agrees, lifting his head just enough to press a lazy kiss to your collarbone, lips lingering like he doesn’t want to move.

“Yeah,” you murmur, smiling as you tilt his chin up for one more quick peck. “You’re washing my sheets tomorrow, though.”

He only groans in response before pushing himself up off you. There’s no warning when his hands find you again — firm, restrained — as he lifts you clean off the bed and throws you over his shoulder. You let out a startled squeal, instinctively grabbing onto him as he walks out of your room toward the bathroom.

At some point, your phone buzzes faintly from where it’s been abandoned.

It’s from Jennie — asking if everything went as planned. You don’t see it.

Because by the time you’re done washing up, Jungkook doesn’t bother getting dressed. Just dries off and pulls you into his bed with him, so casually — like it’s the most natural thing in the world — his arm settling around you, keeping you close.

And you let him.

You fell asleep there, in his space, in his arms — bare and vulnerable.

Things definitely weren’t going back to casual after this.

It was a constant battle. You always took ridiculously long to shower. Sometimes it was because you were genuinely scrubbing your skin and washing your hair for an hour, or shaving. Most times, it was because the water felt too good — relaxing your muscles until you couldn’t bring yourself to get out.

Meanwhile, Jungkook would be on the other side of the door, pounding and telling you to hurry up because he had to take a leak. And when you didn’t answer, he’d just come in and do it anyway. It wasn’t weird — you two had been friends since you were teenagers. Besides, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

And just like all those other days, here he was again, banging on the door and yelling for you to hurry up.

You rolled your eyes, trying to drown out his voice and lose yourself in the scorching water pouring on your skin. You’d spent the entire morning replying to hundreds of emails, your back aching from hours of hunching over your desk, your neck stiff from turtleneck posture. You just wanted this — a long, hot shower, and the rest of the day to finally relax.

Until you hear an aggravating voice calling your name.

“Please hurry up! I have to stream in a bit and I need to shower!” Jungkook shouts from the other side of the door.

“Kook, I just got in!” you yell back, head tipping back in frustration.

“No, you haven’t! You’ve been in there for half an hour!”

“Well, you’re gonna have to wait!”

He groans, then shouts your name again. “I’m so serious, if you don’t hurry up, I’m going in there with you!”

“Well, I’m not getting out!” you say back.

And with that, Jungkook twists the doorknob and walks in.

“You’re not serious!” you exclaim, seeing his blurry silhouette through the fogged up shower door.

“You left me with no choice, bro,” he says, already stripping his clothes off.

You don’t say another word, completely flabbergasted.

There’s no way. 

Before you could doubt him again, the door opens and he steps into the tiny shower with you, one hand on your bare back as he nudges you forward to make room.

“Jungkook!” you scream, covering your breasts.

“Fuck, why’s it so damn hot in here?” he says, leaning forward and adjusting the water, his bare chest brushing against your back.

“This is so weird, Kook.” you mutter, turning slightly to glare up at him.

“Relax. I won’t even look at you,” he says, eyes squeezed shut as he lathers shampoo through his hair. “I just need to wash up and I’ll be out.”

You try not to look either — you really do — but he’s right there. Water and soap slide down the solid lines of his chest, tracing the dip of his toned stomach before disappearing out of sight. Your gaze follows before you can stop it, curiosity flickering where it shouldn’t. He’s so big, even on soft.

You swallow hard, snapping yourself out of it. Then you turn around and push him back a little, his chest firm beneath your palm.

“You’re hogging, dude. I need to wash my conditioner out.”

His eyes stay shut, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “No one’s stopping you.”

You’re facing him — way too close for comfort — as you tilt your head back under the water. He finally opens his eyes, but his gaze stays low, focused on the way he scrubs his torso with the washcloth. Foam and bubbles lather over his skin, gliding down the water.

It’s respectful, really. How he isn’t ogling at you — a naked woman right in front of him — like any other man would. And somehow, that only makes it worse. Makes you want him to look.

God, you can barely breathe. He’s so close. His knuckles brush your ribs, a light bump that sends a jolt through you.

“Sorry,” he says in Korean, though his tone is completely casual.

You blink at him. What the fuck? How the hell is he so calm about this? You two have never seen each other naked — not that there was ever a reason to. Are you overthinking it?

He cracks one eye open, catching you before you can even look away. You’re still staring at his chest as he scrubs, and he lets out a low, breathy chuckle.

“Y’know, you're staring real hard for someone who said this was weird,” he teases.

Your eyes snap up, wide. “Shut up. You’re weird.”

“Hm. Okay, perv,” he says with a lazy grin.

“Just- hurry up and get out!” you snap, turning back toward the water to hide your face.

“Well, someone’s hogging the water!” he retorts.

“Hmph!” you huff, crossing your arms before stepping aside to let him under the water.

He rinses the soap from his hair, water streaming down his body and splashing everywhere like a wet dog — droplets hitting you from every direction. Annoyed, you twist the shower to hot, and when the water heats up, Jungkook yelps.

“Bro, you’re actually so annoying. C’mere!” he laughs, grabbing your shoulder and pulling you under the stream with him as he shifts it to freezing cold.

Your back collides with his slippery front, his arm instinctively looping around your waist to steady you. The sudden contact steals your breath — but before you can even process it, the cold water hits, and you let out a scream.

“Jungkook, please!” you shriek, trying to pry his arm off your waist.

“Brat,” he laughs, holding you in place as the freezing water pours down on both of you.

“Jungkook!” you shout again, squealing. “I’m genuinely going to kill you!”

He just laughs harder. Meanwhile, you can barely breathe through your shivers. Goosebumps start to form on your skin, but you can’t tell if it’s from the cold water or Jungkook’s cock pressing into you.

“Okay, seriously! It’s cold and I can feel your dick in my ass, dude!” you finally gasp, twisting in his grip.

He finally releases you and you immediately turn the water back to hot, the rush of warmth hitting your skin in relief and the glass immediately fogging up. He’s still laughing as he opens the shower door, grabbing his towel from the rack and getting out.

“Annoying ass,” you mutter, brushing water from your face.

“Yeah, yeah. Pervert,” he says back, wrapping the towel around his waist as his eyes flicker down to your chest.

“You just looked at my boobs!” you exclaim, brows knitted.

He shrugs. “You were looking at mine first?”

You grab the shower door handle and slam it shut. “Next time, I’m locking the door!”

“Yeah, and try showering faster!” he calls back, leaving the bathroom and shutting the door with a click.

Jungkook has always just been your best friend.

He’s funny, dorky, and has that annoying boyish charm that somehow made him impossible to stay mad at. You’d known him forever — too long to ever think of him that way.

But ever since he hopped in the shower with you the other day, your brain wouldn’t shut up. You kept replaying it — the proximity, his skin against yours, his cock literally pressed up against your ass. And now, every time he walked by, you couldn’t act normal without feeling carnal.

How could you not? It's not exactly normal to shower with your best friend. And this was all his fault, anyway!

You started seeing Jungkook in a completely different light.

The air got colder, and he was back to living in hoodies — cozy, oversized ones that made him look effortlessly attractive in a boyfriend way. His hair was always messy, his face bare, and every time he walked around, you’d get that swooning girly feeling.

And even worse? The sweats. The fucking sweats. The way they hung low on his hips, the way they showed too much. His print visible through the fabric, reminding you how absolutely hung he is.

God, you are a pervert.

You’ve been avoiding him. Leaving the room whenever he walks in. He hasn’t noticed yet — or maybe he has, but he hasn’t said anything about it.

Working from home didn’t help either. You were stuck in the apartment with him every hour of the day since he worked from home too. Your earphones and endless emails were enough to distract you for a while, but once the day ended and you were left in bed with nothing but your thoughts, it got bad.

And it was especially worse when you could hear his voice.

“Chat, I’m not taking off my hoodie,” you hear him say from his room, muffled but still clear through the thin wall. “It’s cold and I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

Then he laughs — low and knowing. 

Fuck.

You’d checked your period tracker earlier. Of course you were ovulating. That probably explained why every little thing he did suddenly aroused you ten times harder.

The ache between your thighs had been building all evening, a throbbing inconvenience that no amount of ignoring could make go away. Your pink vibrator sat in the bedside drawer, tempting, calling your name like a ritual. Quickly, you slid it open, fingers wrapping around the silicone toy.

You pushed the button, and the persistent buzz filled the room. The walls in this apartment were ridiculously thin; every word  came through like he was right there with you. You could hear him, his voice pushing through the barrier as he flirts with his viewers like the little tease he is. If you were able to hear him, he could definitely hear this toy's relentless whirring.

But you didn’t give a single fuck — you needed this too badly to stop or care.

Impatiently, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and panties, yanking them down in one swift motion. The cool air hits your wet and swollen heat, pussy clenching in anticipation and need. You spread your legs slightly on the bed, the sheets crumpling beneath you and you positioned the vibrator.

Then you hear his voice again. “Take it off anyway? Yo, chat! Behave!” He giggles softly.

Why did that make you even hornier? Imagining him there, taking his hoodie off and streaming shirtless, feeding his audience what they want. It makes you wonder if he’ll give you what you want. The thought has you trailing the buzzing tip along your inner thigh first, teasing yourself. Finally, you pressed it firmly against your clit.

The contact was intense — vibrations pulsing directly into that sensitive bud full of nerves. Your body jerked involuntarily, hips bucking as a sharp wave of pleasure shot throughout you, making your toes curl. You cursed quietly, a soft moan escaping before you bit down on your lower lip. 

On the other side of the hall, he drives you to your edge quicker. “No! Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jungkook chants, the words tumbling out in frustration. A deep groan followed, guttural and unrestrained. “Goddamnit! I was so close, then I fucking sold!”

He’s losing his shit over a game while you were about to cum from the pathetic sounds he was making.

You circled the vibrator slower now, grinding it against your clit in deliberate movements, the wetness coating the toy. Each stroke sent your nerves radiating, your pussy aching to be filled, but for now, this was enough — more than enough with his oblivious presence so close.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as your back arched off the bed. The vibrator thrummed at its highest speed now, the intense vibrations assaulting your clit relentlessly. All that lust you’d been bottling up poured out in a flood of slick heat between your thighs.

Living with Jeon Jungkook was torturous…

“Chat, one more round or should I end stream for the night?” His tone was casual, yet had you in full effect — oblivious to the way your pussy throbbed at the rasp in his voice.

A muffled moan escaped despite your efforts, vibrating against your palm. Your hips lift from the mattress, grinding your swollen clit harder against the toy. You can feel it coming — the tight coil in your tummy twisting, your walls clenching around the toy as arousal leaks profusely out of you. 

“One more round? Alright, just for you,” he replied to his viewers — that signature giggle slipping out, the one he does when he knows the girls and gays are already folding over the simplest things he does.

But you weren’t some thirsty fan in his chat. No, Jungkook’s effect on you ran way deeper than that — a constant simmer that turned into this frantic need to fuck yourself while listening to him. 

You threw your head back against the pillow, neck straining as you bit down on your knuckle, teeth sinking into skin to muffle the moan clawing up your throat. The pressure surged to its peak, your body locking up as the orgasm took over.

Your clit pulsed under the vibrator’s assault as the pleasure exploded, making your toes curl and your back arch. Slick seeped out of you, coating your fingers and the toy, the wet sounds barely audible over the buzz and your ragged breathing.

As you came down from your high, the overstimulation became too much. You yanked the vibrator away with a gasp, fumbling to turn it off, the sudden silence deafening — you could hear Jungkook tapping away at his keyboard, finger clicking down on the mouse. The toy rolled away as you tossed it somewhere on your bed, too spent to care about the mess on it right now.

One thing was clear: you hadn’t felt like that in far too long — your thighs shaking uncontrollably, your sopping heat still throbbing hypersensitively, that deep, aching relief lingering in your lower stomach. The raw force of it drained you, a sluggish feeling in your limbs.

Post nut clarity hit you like a truck, shame and guilt starting to eat at you: you came harder than ever, all because you were fantasizing about Jungkook, your best friend. That incident in the shower and all the glances you stole — his wet skin glistening under the water, those thick, muscular arms flexing as he lathered soap all over his body, and his heavy cock hanging between his thighs. It had all ignited this secret explosion of lust. It wasn’t forbidden, but it had felt that way since you’d never thought about him like this.

Now, the idea of him walking by while you were in the living room, or coming into the kitchen behind you, peering over your shoulder to see what was for dinner — it all makes your tummy flutter, like a stupid crush. 

No way you could keep living like this.

You managed to successfully avoid Jungkook for the rest of the week. Not that it was difficult — he’d been too busy with his streaming schedule, headset on and door shut most of the time.

It was ironic, really — living with Jungkook and yet not seeing him for days.

Still, you weren’t taking any risks. You’d started taking quicker showers — gosh, you missed standing under the water until your skin steamed. You hadn’t cooked in days either, constantly dragging Jennie out for dinner or inviting yourself over to her place instead. 

Now, the cold air had your hands trembling as you tried to fit the key into the lock. After a few fumbling attempts, it finally clicked, and you pushed the door open, grateful to step inside the warm apartment.

You’d just come back from Jennie’s place after a cozy pasta dinner for two. She had joked about you moving in with her instead, just so you could cook for her like that every night.

And damn, maybe you should’ve considered her offer — because the moment you walk into the apartment, Jungkook’s already there in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up and a pan on the stove. He must’ve just finished streaming. Poor baby probably hadn’t eaten all day until now.

On other days, you’d cook for the both of you. But tonight, you couldn’t shake the guilt crawling up your spine.

“Hey,” he says, glancing over his shoulder as you step inside.

“Hi,” you reply, quick and polite.

But suspicious.

Normally, you’d linger — maybe steal a bite of whatever he was cooking or tease him about the mess he was making. Instead, you head straight for your room without another word.

Jungkook’s brows knit together. That just won’t do.

Your door’s already shut by the time he follows, knuckles tapping against the wood.

You scrunch up your nose, already dreading the conversation you’re about to have with him. How do you tell your best friend of years that you feel guilty because you got off to his voice?

“Come in,” you call, trying to sound casual.

He walks in — looking good as ever. His hair is tousled, his hoodie hanging loose but still fitting him perfectly.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

Shit.

You shrug off your jacket and toss it into the hamper. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. You seem… weird.”

You sigh, turning away from him as you open your laptop, pretending to be busy. “Really, I’m okay.”

It’s quiet for a moment. And just when you expect to hear the door close, you hear him instead.

“Did something happen while you were out?” he asks, voice soft but worried.

You turn around to face him — brows slightly furrowed, that worry in his eyes making your chest tighten.

“No,“ you glance away, fumbling for composure. “I swear, everything’s okay.”

He still doesn’t look convinced.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” he presses.

You let out a nervous laugh. “I’m looking at you!”

You’re not. You’re very pointedly looking anywhere but at him — specifically at your nightstand. Yeah. That one.

“You’re not!” he whines.

“Jungkook, please.” You shut your eyes, trying to sound firm, though your anxiety betrays you.

“No! If something is wrong, you can tell me!” he insists, voice mixed with worry and frustration now. He takes a few steps closer.

“I said everything’s okay! Why won’t you just believe me?” you shoot back, finally looking up at him — a mistake, because he looks unfairly good even when he’s upset. Eyes bigger somehow, brows knitted in that way that makes him look both worried and boyishly stubborn.

“Because you’re not being believeable?” he says, as if obvious.

You sigh, looking down at your hands in your lap, the guilt gnawing away.

Then, quieter, almost hesitant. “Did… did I make you uncomfortable that day?”

Your head snaps up. There it is — the forbidden topic neither of you had spoken about since it happened. It feels foreign, like it shouldn’t have been brought up, but here it is anyway — being brought up.

“No, you didn’t,” you say quickly, almost too quickly. But he still doesn’t look convinced. “Kook, no. I swear you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“Then what’s wrong?” he asks, almost pleading now. He knows you too well — knows the difference between you’re fine and you’re pretending to be fine.

“It’s me, okay?” you blurt out, looking away. “That wasn’t exactly a boundary we should’ve crossed as friends, and now….” You exhale shakily, cheeks getting warm. “Now I feel guilty because I can’t stop thinking about you in ways I shouldn’t.”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

You can feel his gaze burning into you, and every inch of your body wants to sink straight to the floor. You brace yourself for it — for him to laugh and tell you he doesn’t see you that way. Or tell you you’re like a little sister to him. Either way, you’re already planning to text Jennie and tell her you’re moving in, because there’s no way you’re surviving this humiliation.

“You’ve… been fantasizing about me?”

Your head snaps up. A smug, satisfied look plastered all over his face — it has ego written all over it. His lips curl into a slow, teasing smirk, and his hands slip casually into the pockets of his sweats like he’s enjoying this way too much.

Of course he is. Of course this cocky little shit would love hearing that.

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Oh my god, Jungkook, you actually need to die.”

“That’s basically what you said, though!” he argues, clearly entertained.

You drop your hands and glare at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asks, tilting his head, that little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he takes a step closer.

“Don’t be annoying.”

“Okay,” he says, hands raised in surrender — though he quickly slips them back into his pockets, that smirk turning into a soft smile. “I’m sorry.”

Your lips press into a thin line, your face hot. “Well?”

“What?” he asks, blinking at you like he’s clueless.

“Aren’t you going to reject me?” you ask, exasperated. “Actually, do it now so I can start packing.”

He just chuckles quietly. No rejection. No teasing comeback like he usually would’ve done.

“Come here,” he says, nodding his head toward himself.

“Jungkook…” you hesitate.

“Come here,” he repeats, firmer this time — his voice deeper, leaving no room for argument.

You roll your eyes before finally pushing yourself up, dragging your feet toward him like you’re walking into something you shouldn’t.

Once you stop in front of him, Jungkook’s hand slides around your arm — firm but gentle — and he guides you down until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You sit, confused, eyes darting up at him.

“What are you trying to do?” you ask warily.

Instead of answering, he kneels down in front of you. His face is level with yours now, expression unreadable but somehow still soft.

“Whatever happened to that guy you were hooking up with?” he asks suddenly.

“Eunwoo?” you blink, caught off guard. “We stopped.”

He hums, leaning in slightly. “And since then?”

You hesitate, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “It’s… been a while.”

His tongue clicks as his lips curve. “You poor thing.” He plants his forearms on either side of your thighs, caging you in. “No wonder you got all weird after the shower.”

You roll your eyes and shove lightly at his chest. “Shut up.”

He laughs teasingly, but doesn’t budge.

“And you?” you ask, lifting your chin, trying to stabilize your voice.

He tilts his head, smiling faintly. “Nope. Too busy streaming.”

He’s so close now, closer than he’s ever been — even closer than that incident in the shower. Your heart pounds vigorously in your chest, your frantic heartbeat echoing in your ears, and you’re sure he can hear it too. Heat floods your face, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“So… if you want to…” he murmurs, leaning in even more until his breath fans hot against your lips.

“Don’t you have a bunch of streamer girls you know that you could fuck instead?” you ask, breath hitching as your thighs clench together instinctively, trying to subdue the ache between them.

“Don’t want them,” he whispers as he closes the gap further.

His lips brush yours — not a full kiss yet, just a tentative bump, testing the waters, giving you the chance to pull back if you want to. But you don’t. You can’t.

The moment stretches, and then he crashes into you like a man starved. His mouth claims yours, lips soft yet demanding, tasting faintly of the sweet balm he slathers on after every shower. His tongue slips past your parted lips, exploring, tangling with yours.

His hands roam boldly now, sliding around your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He pulls you flush against him, trapping you completely in his grip, your body pinned by his solid weight.

With a sudden surge, he lunges forward, laying you down. He hovers over you, lips never leaving yours, devouring you with sloppy, urgent kisses, sucking on your lower lip before diving back in to taste every flavor of your mouth. 

One hand trails downward, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings and panties. His palm is surprisingly warm, contrasting deliciously against your colder skin from the air outside.

He wastes no time, fingers delving lower until his middle one grazes your sopping pussy. You’re already so wet, warm slick coating his digits as it profusely drips out. The first touch sends a jolt through you, your hips bucking.

He adds another finger, pressing it firmly against the sensitive bud, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. A muffled moan escapes, vibrating against Jungkook’s mouth.

You break the kiss, turning your head to the side, teeth sinking into your lower lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out louder.

“How long exactly is a while?” he asks, voice husky, laced with amusement.

God, you’re not even facing him, but you can hear that smug smirk in his tone, feel it in the way his fingers pause just to tease.

“Five months,” you gasp out, the admission hanging heavy in the air, your body trembling under his touch.

He doesn’t respond with words — just pushes two fingers deep inside your soaked pussy. Your walls clench around the intrusion, slick heat welcoming him, and you throw your head back with an audible moan.

He leans down, lips finding the curve of your neck, starting with a gentle kitten lick of his tongue before his teeth graze the skin. He bites down — not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to mark, sucking the spot until you feel the delicious sting straight to your core.

Your hands fly up, cupping his face, thumbs brushing his sharp jawline as you pull him back into a feverish kiss. Tongues messily clash again. In response, his hand inside your pants speeds up, fingers thrusting in and out with a steady rhythm. The squelching of your arousal grows louder, filling the room.

“You haven’t eaten today, have you?” you manage through moans, your thumb rubbing soothing circles over the apple of his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under your touch.

He chuckles low in his throat, the vibration rumbling against your lips as he leans into your hand. “You’re really doing this right now?”

“I-“ Your words cut off as his fingers curl sharply inside you, pressing against your inner walls with precision. A moan rips from your throat, your body shuddering. “I feel bad. Haven’t been cooking for you because I was embarrassed.”

“Don’t. That’s not your job,” he says, his smile evident in his voice, eyes gleaming at how sensitive you are, how every twitch and gasp fuels his ego.

“Don’t wanna starve you,” you whimper, the words tumbling out through the haze of pleasure.

“No?” He tilts his head, that playful dominance shining through as he watches your face contort.

You hum in agreement, shaking your head weakly.

“Okay, I’ll eat then,” he says.

He withdraws his fingers slowly, the sudden emptiness making you whine in protest, your pussy clenching around nothing as your sticky arousal gets on your thighs.

You exhale shakily, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath, but before you could regulate your breathing, Jungkook’s hands are at your waistband. With a forceful tug, he pulls your leggings and panties down your legs in one rough motion.

“Jungkook!” you exclaim, voice pitching higher as embarrassment floods. “What’re you doing!”

“About to eat,” he replies casually, kneeling between your legs hanging at the edge of the bed. “Since you’re so worried about my appetite.”

“This is not what I meant,” you protest, thighs closing in futile attempt to hide.

“Come on,” he whined in Korean, playful but insistent, his accent thick. His hands gently but firmly pry at your knees. “Been a while, hasn’t it? Let me take care of you.”

“Do not use that against me!” you whine back.

He switches tactics, those pleasing eyes boring into yours, one hand resting warmly on your knee. 

You’ve thought about this for days now. The cool press of his lip rings against you, how good he is with his tongue. The thought alone makes more arousal seep out of your entrance. Your legs part instinctively, opening wide for him, a silent invitation.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, dimple peeking as he leans in. He starts with soft kisses along your inner thigh, nipping lightly at the skin until goosebumps erupt. His eyes stay fixed on yours, intense and unwavering. But the intimacy gets too much, and you avert your gaze to the side, biting your lip again.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your thigh. “Look at me.”

Obediently, though with a hint of attitude in your narrowed eyes, you turn back, meeting his stare. It feels exposing, vulnerable, but the command in his voice sends even more arousal out of you.

He pushes your thighs wider, fingers digging into the soft flesh to hold you splayed open, your pussy on full display — swollen, wet, clit begging for attention.

Finally, he leans in closer, his breath ghosting over your heated core, making you shiver. His tongue darts out, licking a stripe right over your sensitive clit. Immediately, a sharp wave of pleasure shoots down your spine, your hips jerking into his mouth further. Your thighs quiver, instinctively trying to close in on his head, but his grip is stronger, keeping you spread at his mercy.

He holds your gaze as he buries his face deeper, the metal of his lip rings against your folds. His mouth latches onto your clit fully now, lips sealing around the bud as he sucks — gentle at first, then harder, tongue flicking rapidly against it. 

The suction pulls a quiet moan from your open mouth, your back arching, pressure building in your lower tummy. Slick coats his chin, dripping down as he devours you, humming in approval at your taste, the vibrations adding another blissful yet tormenting sensation.

He lowers his face further, his tongue extending to lap directly into your sopping entrance. The tip of his tongue presses inside, tasting your arousal, swirling against your inner walls as he gathers more of your juices. Then, his nose nudges firmly against your swollen clit, the firm bridge bumping it with just the right pressure.

“Y- yes, Kook, right there,” you moan, the words spilling out in a breathy plea as you lean back on one arm, propping yourself up to watch him work, your free hand gripping onto the sheets. 

He starts moving his head up and down in a steady rhythm, the rounded tip of his nose circling and pressing into the throbbing nub, intensifying the friction. His tongue stays buried inside your pussy, thrusting shallowly, lapping up your warm slick.

A deep hum vibrates from his throat, the sound muffled against your heat, like he’s seeking your approval or praise, dark eyes flickering up to lock onto yours. The lower half of his face is completely buried deep between your spread thighs.

You nod frantically, eyebrows knitting together in ecstasy, your bottom lip caught so tightly between your teeth that you’re convinced you might’ve drawn blood. “Fuck, yes, just like that,” you gasp, the praise fueling him as your body trembles.

Jungkook’s own brows furrow in concentration and bliss, his expression twisting like he’s savoring the richest feast imaginable — and he is, devouring your pussy with all his focus. Breathing is a challenge with your thighs clamped around his ears and your pussy coating his mouth and nose, but the thought doesn’t discourage him; he’d gladly suffocate between your legs.

His gaze never wavers from your face, taking in every detail: the way your features contort in pleasure, eyes half-lidded and glassy, your lower lip now visibly swollen from the abuse of your teeth.

Driven by your reactions, he shoves his face even deeper, the hard ridge of his nose bone grinding harder against your clit, providing relentless friction that builds the coil in your tummy tighter. His tongue plunges further inside, fucking into your pussy with wet, slurping strokes that echo obscenely in the room, pushing you toward the brink.

“Jungkook, baby, I’m already so close,” you moan, your voice coming out hoarse and hushed, strained from all the moaning and restraint.

Your hips start to rock subtly against his mouth, and he hums again — the low vibration rumbling straight through your core, making your clit pulse against his nose and your inner walls clench around his invading tongue. That sensation ignites something within you — your hips buck forward, grinding harder into his face, chasing the pressure as you smear more slick across his skin.

You throw your head back as louder moans tear from your throat, your entire body flushing hot, skin prickling with sweat. The orgasm crashes over you, seizing your muscles in a frozen moment of pure intensity before you convulse, thighs shutting around his head, pussy clenching as your cries fill the room.

After a few blissful seconds, the aftershocks turn into overstimulation, the continuous lap of his tongue and nudge of his nose becoming too much on your hypersensitive nerves.

“Okay! Okay!” you giggle breathlessly as you push at his shoulder with your foot, trying to create some distance while your body still twitches.

Jungkook finally pulls back with a low, guttural moan, his tongue darting out to lick his lips clean of your essence, savoring the sweet taste. He rises slowly, crawling up your body, his eyes low and dark with lust.

You haven’t laid a single hand on his cock yet, but he looks utterly wrecked — face flushed a deep pink, hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead with sweat. Your arousal glistens across the entire lower half of his face, from his chin to the bridge of his nose.

“Your face is all wet!” you giggle again.

He doesn’t respond verbally, just leans down to capture your lips in soft, lingering pecks, as if he suddenly can’t be apart from you for even a moment, sharing the faint tang of your own essence between you.

“Alright, munch,” you say with a teasing lilt, pressing your palms against his chest to create space, sitting up alongside him on the bed. “Go wash up.”

“Fine, fine,” he succumbs, getting off you with exaggerated defeat, hands raised in mock surrender as he stumbles to his feet, legs a bit unsteady like he’s had one too many drinks, his bulge straining obviously against his sweats.

“Need help with that?” you ask, your voice light and teasing, eyes flicking pointedly to the obvious problem between his legs.

“Nah,” he groans, the sound low and rough. “You rest, I’ll take care of it.”

“And eat a real meal, please?” you call after him, voice laced with affectionate concern as he heads toward the bathroom.

“I just did!” he yells back, the playful retort echoing down the hall, followed by the sound of running water.

You snort, a hand coming up to cover your face as laughter bubbles out.

Yeah, you wouldn’t be texting Jennie tonight. You’re right where you want to be.

Even as friends, you knew only fragments about him. How he liked his coffee — black, bitter, not even a pinch of sugar. That he didn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or any kind of digital footprint beyond an email address. 

And then, of course, there was the part you hadn’t known.

That he was Superman.

He hadn’t wanted you to find out — you could tell by the way he stammered and lied through an explanation the night you confronted him about it. But Clark Kent was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was, and you were far too observant. He was conveniently missing whenever Superman was needed. Once could’ve been a coincidence, but every time? No way.

Over time, he was okay with you knowing. He trusted you.

You were his friend. And friends trust and help each other.

Which was why you had helped him get all the way here — to his parents’ home, a beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was quiet. Safe. 

You’d been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis many times — a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows, glossy black marble tiles, and simple, modern furniture.

It couldn't have been more different from the warmth of his parents’ farmhouse in Kansas. Here, the floors were scuffed wood, every step creaking faintly, and the whole house carried the scent of timber with a soft undertone of cinnamon. Memories were painted on the walls — framed photographs of smiles, family trips, and holiday dinners.

Clark’s parents were the kind of people who opened their home to you as if they’ve been waiting for you your whole life, their kindness effortless and genuine. It was a home that radiated comfort and care, and suddenly it made sense why Clark was so well-mannered and grounded. He’d grown up in the center of it all.

His childhood room was left untouched. Band posters and old movie prints clung to the walls, their corners curling. A shelf in the corner displayed trophies and figurines that had clearly been handled and loved. For all that he was, Superman, the man who could save the world and never expect anything in return, there was something disarmingly ordinary about this space. About him.

A low groan from behind you broke through your thoughts.

“You’re still here,” Clark murmured from the bed, his voice low and hoarse. He was lying down, one hand pressed over his ribs like the pressure alone could hold him together. The suit still clung to him, faint streaks of dirt and ash dulling the bright colors. The Kryptonite’s grip had loosened, his veins back to their normal color, but he was still weak. The sun was already setting. He’d be fully recovered by morning.

“Did you want me to leave?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his gaze.

“I- No!” His head lifted slightly, urgency in his tone. “I’m just… surprised.”

There was something behind that word. Not shock, exactly, but disbelief — like he wasn’t used to someone waiting for him to recover. Like he’d expected to wake up alone.

You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under each step, and lowered yourself into the chair beside his bed. His eyes followed you, searching your face, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask softly.

“Pain,” he replied, a faint, breathy chuckle escaping before his eyes slipped shut. The sound was quiet, but it still carried that small thread of warmth you’d learned to recognize in him.

“Holt said you should feel fine in the morning, once the sun starts coming out,” you told him, keeping your voice gentle, like anything louder might press against his headache.

His gaze flickered, something unreadable in it before he looked away. “I wish you’d stayed in Metropolis,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re safer there.”

You shook your head without hesitation. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The softness in his tone gave way to steel, the same voice he used when there was no room for argument. “You could’ve gotten hurt just by being seen with me. If something happened, I-“ His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”

You leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t,” you said, your tone steady but gentler than your words. “Stop stressing yourself out, Clark. You’ve done enough. You should get some more rest.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted against the pillows, wincing a little. His hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, eyes flicking to you and then away again.

“I, uh… I don’t…” He paused, licking his lips. “I don’t really like sleeping in the suit. It’s- uh- kinda uncomfortable. I was just… wondering if- if you could maybe… help me? Just with, y’know… the top part.”

“Y- yeah, sure,” you stammer, pushing yourself up and moving closer. Because you’re his friend. And friends help friends.

You help him sit up slowly, his breath hitching with a groan as his ribs protest the movement. Carefully, you reach behind to detach the cape, your fingers brushing the fabric with a softness that contrasts the roughness of the moment.

Then your hand finds the zipper at the back of his suit. You pull it down slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of his creamy pale skin beneath — smooth, vulnerable, so human.

Clark’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours for a brief second before they close again. The silence between you stretches filled only by the soft sound of the zipper and his shallow breaths.

You help him pull the suit off his arms, the fabric sliding away to reveal his upper body — bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. His chest is broad and muscular, every line defined, almost unreal in its strength. The same goes for his biceps, thick and strong. Suddenly, your own nerves flutter, caught off guard by the closeness, the unexpected weight of this moment.

You steady the back of his neck as he leans back against the pillows, low groans rumbling from deep within him.

“You sure you don’t want me to… take it all off?” you ask quietly, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

If the room weren’t so heavy, if Clark wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve thrown out a teasing, flirty comment about you trying to get him naked. But tonight, none of that comes.

Instead, he looks at you — eyes searching, silent, as if he’s trying to say something without words. Like he wants something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for.

“If you’re okay…” he murmured quietly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of the suit. He lifted his body as much as he could, every moment careful but willing — doing what he could to make it easier for you.

You kneel at the foot of the bed, fingers working at the heavy boots until they come off one by one with soft thuds against the floor. Then, with a firm grip, you take hold of the suit and give it a swift tug, the fabric sliding away until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.

On any other day, the situation might’ve been awkward — but tonight, he’s too worn down, too sore to care. His head stays against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, breaths slow and shallow.

You keep your gaze steady, careful not to linger, and carry the suit to his closet. The weight of it settles onto the hanger with a soft rustle, the deep blue and red now looking strangely still without him inside it.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, turning toward the door. But before your hand even reaches the knob, he calls your name. “Yes?” you turn back. 

“Don’t go back without me,” he says, his eyes pleading in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Stay here for now. With me.”

You look at him fully this time. His body is bare, save for the thin stretch of fabric covering his hips. You’ve never seen Clark like this — stripped of the cape, of any clothes at that. It isn’t weird in a seeing your family member naked kind of way. It’s… different. Raw. It makes you nervous in a way you don’t want to think too hard about.

“I’m not going anywhere, Clark,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

You reach for the door again, but he calls your name once more.

“Yes?”

His lips curve faintly. “Thank you.”

You smile back. “Of course.”

Because friends help friends.

Clark awoke with a start.

The pain in his side had eased to a faint ache, and the heavy fog of fatigue was gone. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the nightlight on the nightstand.

His mouth was dry. A glass of water sounded perfect.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got up and reached for the robe hanging on his closet door. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on. Then, with slow, careful steps, he made his way toward the door, moving quietly as he descended the creaking staircase.

He walked through the dark with ease — even half-asleep, his steps were quiet and calculated — but he flipped the kitchen light on anyway. The soft hum of the bulb filled the silence. He grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it from the fridge, and downed it in one long swig, the cool water sliding down his throat, washing away the dryness.

“Clark?”

Your voice was soft, groggy. He turned as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

And then he saw what you were wearing. His sweatshirt — the gray one, hanging loosely on you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips — and pajama pants cinched tight at your waist, the legs pooling around your feet.

“Hi,” he said, the word coming out softer than intended.

“Why are you awake? What time is it?” you asked, coming to stand beside him at the kitchen island, tugging the long sleeves of his sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — over your hands.

He noticed. And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Almost three,” he murmured after glancing at the clock. “I don’t know — just woke up. Can’t sleep.” His sigh was low, weary, as he leaned onto the counter, elbows braced, thumbs fidgeting like he needed to keep them busy.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his face.

“Nothing,” he said too fast. Then let out a small groan as he rolled his shoulders — and you caught the grimace of discomfort on his face.

“C’mere,” you said with a knowing smile, motioning him closer. “Let me help.”

He hesitated, a faint smile ghosting over his lips — as if to say you don’t have to do that.

But you were already moving behind him, resting your hand on his shoulder. 

The robe was loose, soft beneath your palms, parting slightly as he shifted. You could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. He was broad, solid, so much bigger than you; your hands looked almost delicate against him as you kneaded at the hard line of muscle beneath his shoulder blade.

“Yeah, right there,” he groans, throwing his head back as you press your thumbs into a stubborn knot in his shoulder. The sound is low, unguarded — almost inappropriate for something so innocent.

You press your lips together, heat rising in your cheeks. His robe has slipped just enough to bare more of that solid shoulder, warm under your palms. You feel every twitch of muscle beneath your tiny hands, every breath he exhales as he leans heavier on the counter.

“Better?” you murmured, digging your thumbs in a little deeper.

“Mhm,” he said, the sound deep, almost a growl in the back of his throat. His head tipped forward, giving you more access.

Your thumbs worked lower, along the edge of his shoulder blade, and you felt the faint shift of his breath — slower now, heavier. 

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “you have no idea.”

You cleared your throat, swallowing.

“Alright,” you murmured, stepping back before you got carried away. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He didn’t argue — just pushed off the counter lazily and obediently. The robes knot at his waist had slipped slightly, a slight peek of his chest and the line of his collarbone. Your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, and you snapped them away just as quickly — but not quickly enough. He saw you.

You turned on your heel, making your way out of the kitchen, pretending you hadn’t been caught looking. Behind you, his mouth curved, faint and knowing, and he followed behind you.

Clark could smell you. Not just the faint trace of soap on your skin, but something stronger, intoxicating — the subtle tang of arousal that hit his scent with every shift of your steps. His jaw tightened. You were just causally walking, but he could hear the faint, wet sounds between your legs.

“Here, come sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he insists, acting like he didn’t know your dirty little secret.

“No, it’s fine-“

“Please,” he cuts you off gently, a quiet firmness in his voice. “Mom and Dad get up super early anyway. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up.”

You press your lips together, trying to argue, but his earnest expression makes it pointless. Finally, you sigh, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”

His own smile is softer, lingering just a little too long. “I’ll walk you up.”

You climb the creaking stairs, Clark right behind you. Every step is weighted with tension, a quiet electricity that makes your pulse race. 

You reach the room and begin to speak. “Clark, I-“

But before the words can form, the door swings shut behind him. The sound echoes sharply in the quiet house.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Hungry. No hesitation. Your heart skips, your knees go weak, and the air between you shimmers with everything that’s been simmering for hours.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath, but the tension in his body is still taut. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, hair falling down his forehead, and those blue eyes darkened with something raw and hungry — lust, need, something you’ve never seen from him before.

He waits. Silent, expectant. Waiting for words you don’t have. Waiting for you to say stop, or a Clark, you’re reading me wrong — but none came.

Instead, your hands find the back of his neck, gripping him, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips meet yours again, feverish and demanding. Every inch of him pressed close, every gasp and low groan filling the space around you. You don’t pull away. You can’t.

He groans against your lips, words muffled but urgent. “Could smell how wet you are,” he breathes, “wanna feel it.”

You don’t pull back. “Touch me, please,” you murmur, guiding his hand. His fingers, much larger than yours, slither inside his your pants. He slides a finger up your folds, warm and slick, and you shiver against him.

“C- clark,” you moan, breath shaky, pushing your hips further into his hand.

The house is quiet, his parents asleep down the hall. Nothing exists outside the room — just the press of lips, the taste of each other, the wet, delicious sound of him touching your sopping pussy.

“Can I taste it, too?” he asks, lips and kisses trailing down your neck.

“Yes,” you moan, shivering. “Please.”

Without another word, he sinks to his knees, hooking a finger into the waistband of the pajama pants you’d stolen from him and pulling them down. You step out, bottom half bare, your panties gone in the washer with the rest of your clothes.

He looks up at you, holding your gaze, and then leans in closer. His tongue flicks out before he takes the first careful lick of your sensitive clit. His eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, as he tastes the sweet, wet arousal that’s been coating your inner thighs. You gasp, already hypersensitive, nearly collapsing at the slightest touch, knees weak from the rush of pleasure.

“So sweet,” he whispers against your clit, mostly to himself — but you can hear it, and can’t help smiling through your breathless moans.

Your fingers thread through his raven curls, brushing the strands from his eyes so you can watch his face. His brows are knitted tight in focus, lips and tongue working you over like he’s starving for it.

“Oh, god,” you moan, voice cracking. “Fucking hell.”

He hums low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide up, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth until his face is buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to breathe you in — like he wouldn’t mind suffocating there.

His eyes flutter open, locking on yours as his lips seal around your clit. The heat of his tongue makes your knees weak, and then — oh fuck — he moves one hand from your ass and slides a finger inside your sopping hole. Just one, but with how big his hands are, it feels like so much more.

You’re grateful for how wet you are; it lets him push in smoothly, his finger gliding in and out with ease while his mouth works your clit.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, breath coming fast.

“You like that?” he murmurs against you.

You nod frantically. “Fuck, M’gonna cum already, you’re so fucking good at that.”

He smiles against your clit, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Then, cruelly, his mouth disappears, his finger still stroking inside you but slower, lighter, just enough to drive you crazy.

“Clark,” you whine, breathless. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. His finger curls, hitting that perfect spot, and your legs tremble.

“Please,” you gasp, hips grinding down to chase his mouth. “Please, Clark- I need you-“

Instead of finishing what he started, Clark pulls back abruptly, sliding his fingers out of you — leaving you achingly empty. You whimper at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, but he’s already grabbing your waist and laying you down flat against the bed.

His chin glistens, but he doesn’t bother wiping it. The robe slips from his shoulders with a careless tug, revealing nothing but hard planes of muscle and smooth, golden skin. You take a shaky breath as he pushes your knee apart with ease, positioning himself between your thighs like he owns them.

You let out an audible whine. He’s taking far too long on purpose, and he knows it.

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, low and steady, sinking onto his stomach. His fingers find your clit with maddening precision, spreading your slick over every swollen inch before sliding back inside, stretching you deep. “Just wanna make you cum first… before I fuck you.”

His fingers start to scissor inside you, stretching you open, and you can’t help the moan that slips out — soft, but loud enough to make Clark cautious. Quickly, his free hand grabs the hem of your sweatshirt and yanks it up to your mouth.

“Bite down,” he orders, pushing the fabric between your lips. You obey instantly, teeth sinking into the cotton, your muffled sounds vibrating against it. “That’s it. So good for me.”

Then he’s back down, tongue sealing over your clit. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, and your legs try to clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t let you — his arm hooks around your thigh, holding it wide open with effortless strength, practically hugging your leg against his head as he devours you.

You moan into the sweatshirt, muffled and ragged, hips bucking involuntarily into his mouth as your body trembles with need.

He groans low, mouth pressed to your clit, fingers pumping relentlessly inside you. The friction, the slick heat, the press of his mouth — it all coils tight inside you until you can’t hold back.

Your walls clench around his fingers, gripping him, legs instinctively squeezing shut as the heavy wave of euphoria crashed throughout your body. Your chest rises and falls wildly, and your moans spill out muffled but desperate, through the fabric he shoved into your mouth.

He drinks you up thoroughly before pulling back, lips glistening, dimples peeking through as he licks them. His fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean as well, tasting your arousal like it was the sweetest treat.

He climbs back up, pressing himself face to face with you, and carefully pulls the now-wet fabric of the sweatshirt out of your mouth.

“You’re a dirty man,” you tease, breathless.

“Didn’t hear you complaining a minute ago,” he replies, leaning down to press a quick, teasing peck to your lips. “You want more, or should we just go back to sleep?”

You bite your lip, suddenly shy, the memory of what just happened making your stomach flutter. “Want you,” you murmur, voice soft but certain.

He smirks before leaning down, kissing you so gently it has you weak, tongue exploring yours as if trying to memorize every curve. He pulls back with a final, teasing peck, holding himself up above you.

Then, with one swift tug, he strips off his last piece of clothing and tosses it aside. His cock bounces free — flushed pink, thick. and standing tall, almost smug about the way it makes your breath hitch.

Kneeling over you, he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours. 

“Clark,” you say, voice stern but trembling.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, a soft moan escaping him.

“You’re so… big,” you admit, eyes wide.

“You can take it,” he replies, calm but commanding.

“No, I don’t think I can,” you whisper, heart hammering.

“Yes, you can. C’mon,” he urges, lowering himself closer, teasing the tip against your clit.

He pressed just enough to mix your slick with his pre-cum, dragging it along your folds, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, sharp and insistent. You don’t even think about pulling back anymore.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You hesitate, then nod anyway, heart pounding.

He smirks and taps his tip against your pussy a few times, making you jolt, before finally pushing it inside. Just the head slips in at first, the stretch sharp but addicting.

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“Y- yeah… just- just go slow,” you breathe, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater like a lifeline.

Clark nods, obeying, easing inch by inch. The intrusion burns and thrills all at once. He’s not just long — he’s thick, every bit of him prying you open, molding your body to fit his. You’ve never taken anything like this, not even your little friend sitting in your drawer beside your bed back at home.

“You’re so warm and tight- fuck,” he groans, eyes fixed on where you’re joined, watching every slow inch disappear inside you.

Your hand slips down instinctively, pressing against your stomach as he bottoms out with a deep, shuddering breath.

“God, you’re gonna split me in half,” you manage, half joking, mainly serious.

Clark lets out a low chuckle, eyes squeezing shut like he’s hanging into control by a thread. “You got it. Just… give me a second.”

The thin layer of sweat on his body glows under the dim lighting, tracing every line of his chest, his abs, those massive arms you secretly wouldn’t mind being in a headlock by. You stare, unable to look away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.

“Mhm,” you hum, still pressing where you can feel him through your stomach.

You can feel him through your stomach.

“Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, gaze dark and steady on you. “Gonna move now, okay?”

You nod frantically, fingers fisting the sheets on either side of you, bracing for what you already know is about to be the ride of your life.

Clark pulls out slowly, painfully, then eases back in with less resistance this time. You’re dripping, slick coating him, smearing over the tops of his thighs with every deliberate push. It’s so warm, so wet, every nerve screams at how good it feels.

“Go faster,” you breathe, voice shaky.

His eyes flick up to yours, brows raised. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you moan quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to stay composed.

He pounds into you harder, setting a faster pace, and the flimsy twin bed groans against the floorboards with every thrust.

You tug at the hem of the sweatshirt clinging to your overheated skin, desperate to peel it off.

“No,” he snaps, catching your wrists. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Keep it on. Wanna fuck you in this.”

He fists the sweatshirt though, yanking it up just enough for your tits to spill free. They bounce with every thrust, and his hand is on you instantly — rough, possessive — squeezing like he owns them.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “In my clothes. My bed. Taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hand drags slowly down to your waist as he leans close, his chest flush against yours. “Should just make you mine already, huh?”

You can’t even speak — he’s so big, stretching you to the point of insanity, every thrust knocking the wind out of you. It’s almost feral now, the pace, the way the twin bed screeches across the floorboards, springs crying out with every slam. The headboard keeps smacking against the wall, a steady rhythm.

Clark didn’t lock the door. If his parents wake up and come down the hall to investigate, you’ll both be caught — sweaty, naked, and guilty. The thought only makes your stomach flip harder.

“Fuck,” Clark grits out, suddenly stilling inside of you. One hand cradles your head as the other yanks a pillow out from under you. He shoves it between the headboard and wall, eyes flashing back down at you. “Pussy so good, gonna get me in trouble.”

“Clark, M’so close…” you whisper, breathless — too breathless to say it louder, or you’d scream it.

“Yeah? C’mon, baby,” he growls, rocking his hips rough and deep, “wanna feel you cum around me.”

The knot in your stomach tightens to something sharp, electric — not just release, something bigger, heavier. Your brows pinch together, sweat slick on your skin, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.

“M’gonna cum- c- cover my mouth, cover my mouth!” you squeal, the words tumbling out high and panicked.

Clark’s large hand slaps a hand over your mouth, his palm broad and warm, and you grab his wrist instinctively, your fingers not even reaching around it.

Your body seizes up, clenching around him, so tight it nearly drags him under with you — and then it happens. A sudden rush, a warm spray, your release spilling out uncontrollably, soaking his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.

Clark chokes out a moan, eyes blown wide at the sight. “Fuck…” His hips stutter, fighting for control, watching every drop. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen — and he’s already thinking about how to make you do it again.

You scream, drooling into his palm, but he couldn’t care less — if anything, it spurs him on. He keeps pounding into you with a ruthless rhythm, chasing his own high. And when the squirting doesn’t stop, when your pussy somehow clenches even tighter around him, he finally pulls out with a guttural curse. His hand works his cock in rough, urgent strokes until hot ropes of cum spill across your stomach, getting on the sweater as well.

He pulls off of you with a long, ragged exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I don’t want to boost your ego” you murmur, still catching your breath, “but that was my first time doing that.”

“Huh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Well,” you tease, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “No one can be hung like you are.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, a faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.

“God, Clark,” you breathe, glancing down at the mess, “now it’s gonna be obvious when I change clothes.”

“Hey, you made a mess too!” he whines, tugging at the rumpled sheets.

“You think we were being too loud?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch him wipe away all the fluids with the sheets he was going to wash anyway.

“Definitely,” he says with a grin, voice teasing as he gets up and looks for his robe somewhere on the floor. “Maybe we should just leave now… save ourselves the embarrassment.”

You smirk, shifting on the bed. “You might have to carry me this time, though. Just got my world absolutely rocked by Superman down there.”

He freezes for a second, then chuckles, fumbling for his robe and tying it back around his waist. “You did not just call my dick Superman,” he says, shaking his head, still chuckling.

You only hum, shrugging the sweater off and heading to his dresser to find clean clothes that don’t have his cum on them!

“Uhm…” he starts, fiddling with his hands like he can’t decide where to put them. “I… I wanna make things right. The whole… hook up stuff isn’t really my thing. So, when we head back to Metropolis… I was wondering if you- like, maybe you’d wanna go out for dinner, or stay in and I could cook for you instead? Or, um, if not that’s totally fine, I get it! We can just stay friends, act like nothing happened-“

“Clark,” you cut him off, walking toward him. “You just fucked the living hell out of me, and now you’re all shy?”

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “Sorry… so? What do you think?”

You nod, smiling. “I would love that. Honestly, I’d be pissed if you wanted to just stay friends after fucking me like that.”

He chuckles, sliding a hand around your waist to slap your ass. You squeal a little too loudly.

“Shh!” he hisses, leaning closer, smirk tugging at his lips.

You playfully swat him with the shirt in your hands. “You really underestimate your strength, you know that?”