#jo

boyfriend!jo who left his private sketchbook on the table, spine cracked and pages face down. he should have known you'd be curious about his work. you're always astonished by his varying styles, vivid interpretations of shared experiences. this time, however, you flipped the book over to reveal something you've never seen, at least not from that angle.

boyfriend!jo who has dedicated several pages of the sketchbook to lewd illustrations. ultra detailed, vibrant depictions of you, your pussy stretched and leaking, your lips swollen and coated in white. all hand drawn and from memory. you flip through the pages, thighs clenching, ideas brewing.

boyfriend!jo who comes home and sees the sketchbook face up, whose heart drops into his stomach as he anxiously peers into the kitchen in search of you, and who eventualy finds you on the bed, waiting for him with your clothes in a pile and your knees falling open.

boyfriend!jo who freezes in the doorway, watching your fingers pump in and out of your desperate hole. he feels his dick strain in his pants as your free hand gropes and twists at your nipple.

boyfriend!jo who manages to choke out a generous, "c-can i help you?"

boyfriend!jo who, after you reply with, "no, thank you, baby," seethes with lust, watching you bring yourself to completion in front of him. your orgasm racks over your body, your mewls and gasps sending all the blood to his cock.

boyfriend!jo who is so obedient, fetching his special sketchbook and sitting on the bed in front of you, just like you asked. as he settles, shifting uncomfortably from the way his dick is pressing against his jeans, you say, "i saw your drawings, jojo. you're very good, wouldn't you say?"

boyfriend!jo who cant stop staring at the crease of your thigh as you speak, your legs folded to one side. he knows what he wants from you but he just cant take it. he needs you to give it to him. "y-yes," he gulps, "especially when its you."

boyfriend!jo who has never been so needy, his mind actually spinning when you suggest, or rather insist, that he use you as a live model. "pose me however you want," you had said with a smile despite the venom of your intentions seeping between your words, "and if its good, i'll let you touch me."

boyfriend!jo who outlines your body on the page, truthfully and precisely. every curve, every shadow captured on paper to the best of his ability. with his tongue tucked between his teeth, he shades with a slanted wrist, washes the whole image in a gentle pigment, highlights the glistening slopes of your breasts and the pulsing slit of your pussy. and when he turns the book around to show you, you feel your face grow hot. his interpretation of you is perfectly honest and raw, beautifully executed.

boyfriend!jo who sighs into your pussy when you finally let him touch you, taste you.

boyfriend!jo who whines as you thread your fingers into his hair, grinding desperately against the bed as the taste of you covers every inch of his tongue. he was so good in every way.

boyfriend!jo who gets the most satisfaction just laying helplessly beneath you and letting you use him for your own pleasure. he loves watching your body roll and twist above him, caressing your thighs and, if he's feeling brave, ghosting his fingers over your nipples.

boyfriend!jo who knows hes not allowed to cum inside of you, so he fists the sheets and rolls his own hips to bring you closer to the edge. you know he's close when his frantic whimpers regress into concentrated breathing, teetering on stifled groans but just controlled enough that you know he wants to make you proud.

boyfriend!jo who lets you ride out your high before pulling out and spilling hot cum all up his stomach.

boyfriend!jo who shivers when you lower your tongue to his skin and lap the majority of it up, just before pulling the freshly drawn page out of his sketchbook and using it to wipe up the rest.

boyfriend!jo who takes the paper from your hand and drags it over the scattered droplets on his chest.

boyfriend!jo who, after a sudden rush of confidence, slides his sensitive tip through your pussy and sighs, "let me draw you while im inside?"

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

the art building wakes up before the rest of campus.

the halls still echo a little, footsteps too loud against concrete floors, sunlight barely stretching through tall north-facing windows. jo likes it this way. early means quiet. quiet means he can breathe.

he’s already there when most people are still asleep, sketchbook open, pencil moving in soft, practiced strokes. hands, mostly. always hands. he draws them like they’re something sacred. curved fingers, careful tension, the way palms tell stories without words.

he doesn’t notice you at first.

you’re leaning against the doorway, watching him with your arms crossed, expression unreadable. the kind of presence people feel before they see. someone passes behind you. one of the football guys, loud even this early.

“damn, you’re fine, you—”

you: “no.”

just one word. calm. effortless. he stops talking immediately. jo’s pencil pauses when the room goes quiet again. he looks up, eyes wide, startled like he’s been caught doing something private.

j: “oh—hi. sorry, i didn’t hear you.”

you step inside, heels clicking softly, gaze drifting from his face to his sketchbook.

you: “you’re here early.”

j: “i, um… yeah. i like the light better.”

you hum, leaning over slightly to look closer.

you: “you draw hands a lot.”

his ears turn pink.

j: “they’re expressive.”

you: “they’re honest.”

that makes him look at you. really look. you sit on the edge of the table beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, knee brushing his leg. he stiffens but doesn’t move away.

j: “do you… need something?”

you smile, small and unreadable.

you: “just wanted to see what you were working on.”

your fingers hover near the page, not touching. he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. the pencil starts moving again.

and for the first time in a long time, jo doesn’t mind being watched. by the end of the week, jo starts expecting you. it’s subtle at first. the way he glances toward the doorway when he sits down. the way he listens for footsteps that don’t rush or hesitate.

you show up between classes, always unhurried. sometimes with a coffee you don’t offer him. sometimes with nothing at all, just your presence filling the room. he pretends it doesn’t affect him. it does. today you drop into the chair across from him, chin resting in your palm as he sketches.

you: “you always get that look when you’re concentrating.”

his pencil stutters.

j: “what look?”

you: “like you’d do anything if someone told you how.”

he swallows.

j: “i’m just… focusing.”

you lean forward, elbows on the table.

you: “you’re really good at it.”

praise lands harder than teasing. he ducks his head, ears warming.

j: “thank you.”

the room fills with quiet again, broken only by the sound of graphite on paper. jo relaxes into it, until you shift closer, your knee brushing his this time on purpose. he tenses. doesn’t pull away.

you: “sorry.”

he shakes his head quickly.

j: “it’s okay.”

it feels like permission. outside, raised voices drift through the open window. laughter. someone shouting his name. one of the guys from ceramics class, loud and careless. jo’s shoulders curl in instinctively. you glance toward the window, unimpressed.

you: “they always this annoying?”

j: “kind of.”

you: “you don’t have to talk to them, you know.”

he blinks at that.

j: “i don’t want to be rude.”

you smile, slow and knowing.

you: “you’re not rude. you’re just quiet.”

he risks a look at you then.

j: “you don’t mind?”

you: “no.”

you reach out, briefly covering his hand on the pencil. just a second. grounding. intentional.

you: “i like that you don’t talk much.”

his breath catches. later, when you finally leave, jo realizes something unsettling. his sketchbook is open to a page he doesn’t remember starting. it’s you. not detailed. not perfect. but unmistakably yours. and he doesn’t erase it. jo learns things about you without meaning to.

it’s hard not to, when people talk the way they do. your name travels faster than you do, carried in half-whispers and exaggerated stories. untouched. unbothered. impossible. the kind of girl people try once and never again. he sees it play out in real time outside the student union. he’s sitting on a bench, sketchbook open but forgotten, when a group of guys pass you. one of them peels off, confidence loud and unearned.

“you should let me take you out sometime.”

you don’t even slow down.

you: “i’m good.”

“c’mon, i’m just asking—”

you stop walking. turn just enough to look at him.

you: “and i already answered.”

something about your tone shuts him up. he mutters something under his breath and backs off, embarrassed in front of his friends. jo watches, stunned. when you spot him, your expression softens immediately. you walk over like the shift is instinctive.

you: “hey.”

j: “hi.”

he hesitates, then gestures vaguely.

j: “does that… happen a lot?”

you shrug, sitting beside him.

you: “more than i’d like.”

j: “i don’t get why they think they can just—”

you: “because they think i owe them something.”

you glance at his sketchbook.

you: “i don’t.”

that settles something in his chest. a group of girls walk past, eyes flicking between the two of you. whispers follow. jo feels suddenly self-conscious, aware of how close you’re sitting, how your shoulder brushes his.

j: “people are staring.”

you: “let them.”

you shift closer, deliberate.

you: “they’re not the ones i’m here with.”

his face warms, heart tripping over itself.

j: “why… me?”

you look at him then, really look.

you: “because you’re gentle.”

your fingers tap his knee once, light but grounding.

you: “and you don’t expect anything from me.”

he swallows, nodding.

j: “i like that you choose me.”

you smile, small and real.

you: “good.”

and for the first time, jo sits a little straighter beside you, sketchbook forgotten, letting the world see what you’ve already decided. it starts with convenience. that’s what jo tells himself, anyway.

the art building couches are old and sunken, placed too close together like someone wanted people to sit wrong on purpose. when you drop down beside him, there isn’t enough space not to touch.

your thigh presses into his. steady. warm. he freezes. waits for you to move. you don’t.

you: “you okay?”

j: “y-yeah.”

he means it, too. his body just hasn’t caught up yet. you lean back, stretching your arms over the back of the couch. relaxed. unguarded. like this is normal. like he is normal. after a few minutes, you shift without warning and sit sideways, one leg draped easily over his lap. casual. unthinking. devastating. jo’s breath stutters.

j: “i—”

you: “is this too much?”

he shakes his head quickly.

j: “no. i mean—no, it’s okay.”

your weight settles. grounding. your hand rests briefly on his shoulder, thumb brushing once, absentminded. he melts. later, it flips. you tug him down gently by the sleeve, until he’s half-sitting on your lap instead. he’s stiff at first, posture awkward, hands hovering uselessly.

you: “relax.”

your hands guide him, firm but gentle, settling him where you want him. his body listens before his brain does. he exhales, shaky.

j: “i don’t usually… do this.”

you: “i know.”

your tone is soft. understanding.

you: “you’re doing great.”

that does something to him. his shoulders drop. his head tips forward, resting briefly against your collarbone like it belongs there. he makes a small sound before he can stop himself; embarrassed, needy.

j: “s-sorry.”

you: “don’t apologize.”

your fingers slide through his hair once, slow and deliberate.

you: “i like when you let yourself be held.”

he nods, cheeks burning, hands clutching lightly at your jacket like he’s afraid of falling. when he finally pulls away, he looks dazed. softer. changed. and when you stand, he reaches for your wrist without thinking. just for a second. you look down at him, smiling.

you: “yeah?”

j: “…nothing.”

you squeeze his hand anyway before letting go. jo spends the rest of the day feeling like something has shifted. like he’s crossed a line he doesn’t want to uncross. it happens after hours.

the art building is quieter than usual, lights dimmed, the air cooler. jo stays late to clean brushes he doesn’t need to clean, to wipe down tables already spotless. anything to keep his hands busy. you notice.

you: “you’re stalling.”

he startles, glancing up from the sink.

j: “i just—wanted to finish up.”

you step closer, leaning against the counter beside him.

you: “you always do that when you’re nervous.”

his shoulders tense.

j: “i’m not—”

he stops. exhales.

j: “okay. maybe a little.”

you don’t tease him this time.

you: “talk to me.”

he hesitates, fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie.

j: “i don’t really… know what i’m doing. with this.”

you: “with me?”

he nods.

j: “i like you. a lot. and i don’t want to mess it up by being… too much. or not enough.”

the words come out rushed, like he’s afraid they’ll disappear if he doesn’t say them fast enough. you reach out, lifting his chin gently so he has to look at you.

you: “jo.”

your thumb brushes his jaw once, grounding.

you: “you don’t have to perform for me.”

his eyes shine, emotions too close to the surface.

j: “i just want to do things right.”

you: “you are.”

you step closer, closing the space between you until he can feel your warmth.

you: “you listen. you ask. you stop when you’re unsure.”

your forehead rests lightly against his.

you: “that’s not nothing.”

his breath comes shaky.

j: “i don’t have a lot of experience.”

you: “that’s okay.”

firm. certain.

you: “we go at your pace.”

his hands lift hesitantly, hovering at your waist.

you: “you can touch me.”

they settle there like they’ve been waiting for permission. he exhales, shoulders sagging in relief.

j: “thank you.”

you smile, soft and real.

you: “come here.”

you pull him into a slow, careful embrace. nothing rushed. nothing taken. just closeness. just choice.

and when you pull back, the air between you feels charged. fragile. dangerous in the best way. something has been crossed. neither of you wants to go back.

the studio is empty. the sun has gone, and the overhead lights hum softly, casting long shadows across tables and easels. jo is already there, hands busy with a half-finished ceramic piece, but he’s distracted. he knows you’re here before he hears your footsteps.

you: “finally alone.”

he swallows, heart hammering. his pencil hovers over the clay like he might drop it at any second.

j: “i… didn’t expect—”

you: “didn’t expect me to follow?”

j: “i… no, i mean—”

your smile stops him mid-word. the kind of smile that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing. you step closer, close enough for your hands to brush his shoulders. the warmth sends a shiver down his spine.

you: “you’re tense.”

j: “i—i am.”

you laugh softly, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. he flinches a little, but doesn’t move away.

you: “good. i like when you’re nervous around me.”

his ears burn. he drops his gaze to the table, fingers fidgeting, but he doesn’t pull back.

you: “hands.”

his eyes snap up, and you lift one of his, holding it gently in yours. you trace his knuckles, fingertips brushing lightly.

you: “so capable. do you know how good they could be?”

j: “…i… i—”

you: “shh.”

your fingers linger on his jaw, holding him steady as you lean in for a kiss, his lips swollen and parted the second you pull back, chasing more. the studio's dim light catches the sheen of sweat on his skin, his chest heaving under the thin fabric of his shirt. you can see the bulge straining against his pants, his thighs shifting restlessly where he stands before you, close enough that his heat radiates toward you.

you: “on your knees, jo. show me how much you want this.”

he drops without hesitation, knees hitting the cool floor with a soft thud, his hands hovering uncertainly at your hips. his eyes flick up to yours, wide and pleading, that flush creeping down his neck. you nod encouragingly, guiding one of his hands to the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough for him to see the lace of your bra peeking out.

j: “like this?”

his voice is a whisper, fingers trembling as they push the fabric higher, exposing your stomach, then your ribs. you arch into his touch, letting him take his time, his palms sliding up to cup your breasts through the thin material. he squeezes tentatively, thumbs circling the hardening nipples, and you hum in approval, threading your fingers through his hair to keep him close.

you: “yes, just like that. don't stop now.”

he leans in, mouth brushing the edge of your bra before he tugs it down with his teeth, freeing one breast. his tongue darts out, licking a hot stripe over the peak, then closing his lips around it to suck gently. the pull sends sparks down your spine, and you press his head firmer against you, rocking subtly against the air between your legs.

he switches sides, lavishing the other with wet, open-mouthed kisses, his free hand trailing lower, tracing the line of your waistband. you spread your stance a bit wider, inviting him, and he takes the cue, fingers popping the button on your jeans. the zipper drags down slowly, his breath hot against your skin as he peels the denim away, along with your underwear, leaving you bare from the waist down.

j: “... can i taste you?”

you: “not yet. use your fingers first. make me feel good.”

he nods eagerly, one hand steadying on your thigh while the other slips between your legs. his fingertips brush your folds, slick already from the buildup, and he gasps at the wetness coating them. slowly, he parts you, middle finger circling your entrance before pushing inside, the intrusion warm and careful. your walls clench around him, pulling him deeper, and he watches your face for every reaction, adding a second finger when you moan softly.

you: “curl them... find that spot.”

he does, twisting his wrist, the pads of his fingers pressing against your inner walls until he grazes the sensitive ridge. your hips buck, pleasure blooming sharp and sweet, and he starts thrusting in earnest—pumping steadily, his thumb finding your clit to rub in tight, uneven circles. the lewd squelch of your arousal fills the quiet space, his arm flexing with each motion, face buried against your stomach as he works you higher.

j: “am i doing it right? you feel so tight... so perfect.”

you: “you're learning fast jojo.”

that fueled him up. his fingers plunging deeper, faster, scissoring to stretch you open while his mouth sucks bruises into your hip. the coil in your core tightens unbearably, your thighs quivering around his shoulders, until it snaps. orgasm ripping through you, pussy pulsing around his digits as you cry out, juices soaking his palm and dripping down his wrist.

he doesn't stop right away, easing you through it with gentler strokes, kissing your trembling skin until you tug him up by the hair. his face is wrecked. lips shiny, eyes dark with need, cock tenting his pants painfully.

j: “please... i need to be inside you. let me in you. i can't wait anymore.”

his plea tumbles out desperate, hands fumbling with his own belt, but he waits for your permission, body taut like a bowstring. you smile, predatory and fond, stepping back to the nearby stool and perching on its edge, legs parting wide.

you: “come here. show me what you've got.”

he shoves his pants down just enough, freeing his cock. thick, veined, tip flushed and weeping pre-cum. he steps between your thighs, gripping the base as he lines up, rubbing the head through your slick folds. with a shared groan, he pushes in, slow at first, your pussy yielding to his girth inch by inch until he's seated fully, balls snug against you.

j: “... so warm. so good.”

you wrap your legs around him, heels digging into his ass to urge him on.

you: “move. take me like i taught you.”

he starts thrusting, shallow at first, testing, then building to a steady rhythm—hips snapping forward, cock dragging along your walls with each plunge. you guide his hands to your breasts, showing him how to pinch and twist, and he follows, leaning down to capture your mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as he fucks into you harder. the stool rocks under the force, his grunts mixing with your moans, sweat slicking where your bodies meet. he angles his hips, grinding against your clit on every inward stroke, chasing both your pleasures under your watchful eye.

you: “that's it... deeper. make us both cum.”

he pounds relentlessly now, one hand bracing on the wall behind you, the other stroking your thigh. the pressure rebuilds fast, your second orgasm cresting as his cock throbs inside you. you clench down, pulling him over the edge. he buries himself deep with a broken whimper, cum flooding your pussy in hot pulses, spilling out around him as he shudders.

you hold him close through the aftershocks, praising softly into his ear, bodies entwined in the hazy quiet of the studio, the night far from over.

the studio smells faintly of clay and paint. the lights are dim, just enough to see, but the room feels quieter now. jo sits curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled a little tighter around him, fingers twisting in the fabric. his cheeks are still pink, eyes wide, uncertain.

you: “hey.”

he startles, looks up.

j: “i… i’m sorry.”

you: “for what?”

he swallows, voice small.

j: “for… everything. for being… too sensitive.”

you kneel in front of him, lifting his chin gently so he has to meet your eyes.

you: “jo. look at me.”

he blinks, hesitant.

you: “you didn’t do anything wrong. i wanted you exactly like this. every whimper, every nervous glance. all of it.”

he exhales shakily, shoulders sagging. relief floods his expression.

j: “really?”

you: “really.”

you reach out, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. your fingers linger on his cheek, thumb tracing lightly.

you: “i like you. like this. like… you.”

his lips part slightly. he leans into your touch without thinking.

j: “…okay.”

you shift so he’s leaning against you, still on the couch, and he melts into your side. your hands rest lightly on his back, rubbing circles, slow and grounding. he nuzzles against your chest, quiet now, but completely present. after a moment, he hesitantly lifts a hand. you catch it in yours, holding it gently.

you: “you’re safe. always.”

he exhales, tiny whimper of contentment.

j: “i… i like being with you.”

you: “i know. i like it too.”

later, he shows you the small sketch he made after everything, quiet but proud. a little smile tugs at your lips as you lift it carefully, setting it somewhere meaningful. you lean back against him, forehead to forehead, and just breathe.

you: “we don’t have to rush anything. we’ll take it slow.”

j: “…slow is good.”

the tension from before lingers, but softer now. heavier with trust. heavier with warmth. and jo realizes, fully, that he’s not just a boy you notice. he’s someone you choose. and that thought is the quietest, strongest kind of intimacy there is.

꒰ঌtaglist! @roe-sinning @taehyuns-biceps @raven-xoxo @guliexe @rex-ie @s3ungh4nsgf @smiles4hyuck @hehebeanis @ykvdani @lynaka @pookie-20204 @luneily @euiyox @angelhyuka @lovelyikeu @mrsbyun-beak @channiezinha @itzynie @sh1n3-4h4na @taptaptaeyong

@snowzxki actually requested this so like all props to them for the idea. i fucking love submissive jojo and this shit literally gave the movie "babygirl" vibes.. also so sorry if i missed a few things i've been mind fucked bc of school.😓