three days to ruin - jungkook
⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x f!Reader (enemies/rivals to lovers, fake dating)
⋆˚࿔ Genre: Smut (18+), Enemies with Tension, Fake Dating, Revenge, Jealousy, Porn with (some) Plot, Mutual Pining & Pettiness
⋆˚࿔ Rating: Explicit / 18+ / MDNI
⋆˚࿔ Word Count: ~9k words
⋆˚࿔ Summary: You hate Jeon Jungkook. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself every time he smirks, crowds your space, or flexes those stupid inked arms. He’s been begging for your best friend’s number for months, and you’ve blocked him every single time. Until your ex starts parading his new girlfriend at the annual group beach trip and you decide petty revenge is worth swallowing your pride. Fake date Jungkook for three days—let him grope, kiss, and claim you in front of everyone. In return? One unblocked number and one shot at your best friend. What could go wrong? Thin walls, shortest bikinis, performative moans, pool grinding, and three nights of escalating torture later… the “fake” part is the first thing to break.
⋆˚࿔ Warnings & Tags: explicit sexual content • heavy smut • enemies to lovers • fake dating • revenge sex • jealousy/possessiveness • sexual tension buildup • public teasing/PDA • pool grinding • dry humping • performative masturbation/fake sex noises • thin walls voyeurism • mutual edging/teasing • bathroom jerk-off scene • rough sex • multiple positions • multiple orgasms • overstimulation • dirty talk (degradation + praise mix) • spanking • choking (light) • hair pulling • marking/hickeys • creampie • unprotected sex • brat taming vibes • possessive behavior • no actual cheating but heavy ex-related jealousy trigger • car sex tease (dry humping + mutual masturbation)
Jungkook had been gunning for your best friend’s number since the night she laughed too hard at one of his dumb jokes and accidentally touched his arm. Four months of him cornering you at every group hangout—“Just give it to me, I’m not gonna ghost her”—and you blocking him every single time because you knew exactly how he operated: charm, sex, vanish. He never denied it either; he’d just shrug, smirk, and say, “Not my fault they catch feelings.” You weren’t about to let him add her to the list. Meanwhile your own mess was louder. Your ex—same friend group, same circles—had dumped you in the ugliest way possible six months back: public texts, half-assed apologies, then straight into someone new like you’d never happened. Everyone had warned you both from the start: dating inside the group was suicide. Egos too big, history too tangled, fallout too permanent. You’d rolled your eyes and said it’d be different. It wasn’t. Now every gathering felt like walking into a room where the air still remembered how he used to look at you, and he pretended it never happened.
The living room was already loud—someone blasting a playlist, bottles clinking, laughter cutting through the smoke haze. You stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching your ex lean into his new girlfriend on the couch like the rest of the group hadn’t spent two years pretending the three of you weren’t a walking disaster.
He hadn’t looked at you once tonight. Not even a pity glance. Just that easy arm around her shoulders, thumb rubbing circles on her bare skin the way he used to do to you.
You felt the familiar burn crawl up your throat. Petty didn’t even cover it anymore.
Jungkook was sprawled in the armchair across the room, black tee stretched over his shoulders, sleeves rolled to show the ink crawling up his forearms. He caught your stare and raised one pierced brow, slow smirk already forming like he knew exactly what was coming.
You didn’t give him time to speak first.
You crossed the room in six steps, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him up. He didn’t resist—just rose smoothly, towering now, that stupid amused glint in his eyes.
“Kitchen. Now.”
He followed without a word, hands in his pockets, boots scuffing the floor like he had all the time in the world.
The second the door swung shut behind you, you rounded on him.
“Fake date me for the beach trip.”
Jungkook’s head tilted. The smirk grew.
“Come again?”
“You heard me. three days. You act like my boyfriend. Touch me, kiss me, whatever it takes to make it look real. I want him to choke on it.”
He stepped closer. Not aggressive—just enough that you had to tip your chin up. You hated how aware you were of the heat rolling off him, the faint cedar-and-smoke scent that always seemed to cling to his skin.
“And what exactly do I get out of playing your little revenge boyfriend, princess?”
You already knew what he’d ask for. You’d been rehearsing this in your head for three days.
“Her number. No more blocking. You get one clean shot.”
His eyes darkened instantly. Victory. Not for you—for her. The way his jaw flexed, the way his gaze sharpened, told you everything. He wasn’t here negotiating because he gave a shit about your pride or your ex. He was here for the green light he’d been chasing for months.
You swallowed the tiny, stupid sting of it. Yeah, you’d noticed him before—the way his hands flexed around a beer bottle, the low rasp when he laughed at something dirty, the deliberate way he’d lean too close just to watch you bristle. Your body reacted even when your brain screamed shut the fuck up. But it was nothing. A flicker. Barely there. You could hate him and still feel your pulse jump when he got in your space. Didn’t mean anything.
“You serious?” he asked, voice low.
“Dead serious. But listen carefully—” You jabbed a finger into his chest. “If you so much as make her cry, I will ruin you. I will tell her every single thing you’ve ever said about girls in front of me. I will screenshot every disgusting group chat. I will make sure she never looks at you again. Clear?”
Jungkook studied you for a long second. Then he laughed—low, rough, the sound vibrating through the tiny space between you.
“You really think I need to blackmail someone into giving me a number?”
“I think you’ve been trying for four months and failing because I keep saying no. So yeah. I think you do.”
He stepped even closer. Your back hit the counter. His hands braced on either side of your hips—caging without touching.
“You’re offering me a straight shot at your best friend… in exchange for me pretending I can stand you for three days?”
“Exactly. And you have to sell it. No half-assing. No smirking like you’re doing me a favor. If we’re doing this, we do it right.”
He looked down at your mouth, then back up. Voice dropped.
“You gonna let me touch you in front of everyone? Gonna let me kiss you when he’s watching?”
Your pulse slammed against your throat. You forced your voice steady.
“Within reason. Nothing that makes me look desperate.”
“Reason,” he repeated, mocking. “Right. So I can put my hand on your thigh under the table. Pull you onto my lap by the fire. Kiss your neck when you’re pretending to ignore me. That kind of reasonable?”
Heat flooded your face. You hated him for saying it out loud—and hated yourself for the way your thighs pressed together.
“Yes. That kind.”
Jungkook’s gaze flicked over your features like he was cataloging every crack in your armor.
“You hate me that much you’d rather fake it with me than show up alone?”
“I don’t hate you. I just know exactly what you are.”
“And what’s that?”
“A walking red flag with nice arms and zero follow-through.”
He grinned—full, dangerous.
“You’ve been looking at my arms, huh?”
“Shut up.”
He leaned in until his mouth was right beside your ear. His breath was warm. You felt the faint brush of his lips when he spoke.
“Deal.”
Before you could pull back he wrapped one arm around your waist and yanked you flush against him.
Hard chest. Solid. His heartbeat thumped against your tits through the thin fabric of your top. His cock—half-hard already—pressed into your stomach like a threat. His cologne hit you like a slap: cedar, smoke, something darker underneath.
You froze.
He dipped his head, lips grazing the shell of your ear.
“three days, princess. You’re mine in front of everyone. No backing out. No bitching when I get handsy. And when it’s over… I get her number. No games.”
Your hands fisted in his shirt. You meant to shove him. You didn’t.
“Fine. But if you cross a line—”
“I won’t.” His voice was quieter now. Almost serious. “not with you,with her maybe”
You swallowed. His grip tightened for half a second—like he felt the hitch in your breath—then loosened.
You shoved him back. Hard.
He let you. Stepped away with that same lazy smirk, adjusting himself through his jeans without shame.
“Get the fuck off me, asshole.”
“You’re the one who pulled me in here, remember?”
“I’m serious, Jungkook. This is fake. Don’t get it twisted.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, rings glinting under the kitchen light.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But the way he looked at you—like he’d already won something you didn’t even know you were betting—made your thighs clench.
You turned toward the door.
“Pack light. I’m not carrying your shit.”
He laughed again. Low. Private.
“Yes ma’am.”
You flipped him off over your shoulder and walked out before he could see how badly your hands were shaking.
Behind you, the door clicked shut.
In the living room your ex was still laughing with his girlfriend. The sound grated like nails.
Jungkook came out a minute later, grabbed a beer from the fridge, cracked it open, and dropped onto the couch right beside you.
Close.
Too close.
His thigh pressed against yours.
You didn’t move.
He leaned back, arm stretching along the back of the couch—fingers brushing the nape of your neck like it was nothing.
Across the room your ex finally looked over.
His smile faltered for half a second.
Jungkook noticed.
He turned his head, met your eyes, and very slowly—deliberately—leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Not deep. Not obscene.
Just enough.
You felt the room shift.
Felt eyes on you.
Felt Jungkook’s fingers tighten on your neck for one heartbeat before he pulled back.
“Ready for the beach, baby?” he murmured. Loud enough for everyone to hear.
Your heart slammed so hard you were sure he could feel it.
You forced a smile. Sharp. Dangerous.
“Born ready, asshole.”
The drive down had been three hours of tension wrapped in leather seats and bass-heavy playlists. Jungkook’s Tesla hummed quietly under you both—no engine roar, just smooth electric glide and the occasional ping of his phone lighting up with messages he ignored. You’d sat shotgun in cutoff denim and the tiniest black bikini top you owned, strings knotted so tight they dug into your skin, bottoms riding high enough that every bump in the road reminded you how exposed you were. He’d kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the gear selector, rings catching sunlight. Every time you shifted, his eyes flicked over—quick, deliberate, like he was cataloging.
“You trying to kill him or me?” he’d asked once, voice lazy over the music.
“Him. Obviously.”
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
He hadn’t pushed further. Just smirked and turned the AC colder until your nipples peaked against the thin fabric. You’d crossed your arms and stared out the window the rest of the way.
Now the beach house smelled like salt and sunscreen and someone else’s weed. The group had already claimed the deck—cooler open, music thumping, laughter rolling over the crash of waves. Your ex was there, shirtless, new girlfriend perched on his lap in a pastel one-piece, his hand splayed possessively across her stomach. He hadn’t even looked up when you walked in. Not a flicker. Just kept talking low in her ear, making her giggle.
It burned worse than sunburn.
You didn’t wait. Grabbed Jungkook’s wrist—inked, warm, veins standing out—and pulled him through the sliding doors, down the hall, into the room you’d been assigned. One queen bed. One. Paper-thin walls shared with your ex’s room on the other side. Perfect.
You kicked the door shut and flipped the lock. The click sounded too loud.
Jungkook leaned back against it, arms crossed, watching you like you were a show he’d paid for.
You turned, hands on hips, bikini strings shifting with every breath.
“Rules.”
He lifted one brow.
“Act obsessed. Touch me, kiss me, grope me—whatever sells it. Make it look like you can’t keep your hands off me. But behave. Three days. Then you go chase whoever you want.”
He pushed off the door in one smooth motion. Closed the distance until your back hit the dresser. His hands found your bare waist—hard grip, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath catch. His thumb slid deliberately under the thin string at your hip, tugging it lightly, letting it snap back against your skin.
“Behave?” His voice dropped low, mocking. “You’re standing here basically naked, begging for dick with your eyes, and you want me to behave?”
Your clit pulsed. You clenched hard—thighs pressing together—but forced your face to stay sharp.
“I’m serious, Jungkook.”
“So am I.” He leaned in, mouth hovering near your ear. Breath warm. “You think this is hard for me? Pretending I want you? Please. I’ve been waiting months for a clear shot at her. Three days of this—” His hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your tit, not quite touching nipple. “—and then I get to fuck your best friend without you cockblocking me every five seconds? That’s not a chore. That’s a fucking reward.”
You swallowed. Hated how your body reacted—how the casual cruelty of it made heat pool low in your stomach.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re wet already.” He didn’t touch between your legs—just let his fingers trace the edge of the bikini bottom, slow, taunting. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll play the part. I’ll make him think I’m obsessed. I’ll pin you against every wall in this house if that’s what it takes. But let’s be real—” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. Dark. Amused. “You’re the one who’s gonna have trouble remembering this is fake.”
“Fuck you.”
“Later. Maybe.” He smirked, finally stepping back, but not before giving your hip one last possessive squeeze. “For now, let’s go give your ex something to stare at.”
You exhaled hard through your nose. Adjusted the strings that had shifted under his grip. Your skin still burned where he’d touched.
“You touch me like that in front of everyone and I’ll knee you in the balls.”
“You’d have to get close enough first.” He opened the door, held it for you like a gentleman. “After you, baby.”
You walked past him, shoulder brushing his chest on purpose. Felt him chuckle under his breath.
Outside, the deck was still loud. Your ex finally looked up—eyes sliding over you, then over Jungkook standing close behind, hand already settling low on your back, fingers splayed across bare skin.
His jaw ticked. Just once.
Jungkook noticed.
He leaned down, lips brushing your temple in a kiss that looked soft from a distance but felt like a brand.
“Smile, princess,” he murmured against your skin. “Showtime.”
You forced a grin. Sharp. Dangerous.
Inside, your pulse hammered.
Three days.
You could survive three days.
The pool deck smelled like chlorine, charcoal smoke, and coconut oil. Speakers thumped low bass under the late-afternoon sun. Everyone was half-drunk already—beers sweating in koozies, laughter sharp over the sizzle of burgers on the grill. Your ex sat on a lounger with his girlfriend between his legs, her back to his chest, his chin hooked over her shoulder while he scrolled his phone. He’d glanced your way once when you walked out in the black strings, eyes sliding down and away like you were background noise.
Jungkook hadn’t said a word about it. Just handed you a fresh beer from the cooler, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary, then steered you toward the edge of the pool with a hand low on your spine.
You played along. Laughed too loud at his jokes, leaned into his side, let your fingers trail down his inked forearm when he spoke. The group ate it up—someone whistled, another yelled “get a room”—but your ex stayed focused on his phone. The indifference cut deeper than any stare.
Then Jungkook moved.
One second you were standing beside him; the next he hooked an arm around your waist and yanked you backward onto his lap. No warning. No hesitation. His thick thighs spread yours open as you landed straddling one of them, the hard muscle pressing right against your soaked center through the thin bikini fabric. Your breath punched out.
He settled back against the lounger like it was the most natural thing in the world, one arm banding across your stomach to keep you pinned, the other resting casually on your thigh. Fingers splayed wide. High enough that his thumb grazed the crease where leg met hip.
You wrapped both arms around his neck to steady yourself, nails digging lightly into the short hairs at his nape. Leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.
“You’re pushing it.”
“You’re dripping on my leg already,” he murmured back, voice so low only you could hear. “Feels like you’re the one pushing.”
You shifted—subtle grind, just enough to drag your clit along the ridge of his thigh. Heat shot straight through you. His grip tightened on your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. You felt him thicken beneath you—cock swelling against your ass through his trunks—but his face stayed lazy. That same infuriating smirk, eyes half-lidded like he was bored.
“Three days of this,” he said quietly, lips barely moving against your temple, “and I get to bury myself in someone who actually wants it. Worth every second of playing house with you.”
You clenched around nothing. Hated how the words landed—crude, casual, aimed like a blade. Hated more how your body responded anyway.
“Keep talking like that and I’ll make sure she sees every screenshot first.”
He chuckled. Low. Private. Hand slid higher up your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you ached most.
“You won’t. You want this too bad.”
Across the pool your ex finally looked over. Watched. Jaw tight. Then turned back to his girlfriend like it didn’t matter.
Jungkook noticed. His thumb stroked once—slow, deliberate—along the edge of your bikini bottom.
“He’s looking now. Smile for him.”
You forced a grin. Tilted your head back against Jungkook’s shoulder. Let your hips roll again, slower this time. His cock jerked under you. He didn’t react outwardly—just squeezed your hip harder, like a warning.
Later, when the sun dipped lower and skin started to pink, he stood and tugged you up with him.
“Sunscreen,” he announced to no one in particular. Grabbed the bottle from the table. “Can’t have my girl burning.”
He sat on the edge of a lounger and pulled you between his spread thighs, facing away. Everyone was watching now—casual glances turning curious. Your ex included.
Jungkook squirted lotion into his palm. Warm hands hit your shoulders first—slow circles, working down your spine. Fingers slipped under the thin ties at your back, tugging them just enough to loosen without untying. Knuckles grazed the sides of your tits as he spread the lotion higher. Thumbs brushed the outer curve, then—deliberately—dragged across your nipples. “Accidentally.” They were already hard. The contact sent a jolt straight to your clit.
You arched. Couldn’t help it. Bit your lip so hard you tasted copper to keep the sound inside.
He leaned forward, chest to your back, mouth at your ear.
“You’re shaking.”
“Shut up.”
“Gonna come just from this? Pathetic.” His voice stayed even, amused. “Imagine how easy the next part will be. Few more days and I’m balls-deep in someone who doesn’t fight it every step.”
You clenched again. Felt the slick slide between your thighs, soaking through the bikini. His erection pressed insistently against your lower back now—rock-hard, unashamed—but he kept rubbing lotion like it was routine. Thumbs circled your nipples once more. Slow. Firm.
A tiny whimper escaped before you could stop it.
He pinched lightly—sharp enough to make you gasp—then smoothed it over like nothing happened.
“Good girl,” he whispered. Just for you. “Keep it together. We’ve got an audience.”
You turned your head slightly. Caught your ex staring. Eyes dark. Hand frozen on his girlfriend’s thigh.
Jungkook’s fingers dipped lower, tracing the dip of your waist, then back up. Every brush felt electric. Your clit throbbed in time with your pulse.
“Three days,” he reminded you quietly. “Then I’m done pretending. And you’ll still be wet thinking about it.”
You didn’t answer. Just leaned back into him harder. Let him feel how badly you hated that he was right.
The house settled into that heavy coastal quiet after dark—waves distant, crickets loud, everyone drunk enough to crash fast. Except next door.
It started soft: her giggle, muffled through the drywall. Then his low murmur, the kind he used to save for late nights when he thought you were asleep. Bedframe tapped once, twice. Then rhythmic. Steady. Her moans filtered through—high, performative, the exact pitch that used to make you roll your eyes when it was you under him.
Now it just made your stomach twist.
You sat up in the dark, sheets tangled around your legs. Jungkook was already awake on his side of the bed, back to you, scrolling his phone with the screen dimmed. He hadn’t said much since the pool—just stripped to sweatpants and collapsed face-down like the performance had drained him.
The creaking picked up speed. A slap of skin. Her gasp. His grunt.
You snapped.
You slid out of bed, bare feet silent on the cool floor. Dug through your bag, pulled out the silk slip you’d packed on a petty whim—black, thin as tissue, no bra, hem skimming the very top of your thighs. You slipped it over your head. Fabric whispered against skin. Nipples peaked instantly against the cool air and the sheer material. No panties either. Why bother?
You climbed onto the bed, straddling the edge closest to the shared wall. Knelt up, hands braced on the headboard. Gave it one experimental tap—light, testing. The wood thudded softly against the wall.
Then you started.
Breathy at first. Soft enough to build.
“Jungkook…”
Louder.
“Harder… yes, fuck, right there…”
You rolled your hips slow, deliberate—mimicking the motion, ass arching, silk riding up to bare everything below the waist. Headboard knocked again, steadier now. You let your voice break on his name, drawn out, filthy.
“Oh god… Jungkook, don’t stop…”
Across the room he froze. Mid-scroll. Phone screen lighting the sharp line of his jaw. Shirtless, sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips, the deep V of his pelvis disappearing under gray cotton. Tattoos gleamed under the faint hallway light leaking through the door crack—ink crawling over his shoulder, down his ribs, abs tight and shadowed.
He turned his head slowly.
“What the actual fuck are you doing?”
Voice rough. Low. Dangerous.
You glanced over your shoulder, hair falling across one eye. Smirked.
“Selling it. Thin walls, remember?”
You arched harder. Pushed your chest forward so the silk pulled taut across your nipples—dark peaks visible, obscene. Rolled your hips again, grinding air like you were riding him deep. Moaned louder.
“Yes… fuck me like that… Jungkook…”
His eyes dropped to where the slip barely covered you—ass out, thighs parted, the shadowed line between them slick even in the dark. His throat worked. Cock twitched visibly, thickening fast behind the thin fabric until it tented straight up, head outlined, straining.
He threw a pillow at you. Hard. It hit your shoulder.
“You’re fucking insane.”
But he didn’t move to stop you.
Didn’t look away.
Jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. Breathing heavy now—chest rising and falling faster than before. One hand fisted the sheet beside his hip. The other hovered near his waistband like he was fighting not to touch himself.
Next door the rhythm faltered. Slowed. Like they were listening.
You smiled wider. Banged the headboard again—three sharp knocks.
“Right there… fuck, you feel so good…”
You dragged the words out, voice wrecked on purpose. Let your head tip back, throat exposed, lips parted. Rolled your hips in slow circles, thighs trembling from the strain of holding the position.
Jungkook’s eyes were black now. Pupils blown. He shifted—once—trying to ease the pressure in his sweats. Didn’t work. The outline only got clearer, thicker. A wet spot darkened the gray at the tip.
“Keep going,” he said finally. Voice gravel. “See if he can fuck her through the noise you’re making.”
You laughed—breathless, mean.
“Jealous?”
“Of him?” He snorted. But his hand finally moved—dragged slow across his abs, down to palm himself through the fabric. Not stroking. Just holding. Pressing. “Nah. Just thinking how easy the payoff’s gonna be.”
You clenched at the words. Felt the slick slide between your thighs. Kept moving anyway.
“Then enjoy the preview, asshole.”
You slammed the headboard harder. Moaned his name like a curse.
“Jungkook… coming… fuck—”
Next door went quiet. Dead silent.
Jungkook’s grip on himself tightened. Knuckles white.
He didn’t say anything else.
Just watched.
Breathing ragged.
Cock throbbing visibly against his palm.
You held his stare over your shoulder. Let the silence stretch. Let the fake moans fade into heavy breaths.
Then you dropped forward onto your forearms—ass still up, silk bunched at your waist, everything on display.
“Your move” you whispered.
He didn’t move.
But he didn’t look away either.
The pool water was still cool from the morning, sun high and merciless, turning everything gold and glaring. The group had claimed the shallow end—floaties drifting, beers floating in a net, someone blasting reggaeton that pulsed under the surface. Your ex was on a raft with his girlfriend, her legs wrapped around his waist while he paddled lazily, both of them laughing at nothing. He hadn’t looked your way once since breakfast. Not even when you walked out in the same black strings, nipples already tight from the breeze.
Jungkook was already in the water when you slid in—back against the wall, arms spread along the edge, tattoos dark against wet skin. He watched you approach without moving, eyes half-lidded, water dripping from his hair down the line of his throat.
You didn’t hesitate.
Wrapped your legs around his waist the second you were close enough. Ankles locked at his lower back. Arms looped around his neck. Pulled yourself flush until your chest pressed to his, clit settling right against the hard cut of his abs through the thin barrier of your bikini bottoms and his trunks.
You rolled your hips once—slow, deliberate. Dragged yourself along the ridges of muscle. Friction immediate. Electric. Your breath hitched.
He didn’t flinch. Just let his hands slide under the water to grip your ass—fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, spreading you wider against him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Low. Rough. Meant only for you.
You leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice pitched breathy and wrecked.
“Fuck me like you hate me, Kook… ruin me…”
You ground down harder. Clit catching on every defined line of his stomach. Soaked through already—bikini useless, slick sliding between you both. You were aching, swollen, so close just from the slow drag that your thighs trembled around him.
His grip tightened. Knuckles white against your flesh. He tilted his head so his mouth hovered at your temple.
“Keep humping me like a desperate little slut and see what fucking happens.”
The words landed like a slap. Your pussy clenched—hard, involuntary. You knew he didn’t mean it the way your body heard it. Knew this was still about the number. About winning your best friend after days of blue-balling himself for the performance. It stung—sharp and stupid—but the sting only made you grind slower. Deeper. Chasing the edge.
You rolled again. Moaned softly against his neck—fake enough to carry over the water, real enough to make your own clit throb.
“Harder… please… fuck—”
His fingers flexed. One slipped under the string at your hip, tugging it aside just enough that bare skin met bare skin for a heartbeat before he yanked it back. Teasing. Torturing.
“You’re dripping all over me,” he muttered. Voice gravel. “Gonna leave a mess on my abs for everyone to see?”
You arched. Pressed your tits harder against his chest. Felt his cock—thick, rigid—jutting up between you, trapped against your inner thigh. He was rock-hard. Had been since you climbed on. But his face stayed cool. That same infuriating smirk.
Across the pool your ex finally glanced over. Watched the way your hips moved under the water. The way Jungkook’s hands owned your ass. His jaw ticked. Then he turned back to his girlfriend, kissing her neck like it erased what he’d just seen.
Jungkook felt the shift. Leaned in closer.
“He’s watching now. Give him something to remember.”
You moaned louder—breathy, broken. Rolled your hips in tight circles. Clit grinding relentlessly. You were right there—teetering, thighs shaking, breath coming in short gasps.
“Gonna come… fuck, Kook—”
He growled low in his throat. Fingers digging deeper. Holding you exactly where the friction was worst.
“Do it. Come on my stomach like the needy little thing you are. Then maybe I’ll let you breathe.”
You shattered quietly—back arching, nails raking down his shoulders, a choked whimper swallowed against his neck. Waves of it rolled through you, pussy pulsing around nothing, slick flooding the space between you.
He didn’t move. Just held you through it. Breathing hard against your hair.
When you finally loosened your legs, he let you slide down until your feet touched the pool floor. His hands stayed on your hips—steadying, possessive.
“Good girl,” he said quietly. Mocking. “Two more days. Then I get what I actually want.”
The reminder hit like cold water. You shoved off him. Turned away before he could see the flush on your face wasn’t just from coming.
“Fuck you.”
“Soon,” he shot back. Low enough that only you heard.
You climbed out. Didn’t look back.
The second night hit different.
Next door didn’t even pretend to be subtle anymore. The giggles turned straight into gasps within minutes of lights-out. Then the headboard started—slow at first, then insistent, rhythmic, the kind of pace that says they’re not worried about noise. His low groan filtered through the drywall. Her name again. Sharp. Possessive.
You lasted maybe seven minutes flat before the burn in your chest turned into something hotter, meaner.
You didn’t bother with buildup this time.
Slipped the silk over your head in the dark—same slip, same nothing underneath. The fabric caught on damp skin as it slid down. You didn’t climb onto the bed. Didn’t bang the headboard.
You walked straight to the foot of it and stood there, facing him.
Jungkook was already sitting up, back against the headboard, knees bent, forearms resting loose on them. Shirtless. Sweats low. The hallway light from under the door carved sharp shadows across his abs, the ink on his ribs, the obvious bulge he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore. He’d been staring at the shared wall like it owed him money.
His eyes lifted when you stepped into the faint glow. Narrowed.
You didn’t say anything.
Just started.
Hips rolling in slow, filthy circles—like you were sinking down onto something thick and real. One hand trailed up your stomach, cupped your tit through the silk, thumb circling the nipple until it peaked harder. The other hand drifted lower. Fingers pressed flat against your clit over the soaked fabric. You rubbed—firm, steady circles, letting the wet sound carry.
Your voice came out wrecked on purpose.
“Jungkook… fuck… your cock feels so good inside me…”
You pinched your nipple harder. Let your head fall back a little. Moaned louder—drawn-out, pornographic, the kind of sound that bounces.
“Deeper… please… stretch me out…”
His breathing changed first. Sharper inhales. Chest rising faster.
You kept your eyes on him. Watched his jaw lock. Watched his fingers flex against his own thighs like he was holding himself back from lunging.
“Gonna cum so hard on you… all over your dick…”
You sped up the circles between your legs. Hips grinding into your hand. Silk clinging wetly now, outlining everything. Nipples dark and straining against the thin black.
He shifted once—small, restless. Cock jerked visibly under the sweats, head pushing at the waistband, a dark spot already spreading.
“What the actual fuck,” he rasped. Voice cracked open. “Are you trying to kill me?”
You smiled—slow, mean. Kept rubbing.
“Just giving him something to think about. You mad?”
His laugh was bitter. Short.
“Mad?” He dragged a hand down his face. “You’re standing there fingering yourself to my name while your ex fucks someone else five feet away. And you’re asking if I’m mad?”
You arched into your own touch. Let a real whimper slip—small, involuntary.
“Sounds like you’re jealous.”
“Jealous?” He leaned forward. Elbows on knees now. Eyes locked on where your fingers moved. “I’m sitting here with the hardest dick of my life because you won’t stop performing. But yeah—sure. Call it jealousy.”
You slowed your circles. Teased. Let the silence stretch except for the wet slide of your fingers and the muffled creak next door.
“Then do something about it.”
He stood so fast the bed groaned.
Two steps and he was in your space—close enough that his heat hit you like a wall. Cock straining obscenely between you, almost brushing your stomach through the fabric. He didn’t touch you. Just towered. Breathing ragged.
“You want me to snap?” Voice low. Dangerous. “Keep this up and tomorrow I won’t be faking shit anymore. I’ll bend you over every surface in this house and make you scream my name for real. See how funny it is then.”
Your thighs trembled. Pussy clenched around nothing.
He stepped back abruptly. Turned. Stormed into the bathroom.
Door slammed.
You stood frozen. Heart hammering. Fingers still between your legs—slow now, almost absent.
Then the sounds started.
Slick. Fast. Rough. His hand working himself like he hated it. Low curses—“shit… fuck…”—then your name, hissed through clenched teeth when he came. Sharp. Angry. Like it was ripped out of him.
Silence.
The door opened again.
He walked out slower. Face flushed. Hair sticking to his forehead. Still half-hard, sweats ruined. Eyes dark, dangerous, locked on you like prey.
He stopped a foot away.
“Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “You push me one more time. I stop playing nice. Understand?”
You swallowed. Throat dry.
Didn’t answer.
He climbed back into bed. Turned his back.
You stood there another minute—silk clinging, thighs slick, body screaming.
Then you slid under the covers. Didn’t touch him.
Didn’t sleep.
Just lay there in the dark, replaying the sound of your name on his lips when he broke.
And waited for tomorrow.
The last full day felt like walking around with a live current running under your skin. Every glance, every brush, every second of eye contact carried too much weight now. The performance had stopped being performance somewhere between the pool yesterday and the bathroom door slamming last night. Now it was just raw, suffocating need wrapped in the excuse of revenge.
Jungkook didn’t let go of you in public. Hand planted firm on your lower back the second you stepped onto the deck for breakfast—fingers splayed wide, pinky deliberately tracing the top curve of your ass every time you moved. Not subtle. Not accidental. Just enough pressure that you felt it in your clit every step. When you sat at the long outdoor table for lunch, he slid in beside you, thigh pressing yours, then pushed his knee between your legs under the tablecloth. Didn’t move it. Just held it there—hot, solid, unmoving—letting the heat of him seep through your bikini bottoms while everyone else talked over grilled shrimp and cold beer.
You tried to focus on the conversation. Failed.
He leaned in during a lull, lips brushing your ear like he was sharing a secret.
“Still dripping from last night,” he breathed, voice so low it vibrated against your skin, “or is that fresh?”
Your nails dug into the meat of his thigh—hard. Hard enough to leave crescents through his board shorts. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just smirked against your temple, slow and mean, then pulled back like nothing happened.
The rest of the day was the same torture in slow motion. His thumb stroking the inside of your wrist when he passed you a drink. His chest brushing your back when he reached over you for something on the counter. Every fake couple moment laced with real heat—his breath too hot, his grip too tight, his eyes too dark when no one was looking.
By dinner your thighs were slick again. You hated him for it. Hated yourself more.
Lights out. House quiet except for the waves and the faint, predictable start next door—soft moans, bed creaking, same rhythm like clockwork.
You didn’t wait long.
Same black silk slip. No bra. No patience. You stood at the foot of the bed again, facing the wall they shared. Started slow—hips rolling in lazy circles, one hand sliding up to palm your tit through the fabric, the other dipping between your thighs. Fingers pressed over soaked cotton, rubbing firm, deliberate circles over your clit. Wet sounds filled the room almost immediately.
You let your voice out—breathier than before, but still loud enough to carry.
“Jungkook… fuck… need you so bad…”
Headboard tapped once. Twice. Light. Teasing.
You heard the sheets rustle behind you.
Didn’t stop.
“Want your cock… deep… please…”
Footsteps—fast, heavy.
He didn’t go to the bathroom this time.
He lunged.
One hand clamped around your wrist—the one between your legs—yanking it away. The other grabbed your opposite shoulder and spun you. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of you. He pinned both wrists above your head with one massive hand, forearm braced beside your face, caging you.
His eyes were black. Pupils blown. Jaw so tight it looked painful.
“You think you can keep doing this shit?” Voice wrecked—low, shaking with fury and something darker. “Moaning my name like that, touching that dripping cunt right in front of me, making me jerk off like a fucking teenager every night?”
You opened your mouth—didn’t get a word out.
He crashed his mouth to yours.
Filthy. Violent. No buildup. Teeth clashing, tongues shoving, biting down on your lower lip until you tasted copper. You moaned into it—real this time—hips bucking forward instinctively. His free hand ripped the slip down in one brutal yank—thin straps snapping, silk pooling at your waist. Cool air hit your tits. Then his mouth was there—hot, wet, sucking hard on one nipple, teeth grazing just shy of too much. He pulled off with a wet pop, moved to the other, bit down. Left dark purple blooms across your chest like signatures.
“This what you wanted?” he growled against your skin. “Me losing it?”
You couldn’t answer. Could only arch into his mouth.
His hand shot down. Yanked your panties to the side—fabric tearing a little at the seam. Two thick fingers plunged in without warning—deep, curling viciously against that spot inside that made your knees buckle. Thumb found your clit and ground down—fast, relentless circles.
You cried out—sharp, broken. Real.
“Jungkook—”
“Say it again,” he snarled. Fingers pumping harder. “Say my name like you mean it this time.”
You did. Over and over—whimpered, gasped, begged—while he fucked you open with his hand. The heel of his palm slapped against your clit with every thrust. Wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Your thighs shook. Vision blurred at the edges.
He bit the side of your neck—hard enough to bruise—then licked the mark like an apology he didn’t mean.
“You’ve been teasing me for days,” he rasped against your throat. “Walking around soaked, grinding on me, coming on my abs in the pool like it’s nothing. You think I don’t feel it? Think I don’t want to bury myself in this tight little cunt and make you scream for real?”
Your walls clenched around his fingers—hard. You were right there—teetering, shaking, nails scraping down his shoulders.
“Come,” he ordered. Voice rough. “Come on my fingers. Let him hear how fucking wet you get for me.”
You shattered.
Back arching off the wall, thighs clamping around his wrist, a choked sob ripping out of you as you pulsed around him—wave after wave, slick coating his hand, dripping down your thighs. He didn’t stop—kept curling, kept grinding—drawing it out until you were whimpering, oversensitive, legs giving out.
He caught you when you sagged. Held you against the wall with his body. Fingers still buried deep. Breathing ragged against your neck.
“We’re not done,” he murmured. Low. Dangerous. “Not even close.”
You trembled. Couldn’t speak.
Just nodded.
Because he was right.
He didn’t let you catch your breath.
Still pressed against the wall, fingers buried to the knuckle, he growled low against the side of your neck—teeth grazing skin.
“This what you wanted?” Voice rough, wrecked. “My fingers stretching you instead of your pathetic little show?”
You tried to answer—got nothing but a choked gasp as he curled them harder, thumb grinding your clit in tight, merciless circles. Your knees buckled. He caught you with his body, chest to chest, then yanked his hand free.
Before you could protest the loss, he spun you. Shoved you forward—face-down onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against your burning cheek. He grabbed your hips, yanked them high, ass up, knees spread. One palm cracked down—hard. The sting bloomed red-hot across your skin. You yelped. He did it again. Harder. The sound echoed sharper than your fake moans ever had.
“Count them,” he ordered.
You didn’t. Couldn’t. Too busy arching back, thighs trembling.
He didn’t wait for compliance.
Lined up. One brutal thrust—thick, unrelenting—filling you so completely your breath punched out in a broken sob. No slow stretch. No tease. Just raw, deep invasion. Your walls fluttered around him, trying to adjust, but he didn’t give you time. Pulled back halfway and slammed in again. Set a punishing rhythm—fast, mean, hips snapping against your ass with wet slaps that drowned out everything next door.
One hand fisted in your hair—yanking your head back until your spine arched painfully sweet. The other wrapped around your throat—not choking, just tight enough to make your head swim, blood rushing loud in your ears.
“So fucking wet,” he snarled against your ear. “Dripping for me the whole damn trip. Say you hate me now, liar.”
You tried. The word came out mangled—half moan, half curse.
“I—fuck—hate—”
He laughed—dark, breathless—and thrust harder. Deeper. The angle hit that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyes.
“Louder.”
“I hate you—”
He yanked your hair tighter. “Bullshit.”
He flipped you without warning—onto your back. Grabbed your thighs, hooked them over his shoulders, folded you in half. The new angle was devastating—deeper, relentless. Every thrust punched the air from your lungs. Your vision blurred white at the edges. Hands scrabbling at his shoulders, nails digging into ink and muscle.
He leaned down, mouth crashing to yours again—messy, biting—then pulled back just enough to watch your face.
“Look at me when you come.”
His hand slid between you. Fingers found your clit—rubbed vicious, fast circles while he pounded. The dual sensation snapped something inside you. You came hard—walls clamping down, fluttering, a silent scream tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop. Kept fucking through it, drawing it out until you were shaking, oversensitive, tears pricking your eyes.
“Again,” he growled.
You didn’t think you could. But he kept going—thumb grinding mercilessly—and the second one hit like a freight train. Back arching off the bed, thighs quivering around his neck, a broken “Jungkook—” spilling out.
He pulled out abruptly. You whined at the emptiness.
Flipped you again—this time straddling him. He sat back against the headboard, cock slick and throbbing, glistening with you. Grabbed your hips—bruising grip—and pulled you down hard.
“Ride it.” Voice wrecked. “Like you mean it. Show me how bad you wanted this cock.”
You did.
Bounced desperately—fast, sloppy, tits in his face. He latched onto one nipple—sucking hard, teeth grazing—then the other. Hands bruising your hips, guiding you, slamming you down harder when your rhythm faltered.
“That’s it… fuck… take it all.”
You were close again—embarrassingly fast. Clit grinding against his pelvis every time you bottomed out. He felt it—felt you tightening.
“Not yet.”
He flipped your wrists above your head—pinned them to the headboard with one hand. The other gripped your throat again—light, controlling.
Then he took over.
Fucked up into you—raw, relentless. Deep, punishing strokes that made the bedframe slam the wall. No more performance. Just need.
“Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days.”
You shattered a third time—silent this time, body locking, walls pulsing so hard it dragged him over with you. He buried himself to the hilt—guttural “fuck… mine…” torn from his throat as he came. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, spilling out around his cock as you clenched through the aftershocks.
He didn’t pull out right away.
Just held you there—still pinned, still full—breathing ragged against your neck.
You didn’t argue.
Couldn’t.
Just trembled in his grip, slick and spent and stupidly full.
And for once, the room next door was silent.
Breakfast dragged. The group was loud—someone recounting last night’s bonfire stories, plates scraping, coffee steaming—but the air around your table felt charged. You sat in the same loose tank and shorts, hair still messy from sleep you barely got. The hickeys on your neck were impossible to miss: dark purple blooms trailing from under your jaw down to your collarbone, fresh ones overlapping the old like he’d wanted to overwrite every mark your ex ever left.
Your ex noticed the second you walked out. His fork paused halfway to his mouth. Jaw locked. Eyes flicked over the bruises—slow, deliberate—then to Jungkook, who was leaning back in his chair, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, sipping coffee like he owned the morning. Jungkook met the stare. Held it. Smirked once. Then looked back at you, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh under the table—high, casual, pinky grazing the damp edge of your panties where his cum was still leaking slow and warm.
You clenched around nothing. Bit the inside of your cheek to keep quiet.
He leaned in under the pretense of reaching for the salt.
“You’re leaking all over the chair, princess,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “Gonna leave a wet spot for everyone to see?”
You dug your nails into his wrist. Hard.
“Keep your voice down, asshole.”
“Why? Afraid they’ll hear how much you liked getting filled up?”
You glared. He just smiled—slow, lazy—and squeezed your thigh once before pulling his hand away.
The drive home was worse.
Tesla hummed quiet. Autopilot on. Highway empty. You stared out the window, thighs pressed together, replaying the night: the way he’d pinned you, the stretch, the way he’d growled mine when he came. Your face was hot. Pulse still thrumming low.
Silence stretched until it snapped.
“So,” he said, voice light, teasing. “I think I earned that number. Best fake boyfriend of the year. Oscar-worthy performance.”
You didn’t answer. Kept staring at the passing signs.
He glanced over. Grinned.
“What, no thank you? I sold it. Made him choke on his coffee this morning.”
Still nothing.
“Come on. I was perfect. Handsy, obsessed, couldn’t keep my mouth off you. She’s gonna love hearing how devoted I was.”
Your fists clenched in your lap.
“Bet she’s easier,” he continued, casual. “Won’t block my number for months. Won’t make me jerk off alone in the bathroom every night like some desperate loser. Probably says please when she comes.”
Your head snapped toward him.
“You’re such a dick.”
“And you’re blushing.” He laughed—low, warm. “Jealous already? That’s cute.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Liar.” He reached over, fingers brushing your knee, sliding higher. “You’ve been squirming since breakfast. Still feeling me?”
You smacked his hand away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late. I can still taste you on my tongue.”
Heat flooded your face. You crossed your arms.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re wet again. I can smell it from here.”
“Shut up.”
He laughed harder. Then:
“Fuck this.”
Autopilot pinged. He flicked it off. Hauling you over the console in one smooth motion—strong hands on your hips, dragging you straight onto his lap. Straddling him. Skirt riding up. His cock already half-hard under his jeans, pressing up against your soaked panties.
“What the hell—”
“Shut up for a second.” He gripped your hips. Ground you down slow—letting you feel the thick ridge of him. “You’ve been pouting the whole drive. What’s wrong, baby? Mad I might text her?”
You smacked his chest—once, sharp.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah. Your favorite kind.” He grinned up at you. “Admit it. You hate the idea of me touching anyone else now.”
“I don’t care who you fuck.”
“Bullshit.” His hands slid under your skirt. Fingers digging into bare ass—spreading you, pulling you harder against his bulge. “This pussy’s been clenching every time I mention her. You’re soaked through your panties just thinking about it.”
You rolled your hips once—couldn’t help it. Clit dragging against denim.
He groaned softly. “There she is.”
“I hate you.”
“Keep saying that while you grind on my dick like you’re starving.” He leaned up, lips brushing yours. “Maybe I don’t want her number anymore.”
You froze. “What?”
“Maybe I want the girl who fights me every step. Who moans my name like it’s a curse. Who cums so hard her thighs shake and she still calls me an asshole after.” His mouth hovered over yours. “Maybe I want the brat who makes me lose my fucking mind.”
You stared at him. Heart slamming.
Then you kissed him—hard, messy, tongue shoving in like you were trying to win an argument. He kissed back just as rough. One hand fisted your hair—tugging your head back to suck a fresh bruise over the old ones on your neck.
“Still so fucking wet,” he murmured against your skin. “Gonna ruin another pair for me?”
His other hand slipped between you. Fingers rubbing slow circles over your clit through the drenched cotton.
You whimpered into his mouth. Rolled your hips faster.
“Thought you hated me?” he teased, voice low between kisses.
“I do… fuck… don’t stop…”
“Liar.” He nipped your lip. “This pussy’s dripping for me. Say it.”
“Shut up.”
“Say it and I’ll make you cum right here.”
You smacked his chest again—half-laugh, half-moan. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
“And you love it.” Fingers pressed harder. “Come on, princess. Tell me who this belongs to.”
“Shut up and make me cum, asshole.”
He laughed—dark, pleased—and sped up his fingers. You ground down shamelessly, panting against his mouth, thighs trembling.
He pulled back just enough to smirk against your swollen lips.
“We’re not done fighting about this.”
“Good,” you breathed. “I’m not done hating you yet.”
The car kept cruising. Autopilot long forgotten.
His hand stayed between your legs the rest of the drive—teasing, never quite letting you finish.
And when you finally pulled into your driveway, he didn’t kill the engine right away.
Just looked at you—flushed, marked, still straddling him.
“Inside,” he said quietly. “Now.”
You smiled—sharp, dangerous.
“Make me.”
He did.
masterlist taglist
a/n:
hi luvs ♡ it’s rie
soooo this little thing has been rotting in my drafts for an embarrassing amount of time and i finally decided to set it free into the wild. is there a plot? absolutely not. is there a purpose? also no.
it’s not my best work (in my opinion), but i didn’t want it collecting dust forever, so here we are.
think of this as a tiny in-between piece while i work on bigger and better things. i’ve got a two-shot coming soon and a series idea i’m really excited about, so please stay tuned for those!!
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆
— rie ♡
