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cckaisen · 1 year ago

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୨ৎ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 𝓑𝓡𝓞𝓣𝓗𝓔𝓡 𝓕𝓤𝓒𝓚𝓔𝓡, sukuna ryomen !

boyfriend’s older brother!sukuna. while little bro yuji spits up his liquor in the bathroom, sukuna takes care of his girl, finally fucking her like she deserves.

ಇ. summary. sukuna brother au, fem reader, infidelity, yuji throws up so emeto. warning, manipulation, pussy slapping, biting, some predator/prey elements, size kink, dumbification, squirting, reader is intoxicated but aware, rough kuna but he switches up:3, regret/moral conflict, angst towards the end cuz ‘m a certified yapper. wc, 4.6k.

ಇ. note. been a whore for sukuna lately but i fully blame gege for drawing him so majestic. if evil then why gorgeous, hm??? we’re onto u gege. we know u love a felon. confess already.

the door to the itadori household bursts open and in floods a typhoon of drunken chaos and laughter.

drowning in giggles, yuji has his arm thrown over your aching shoulders, humming along to some kind of song. without you, he wouldn't be upright—a jumbling, intoxicated mess.

you're mostly sober, fighting to get him to the bathroom since he was heaving in the taxi.

"whyyy do ya build me upp~" he slurs, a bumbling flurried version of himself, smothering your cheek in wet kisses that have you wriggling away. "butterrrcuppp baby, jus' t'let me downnn...!"

"yuji!" you shriek, the weight of him growing more unbearable as you try to keep him up. his breath is drenched with the heavy scent of liquor. "baby, y'gotta focus or we're not gonna make it to the—"

"—and mess m'rounddd!"

"yuji—'nuff!" you groan loudly as he drapes himself over. at this rate, you might just collapse into a heap on the floor, overcome by his weight as well as the lesser, still relevant amount of alcohol you consumed at the club.

suddenly, the patter of footsteps have you perking up. sukuna—yuji's big brother—rounds the corner, gaunt features sharp with agitation. he must've woken up when the two of you came barreling in.

"sukuna—hi," you can't help the relief that bursts through your chest, evident in the way you exhale.

sukuna notes the way your knees tremble, his brother blabbering embarrassingly on top of you. he puts aside the urge to laugh, figuring he'd spare you just this once.

"here. i got 'im." without any trouble, sukuna drags his little brother under his arm, putting your strength to shame. with the weight lifted, you finally have chance to relax, rolling your arm and letting out a loud sigh of relief.

"thank you. ow—pain."

you stumble, and the broader of the two brothers chuckles, crimson gaze soaking up your body in that dress while you're distracted. "you carried him all the way home?"

"mhm. practically sprawled out on my lap in the taxi. the driver and i had to team up to get him outta there," you whine as you kick off your heels. those stupid things had you wincing terribly most of the night. yuji said they were sexy. as much as you love him, you’re more than sure you will not be wearing them again anytime soon.

"you should've called me." sukuna's features scrunch in disgust as yuji keeps singing in his hold.

"i-i-i neeeeed youu~"

"fuckin' a, did he drink the whole bar?"

"pretty much," you reply, shrugging off your coat and following behind the pair of brothers. yuji looks so funny, almost small despite his lean stature, looking deceivingly short compared to sukuna. "he made a bet with todo and lost."

the sober man grunts as he knocks open the bathroom door, holding up yuji in his other arm. his muscles flex underneath his shirt, stretching the dark cotton, where your eyes briefly linger.

you avert your attention to yuji instead, amusement melting into concern for your boyfriend.

not sharing the same sentiment, sukuna drops him down by the toilet, putting up the lid with a smack and purposely shoving yuji's head into the bowl a little harder than necessary. "theree ya go, dumbass," sukuna grunts, slapping his back as he finally pukes up. "just barely made it."

and you're sure glad he did, thanking the gods your dress had been spared amidst the drama. with the way he'd been acting, you were never sure that you would be safe from the bile climbing his throat, cringing fearfully at times.

you feel much better now that sukuna has taken over. he's older, well-versed in trivial matters like this. yuji's already told you all about his university days, the drunken nights, the fighting—

you curse your thoughts for sprawling so suddenly, shooing off your rodent-like curiosity.

their relationship struggled at times. especially so back then, but things are different now. and as much as sukuna pretends not to care for his little brother, he clearly does, at least a little. after all, the pink tresses of your boyfriends hair are ruffled in his thick hand before he lets go fully.

then sukuna walks on in a rugged stride, leaving yuji to it. on the way out, he knocks your shoulder with his. you can't tell if the action was playful, but you’re sure it wasn't hostile, at least. a little smile creeps onto your lips as your gaze follows him into the kitchen.

sukuna is weird.

he's weird because he's not like yuji in most ways; it's not necessarily a bad thing, but he's much, much harder to see through. with your boyfriend, most things are crystal clear. you can tell what he wants, what he needs, how he needs it. he'll tell you all about it—unselfishly, of course.

however, sukuna, you find, never reads so easily. and it's weird. you can't tell if you prefer it that way, or if you'd rather know what he's thinking.

especially since you're certain you just caught his eyes slithering along your curves.

anyway.

wanting to give yuji some privacy, you pull the door shut, the sound of his gags growing muffled. you half-jog-half-limp to the kitchen, preparing a glass of cold water to ease his throat once it's all over.

unbothered, sukuna leans his back against the counter, scrolling on his phone like this is just another night to him. it's weird.

you start wondering, drawing up the conclusion that this might be first time you and him have ever been alone, in a way. yuji is there, but not really, if you know what i mean. not mentally, anyway.

before you can finish that thought, you deliver the glass to yuji, crouching down to his level and rubbing his back with careful affection. "got you some water, baby. right here, by your hand." you take it gently, guiding it towards the glass.

he's not throwing up so much now, just laying there, waiting for the next wave of nausea to crash over him. his fingers respond to the glass, wrapping around it. "thanks, hic—y're so good t'me..."

you smile warmly, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek. you couldn't care less that he reeks of all kinds of concoctions and puke all rolled up together, wanting to be there for him regardless as you know he would for you.

you whisper a few more reassuring words to him before taking your leave, giving him some time to recover by himself. the bathroom door clicks shut. forgetting all about the third party, you let your back press against it, head jilting as a sigh slips out.

"he worn ya down that much?" sukuna snorts at the display, looking up from his phone.

despite your initial surprise, you laugh too. "he doesn't usually. it's just... been a busy night, i guess. i think he'll pass out in there."

sukuna briefly dips his head into the fridge, getting out a chartreuse-tinted bottle of something. "one would hope. you want one?"

"you're being weirdly nice." you blurt suspiciously, smirking. oh god. maybe the alcohol was starting to work you over, too, because you definitely weren't supposed to say that. sometimes it's better not to ask, someone told you once.

sukuna pulls a face that makes you wish you could crawl out of your skin on command, even though there's technically logic behind your last words.

"am i usually mean?"

"n-no, i just mean—" fuck, stop talking. with growing embarrassment, you shake your head, "nothing. sorry. that was assumptive."

the way you initially scrambled to answer appealed to some wicked humor in him as he laughed. "yeah, it was. so yes or no?"

"yes," you sigh, shoulders slumping in admission, knowing you probably needed it. especially after whatever that was. your head is pounding—god, someone should put me down.

sukuna opens up your bottle with his teeth as you hop up on the counter, watching each other. all had gone quiet behind you. sukuna handed you the drink with the lid still between his teeth, venom swirling in his eyes when he saw the way yours lingered on the gesture.

slowly, you took the bottle, pressing the rim up to your lips before taking a sip. it bubbles in your mouth, sparkling on your tongue before you swallow it down. the burn is a little unpleasant, but you manage.

"any good?" sukuna asks.

"'s okay," you shrug, reading the bottle, pretending like any of it made sense. "a little bitter."

"you like 'em sweet?" the taller man frowns, sorting through the cupboards for something that you're too immersed to ask about.

"kinda. but too much makes me sick," you explain, scrunching your nose at the thought. "i like a balance."

"oh, really?" sukuna snorts as if you've just said the funniest thing in the world.

in one confused motion, you lower your brows. and jilt your head, wondering what's with the sudden jest. "yeah, uh... is that funny?"

sukuna raises his brows, shaking his head, some glasses clinking. "no, not funny. nothin's funny."

he really knows how to make a person feel small, you'd give him that much.

you avert your gaze, heart crawling up into your cheeks. "okay, well..."

"what about you?" he interjects, sparking up another tiny bit of annoyance in you again. not that you knew what you were gonna say anyways. it most likely would've been embarrassing anyway, making you shrink even more, wanting yuji to come out already—

"what about me?" you wonder, your voice meeker than before. curious and cautious, tip-toeing around his words. is there something you're hiding?

"are you the sticking-around or screwing-around type?"

"oh, right," you laugh, making sense of his question. it's big one, though. kind of sprung on you. still, you manage to respond, just telling him what you know while glowing with intoxication, "well, we've only been going out a couple months."

you're more focused on the way he's watching you than you are on actually answering. his eyes are sharp and torrid in comparison to his little brother's, and the way he gazes down rather than looks at you has something in you stirring, writihing hotly beneath your skin.

it's exciting. why is it exciting? there's a giddiness that gyres in the pit of your gut like a ballerina, pirouettes and grands jetés, heat cooking and simmering through your veins. it's terrible. it's weird.

"well, you can't blame me for being protective." sukuna shrugs. "he seems to really like you."

while what he's saying rings true, there's a chord slightly off-key, something askew that you can't place. is he closer than before?

you ignore it, trying on a smile. "well, feeling's mutual."

you take another sip from the bottle, the cool rim settling on your lips, sparks igniting on your tongue, the same routine replaying. you don't even think before adding gleefully, "and he's like, a jazillion times more sane than my last boyfriend, so i'm happy."

"are you?" sukuna asks, serious.

it was like flipping a switch. he was laughing, now he's earnest, and you were just entirely confused, his meaning lost on you, like you're the last in line in a game of chinese whispers. he caught you off guard with that one. and he knows it, too, carmine eyes feasting on your discomfort.

your smile falters slightly before you nod. "yeah."

"okay." he just says.

now you were really starting to get pissed off with him. whatever he's doing, it's stupid. he might as well have you cornered, except you've done nothing wrong, and yet he's prancing around you with a tone of prolific doubt. as if he knows something about you that you yourself don't.

"what?" you demand, equally serious now, smile wiped clean off. the air turns thick.

sukuna shrugs his shoulders again and you swear you have to fight off a sneer. "nothing."

is he casting doubt on your love for yuji? is that what this is? is he trying to tell you you're not good enough for him? that even though you trudged half a mile in those huge stupid heels just because he said they looked hot on you—carrying his dead weight, might i add, as he was screeching a song you'd never heard in your ear—that all of that was just for laughs, and there were no real feelings behind those actions? is that seriously what he's getting at?

sukuna wants to laugh so bad. your face is all screwed up, cheeks puffed out and burning a deep red. oh, how it fuels him. your stubbornness, that endearing naivety that clings to you like all your modest perfumes, the one that lingers in yuji's room, occasionally in his clothes, infecting every dark corner of his mind—and now you know how it feels to be tortured by him.

"you want some water?" the man asks casually. your mind is on fire, your thoughts more blaring than you would probably think. it's written all over you.

his question makes your shoulders drop, feeling stupid all over again. what are you getting so worked up for? you're secure in your feelings for yuji. as his brother, sukuna has every right to feel concern for him. there really is no need for you to be acting like this.

he's playing you like a damn flute.

"yes, please." you answer a lot more softly, pulling your hair around to one side. you'd been bratty without cause, assumptive, again. you really need to stop mischaracterizing him. after all, he's no monster. "i think all the drinks are finally getting to my head a little."

he starts filling up a glass, grinning at you over his shoulder, mischief playing in his slanted-eyes. "oh, don't tell me you were expecting anything bottled. tap's the best y're gonna get from us. hope you can handle it."

a smile works onto your lips as you finally start to loosen up again, legs swinging gently off the side of the counter. playing along, you wince. "oh yeah, well, i usually only drink expensive, you know, mineral-rich—"

"yeah."

he's suddenly between your legs, his mouth devouring your own, swallowing the terrified noise that begs to escape. for a moment, you're frozen in shock, eyes widening as you palms meet his chest in a forceful attempt at creating space.

sukuna juts back, forced away from you. his eyes crack open but are still like slits, dark, crawling with lust you hadn't previously noticed—no, acknowledged, because the choice has always been there.

he relishes in the terror that brims in your eyes at his visceral kiss. it feels natural, but not in the tender, motherly sense. like predator devouring prey. the natural order of life.

his hands are hot, gripping onto your thighs, digging into the tights he could easily rip to shreds, giving him full access to your warm cunt, to ruin you.

and yet he doesn't.

he waits for your eyes to droop, for you to lunge at him, accepting this twisted spiral of events, indulging his darkness. teeth clicking, tongues meeting messily in a sloppy kiss, drool gathering between you both as you crash together all at once, a train wreck of carnality. sukuna's hands are all over you, groping, slashing at the crotch of your tights. you gasp into his mouth as cold air meets the sobbing wetness of your cunt, followed by a slap to it.

"f-fuck! hey, who said you could—hmff!" you yelp as his hand clamps over your mouth suddenly, his scarlet eyes narrowing.

"brat, watch ya fuckin' mouth." sukuna warns as you grapple with him. his tattoos look especially menacing then, chiseling his features. "he's drunk. not deaf."

you nod, trying to tell him you understand. he releases your lips in an instant only to seize them again in his so forcefully.

yuji would never—could never take you like this, and you fucking know it. you know it with every gnaw, every squash of your tits that leaves you whining like a bitch in heat, every bite against your neck where you can feel the outline of his brother's teeth and a short gush of crimson.

rationality is lost on you as you mindlessly rut against him, your hands running up and down his back until you start tugging on his pants, eager to rid him of them.

meanwhile, sukuna's making a meal out of you—you make up half of his size, giving him complete control to do as ever he pleases.

every whine is met with a grunt. his cock must have been freed at some point as you feel his greedy hands lift you against him, your chests meeting, the sharp cold of the counter leaving your ass and feeling his palms spread you apart instead.

nothing could prepare you for the suddenness of which he fills you—you scream, half openly, half having shoved your face into his shoulder—aware his brother, your lover, is passed out over the toilet in the other room.

"shh, shh—fuckin' shit!" sukuna groans, features curling in erotic bliss.

he gluts you in ways yuji never has, the ways he'll never dare—with such cruel, carnal demand, to the brim, unkind, violent, and so, so fucking good.

as he breaches your womb, you claw his back raw through his shirt. a sob rips through you. sukuna does his best to keep you quiet. "shh... fuck. yer so fuckin' tight, girl. relax."

"t-tryin'... 'm so full..." you whine, eyes misting over with tears. it feels too good, you think...

"i know—" sukuna chokes, barely lifting you up on his cock, feeling your walls spasm around him. "fuck, what ya cryin' for?"

he feels too good.

"d-don't move yet, i'll cum," you gasp, and he hasn't even tried—sukuna's expression blanches.

"already?" he bursts out laughing in his brutish way, the side that yuji lacked entirely as the nicest person you've ever known; fuck. the humiliation makes your cunt squeeze again.

he lifts you up, your knees draped over his thick arms, foreheads meeting. your breaths intertwine, hot and treacherous, caressing each other's faces.

"ya know, i've fuckin' heard you, all those times."

"wh-what?" you stammer cluelessly, only half there, clinging to sukuna as he dangles you on his cock, your eyes crossing when he starts to bounce you on him.

"said i fuckin' heard you, you 'n yuji—'n shit, ya never got this loud, huh?" he smirks wickedly, feeling your body collapse hopelessly against him. he fucks you up and down on him, swallowing up your pathetic moans and whines like they were the last noise he'd ever hear. "been wanting to take ya like this, stretch yer dumb little cunt on me, fuckk—ya got no fuckin' idea, princess."

rocking up and down, you wail, head bobbing. sukuna can just see your little maw dangling open—it takes everything in him not to jam his fucking fingers in your throat until you drool and splutter around him.

"y—you wanted—this?" you struggle, feeling too good to make sense of anything, to think straight, to do anything other than take every rough kiss to your cervix, feeling your insides bruise and swell with lucid excitements.

"lemme guess, the brat cums too soon—never quite gets ya there, hm?" sukuna guesses correctly, making you whine and nod and babble.

"h-how did y—ah, fuck—!" he snapped his hips, picking up the speed as you wept on him. you'd never been fucked like this in your life, and your world was getting flipped on its head. when did your dress come down? you weren't sure—but now your tits were bouncing and sukuna wasn't gonna pass up the opportunity to tear into them.

"cuz, 's just obvious," sukuna rasps, teeth clamping down on your raised nipple, "can tell this sloppy pussy ain't gettin' treated right. not when she's—shit—creamin' all over me jus' from stickin' it in."

"'k—kuna, don't—ahh! fuck!"

"that's it girl, shit, c'mon," sukuna keeps picking you back up only to drop all your weight on his fat cock, his balls slapping against your ass, the slick you're gushing causing them to stick together.

your head is empty, devoid of anything except the chaos, the suddenness of it all, the shock, he's fucking you. your boyfriend's older brother is fucking you, and you've never felt so goddamn good.

there's this sudden wave. a wetness. an explosive feeling that crashes over you in one swift, predatory pounce. like when a deer gets suddenly ripped apart. your head straight up drops on sukuna's shoulder, and you're sobbing loudly, babbling words that can't be defined.

then all of a sudden, sukuna outright cackles; the sound bleeds into your ringing ears, head picking up off of his shoulder.

"no fuckin' way!" he roars with laughter. you wanna shush him, but you can't move—your nerve ends are all bursting to life, like fruitful grapes popping between two fingers. it's happening again, whatever that feeling is, whelming you; this time you his fingers rub back and forth harshly across your clit, but wait—

"dumb lil pussy's squirtin' already, hahh, shit—fuckin' christ, girl—" he's enamored, watching you cum in adorable little spurts, soaking his clothes, your tights, and the kitchen floor, covering everything in your stupid juices.

"you wanted this, goddamn—look at you."

your eyes are rolled back as he kisses you again, fingers tearing into your scalp, the lewd sound of your lips smacking together filling the air.

never in your fucking life. you'd never came like that, so violently, so carelessly, not without really, really trying. all sukuna had to do was pump you up and down on his cock, say a few words and you were spraying like a tap. how fucking pathetic.

and then he does it again. drags another one out of you, laughing.

you barely catch his next words.

"'m gonna fuckin' cum in ya."

"n—no—" you stumble out, barely coming to at the words, but their enough to fill you with at least some urgency. your ass is bruised at the back from being repeatedly slammed against the counter, the wind knocked out of you entirely. "d-don't, wait, you can't—"

"why the fuck not, hah?" sukuna rumbles. "don't tell me it's cuz'a—"

"—yuji," you sob.

it hits you. it hits you then, hard, at the worst time. a gut-punch, one that makes you heave. in less than half a second, a guilt strong enough to set your skin alight cultivates and wrecks each single sense. his cologne invades your nostrils, an imaginary sensation, forced to breathe its natural, tender nature as opposed to sukuna's harsh and crude and brooding one, the one you're drowning in. the one sticking to your skin.

your hand—finally letting go of sukuna's shoulder, where you were keeping yourself stable—slaps over your mouth, tears springing into your eyes.

"f—fuck, fuck, fuck!" sukuna chants, eyes scrunching as he gets lost in the pleasure. he's pounding you, knocking your eyes back still, not slowing his pace for anything. your leg flails once, but how can you fight when he's holding you up like this?

"'s—'kuna," you choke out brokenly, slapping his chest with whatever strength you can muster. your lip quivers, heart aching in your chest as you plead tearfully, "don't."

he'd never been considerate. he'd never 'made love'. not even now. he fucked. he lied, he slipped off condoms, he 'forgot' to pull out, all so many times before. it was clockwork to him. he could've easily done it again. lied. been selfish. blurred the lines. cheated consent.

put a baby in his little brother's whore girlfriend.

and yet sukuna weirdly found himself pulling out of you last second, one hand holding you up while the other jerked his cock until thick ropes of cum splattered up your dress with a strained grunt. his orgasm spoils at it hits, a rough ecstasy that's tattered along the edges and ultimately, ultimately unsatisfying. it barely scratches the surface. the heat of it hasn't even started leaving his body before he wants more, regrets not filling you up, every cell inside him clawing for it, starved and fucking addicted.

sukuna almost, almost crushes you against the island, dropping you on the counter again where your drenched cunt feels like it's been electrocuted when met with the cold so suddenly. you gasp, arching into him, searching for any kind of warmth.

but he rips away from you, turning his back. his touch is gone as soon as it came. any desire flatlines, ringing loudly, blaring in your sensitive ears. alarm bells.

what is this?

both your chests are heaving. there's no afterglow. it's messy, dirty, frantic. cheap. depraved.

and it seems like you aren't the only one.

"s-sukuna, i—"

CLICK.

lips snapping shut, you sit right up, head whipping around in the most deafeningly guilty sense ever. heart in your throat, your expression echoes one of pure horror, one you expect will reflect your boyfriend's when he realizes what's going on here.

yuji stumbles out of the bathroom, his mop of pink hair tousled and eyelids low. he hangs by the doorframe for several seconds, his head dropped, not even looking up. it takes only a few steps. they're slow, clumsy, lead him to the bedroom door. he doesn't notice. he doesn't notice.

his older brother and his girlfriend are feet away, covered in squirt and sperm and other dirty secrets. shame. guilt. some more than others.

and he just blunders into the bedroom, a loud 'thump', telling you that he made it to bed.

all you do is stare. your jaw stays slack.

you hear a zipper and, frazzled, quickly flit your head at sukuna. he's fixing his clothes, not paying you any mind.

you stare at his back, despairing.

"wh—you're just gonna...?" you stammer incredulously, trying to do the same but there's no fixing the gaping hole in your tights that reaches down to your mid thighs.

away from his gaze, him cum settles against the fabric of your torn up dress, pooling slowly in its place.

his cock, hardly soft, twitches again, urging his need. he ends up frozen for a moment, simply staring, before he numbly moves forward.

he leaves, leaving you sat on the counter as he storms out into the night, slamming the front door behind him.

you're alone there, stunned, cum up your dress that is almost but not quite your boyfriend's, the floor below you soaked, and a heartbeat in every part of your body.

trembling, you push yourself off of the counter.

vaguely aware of the layout of the house, you scramble to find some wipes and clean up the mess on the floor. after that, it takes at least 10 minutes to get the semen out of your dress, but even then, you feel filthy.

you sniffle over the sink, scrubbing soapy suds into your tainted skin. wanting to throw up.

what the fuck had you done?

you'd cheated. that's it. you cheated on the sweetest angel, your angel, yuji. the one entirely too gentle and trusting for this world. you betrayed him. a sob rips through you, shattering your core.

stupid, stupid, stupid.

as you sneak back into bed, fingers still shaking as they turn the handle to yuji's room, you don't even have the energy to change your clothes. you simply crawl into bed, too crushed to face him, not garnering the strength, knowing what you'd done. a tear slips down your cheek.

because you can't even regret it.

and before you know it, yuji's draping himself over you, his arms, pulling you against the haven of his chest, sighing against your neck.

"you made it..." he mumbles.

oh, how you want to sob when he says such a thing. "yeah," you nod, trying to suppress the break in your voice, "yeah, i'm here."

yuji grunts happily, snuggling you closer. "mmh, good."

you don't think you will ever forgive yourself.

"i love you." yuji says, blind to the truth.

but you swear it's not one-sided. "i love you," you admit, beginning to cry softly in his arms, wondering if it will be the last time you ever get the liberty of doing so again.

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dreamersparacosm · 6 days ago

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jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part four)

warnings ; where do i start. public sex kinda (they’re in an office), choking, degradation lowkey, fingering, unprotected sex, reader gets forced to say thank you??? idk bruh

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; let’s get one thing straight here — this is porn. porn to the highest degree. however, this is porn with plot, i swear. also, just so everyone’s aware, this is tpod!jk core. like this is how i imagine him when i write him (with this song. and that hair. especially this song and you SHOULD listen to it while reading.) anyways my point here is that this smut has meaning and it is not just some crack of the tension whip (although that, it is too. whatever. say thank you Ang!) <33

playlist here *and you should listen to meddle about while reading this*

series masterlist here

The headlines had hit before you’d even left the gala.

And by the time you wake up the next morning — bare-faced, half-blind, head pounding from one too many champagne flutes — it’s already a media typhoon.

At first, it’s quiet. A low simmer of speculation: grainy fan-captured footage, a couple throwaway tweets, Reddit sleuths dissecting every inch of fabric between Jungkook’s sleeve and Jennie’s waist like it’s a forensic crime scene. You squint at the screen, sip your espresso, and think Okay. Annoying, but containable.

Then it detonates.

Somewhere between your second cup of coffee and your third panicked email to the PR team, the entire internet decides: they’re in love. Secretly married. Expecting twins. Maybe launching a couple’s perfume line.

Your phone has been possessed ever since, buzzing, ringing, lighting up like a slot machine from hell. Sunrise to sunset, it doesn’t stop. Calvin Klein executives, press liaisons, Jungkook’s management.

Everywhere you look, there’s another headline screaming at you in all-caps bold Helvetica.

“JENNIE & JUNGKOOK: CALVIN KLEIN’S POWER COUPLE?”

“WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE GALA? BLACKPINK AND BTS HOTTEST COUPLE”

No confirmation. No Dispatch exposé. No official anything.

None of it matters though, because the internet doesn’t wait for facts. It builds empires out of crumbs. And right now, it’s building one out of Jungkook’s smirk and the angle of Jennie’s clavicle.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, hunched over your desk like a shell-shocked war general, fingers pressing into your temples hard enough to leave dents.

Across from you, Daniel doesn’t even look up. “No shit.”

He’s typing at Mach speed, probably trying to get ahead of the narrative. Your assistant is juggling five calls at once. The PR team is in full red-alert mode, assembling a strategy board like they’re planning a military coup.

You’ve been on back-to-back calls with Jungkook’s manager for the past day, trying to glue this mess back together with nothing but rage and anxiety.

“Can we at least get his company to release a statement?” you ask, flipping through the latest crisis reports.

Daniel snorts. “They aren’t touching this with a ten-foot pole.”

You glare. “Why?”

He glances up, deadpan. “Because it’s free publicity.”

You exhale so sharply it feels like your soul exits your body. Of course. Of fucking course.

Jungkook’s name is trending worldwide along with Jennie’s. Calvin Klein’s engagement metrics have gone full meteoric. This is the kind of viral attention marketing teams dream about minus the spontaneous combustion of your sanity. So, all that to say, no one actually cares that you’re bleeding out behind the scenes. That you haven’t slept in 24 hours. That your screen time is officially criminal. That every time you close your eyes, you see fan edits of his hand on her waist set to some dramatic TikTok audio and captioned “soulmates.”

The worst part of it all is you haven’t seen him. Not in meetings, in hallways and not even a fucking text.

While you’re spiraling into madness trying to do damage control, Jungkook is out there existing, probably blissfully unaware, shirtless in his hotel room, eating ramen and ignoring 400 missed calls.

Professionally — you’re furious. This was supposed to be your campaign, your legacy. Not some romantic scandal rebranded into clickbait. The optics are a nightmare. The timing couldn’t be worse. And now, instead of launching a clean global message, you’re managing a tabloid firestorm.

Personally — you want to launch him into the sun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The tension in the Los Angeles office conference room is unbearable. You sit at the head of the table, posture perfect but jaw clenched, while Jungkook lounges across from you like he didn’t just derail your entire campaign with his fucking face.

His expression is unreadable but you can feel it, the heat rolling off him. He’s pissed too. Good. Let him stew.

His manager is talking fast, voice tight, while Calvin Klein’s PR lead cycles through stats like this is a TED Talk. “There’s no actual damage… if anything, the buzz is working in our favor. Global engagement is up 36% in the past three days.”

You grip your pen so tightly it might become a weapon.

They’re treating it like a miracle, like this whole thing was orchestrated. Like you haven’t been putting out fires for 72 straight hours while Jungkook goes radio silent and lets the rumor mill chew you alive.

No one’s asking how you’re doing. No one’s wondering why your hands are shaking beneath the table or your voice has gone hoarse from repeating the same line in every call: There is no confirmed relationship between our brand ambassadors.

You don’t even look at Jungkook. You don’t need to. You can feel his crossed arms and the stubborn, infuriating silence a mile away. He hasn’t said a word this whole meeting, just simmering annoyance.

It’s mutual.

By the time the meeting wraps, you’re seconds away from snapping your pen in half and hurling it across the room.

“We’ll keep monitoring the situation,” Jungkook’s manager says, closing a notebook with a satisfied little snap. “No statements for now. Let’s see how it plays out.”

You smile politely. You are going to kill him. And you’re going to do it in a very calm, very professional, very brand-safe way.

Make no mistake, Jungkook is not getting out of this untouched. Especially not after you haven’t slept in three days, after you touched yourself like some hypnotized virgin because he told you to.

Everyone nods. There’s the rustle of papers, the scrape of chairs on polished floors, the low murmur of corporate farewells. One by one, people file out of the conference room, clutching tablets and crisis decks pretending they weren’t just gleefully discussing how to milk this for record-breaking engagement.

The door clicks shut behind the last person.

Thick, cloying, suffocating silence. It swallows the room whole.

For some reason you can’t explain, Jungkook does not file out of the room with the rest of the team. No, he sits there. You don’t move or have the energy to question his motives.

You sit frozen in your chair, every muscle pulled taut, fingers tapping slow against the glass table, almost like a warning and a countdown. Your other hand is curled into a fist in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your palm as you do the mental math on whether murder voids your employment contract.

Your eyes flick to Jungkook, who’s sprawled back in his chair, legs spread slightly apart, one ringed finger lazily dragging along the curve of his jaw like he’s bored. Or amused. Or both. His expression is neutral, completely detached. Like the headlines weren’t about him and he’s never even heard the word scandal.

He’s got that infuriating look again from the other night — that what chaos? look—and your jaw ticks.

Tap. Tap. Tap. One last, sharp crack of nail to glass.

“Tell me you’ve seen the fucking headlines.” You don’t yell. You don’t need to. Your voice slices through the air like it’s powered by three sleepless nights and a steady diet of cold espresso and escalating fury.

Jungkook’s eyes finally lift slowly like he’s gracing you with his attention.

You glare. “Tell me you’re not actually this stupid.”

The barest twitch of his brow. Something flashes behind his eyes — humor? guilt? boredom? — but it’s gone before you can grab hold of it.

Then he shrugs like your career isn’t currently dangling off a PR cliff. “What do you want me to do?” His tone is even, the exact pitch of someone who’s never once had to clean up after himself. “Call Dispatch and tell them I was just being friendly?”

You blink casually, pulse thudding in your ears.

You’re too well-trained to explode on him. Too experienced, too poised. But, something inside you combusts. A small, silent implosion of patience and all the fake calm you’ve been wearing.

He has no idea what it’s like to sit through back-to-back damage control meetings while your brand is turning into tabloid fodder. No clue how many favors you’ve had to call in, how many emails you’ve had to rewrite until your fingers went numb. How many headlines you’ve seen this week that made your stomach twist.

Somehow, he’s still looking at you like you’re the one overreacting.

Your voice drops, quieter now. “Friendly doesn’t involve your hand on her waist.”

Jungkook tilts his head lazily, like he’s trying to remember. “Didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to talk to people anymore.”

“Oh my god,” you exhale. “You are insufferable.”

The fact that he’s still calm, still sprawled out in that chair like this is just another workday, is only making everything worse.

You shove back from your chair so hard it scrapes across the floor with a screech that would make your assistant wince. Heels clicking, spine ramrod straight, you round the table like a storm in four-inch heels, not stopping until you’re toe-to-toe with his chair.

He doesn’t flinch, not even a blink. Just watches you approach like he’s a monument to indifference. His legs are splayed slightly apart, both arms calmly resting in his lap.

Your blood boils so hot it’s a miracle the fire alarms haven’t gone off.

“You think this is funny?” Your voice pierces through the air. “You think this is some harmless little flirtation?”

Still, no reaction. Just a slow exhale through his nose, like he’s being so patient with you.

“This isn’t about your personal life, Jungkook. This is about your goddamn responsibility to this brand,” You tower over him, and there’s a sense of joy that ripples through you as he stares up at you.

So, you keep going. “Do you even get how hard I’ve worked to make this campaign seamless? Flawless? Executives don’t throw global platform rollouts at just anyone, Jungkook. I fought tooth and nail for this and for you and now the only thing people are talking about is Jennie like it’s some soft launch.”

You see it the moment it lands; the flicker in his eyes, the slight drop of his shoulders, a shadow passing across his expression before it hardens again. Yet he has the nerve to lean back even farther like you’re just a minor inconvenience standing between him and his afternoon protein shake.

Then, finally, he speaks. It’s exactly as smug as you feared it would be. “Oh,” he says, “So that’s what’s really bothering you.”

Your jaw tightens so fast it might shatter.

Jungkook’s eyes glint, lips twitching, “You don’t like that people are talking about me with someone else.”

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, as if he’s not just poking the bear. He’s setting the entire forest on fire to see how you’ll react.

You laugh bitterly. It’s the kind of sharp, completely unhinged sound that spills out when you’ve officially crossed the border between frustration and rage. Your vision tunnels and your fists clench. You wonder if any judge would convict you for knocking out one of his perfectly white teeth.

“You’re fucking impossible,” you spit, nearly breathless.

“No,” he says slowly, coming to some realization. “You just hate when things don’t go your way.”

You take a step forward, dangerously close to falling on top of him in that chair. Close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, close enough to rip that chain off his neck if you wanted to.

“You are a reckless, immature, insufferable little shit who doesn’t know when to stop,” you snap, every word a direct shot to his ego.

Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “And you’re a fucking control freak who thinks the world will crumble if you’re not there to hold it up.”

Your breath hitches. That one sentence goes deeper than it should. That wasn’t a throwaway insult. That wasn’t just something to piss you off. That was a direct fucking hit, and Jungkook knows it.

“You know what the worst part is?” you whisper, each word soaked in absolute disgust. “You actually think you’re special.”

Jungkook’s expression shifts, and not in a dramatic, storming-off, throw-the-chair kind of way; he’s too practiced for that. But it’s there beneath the surface.

You see it, and you double down.

“Of course you think the world revolves around you,” You say, voice curling with disbelief. “You walk around like consequences don’t apply. Like you can do whatever the fuck you want and someone will be there to fix it. You’re not brilliant. You’re not clever. You’re just an overgrown man-child with too much power and zero idea what to do with it.”

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek deliberately like he’s trying to decide whether to bite back or bite harder.

“Oh, and you?” he says, voice dropping into that venom-laced register he saves for moments like this. “You’re just another girl in heels, pretending your job makes you interesting.”

Your blood is boiling, sure. Your hands are clenched so tightly you’re pretty sure your nails have left permanent dents in your skin. But you’ve had enough. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re unbearable,” He grits out, standing up to loom over you. You don’t back down, though.

“You’re the most insufferable man I’ve ever met.” You spit the sentence like you’re trying to scrape the taste of him off your tongue.

Jungkook lets out a short laugh that’s dry and humorless. You realize now you might be in serious trouble, with him being so close to you that you can smell his scent, can see every curve in his pink lips. It’s also not helping that when he’s standing like this in front of you, he practically towers over you and you can look right up into his darkened eyes. But you’ve done worse to more important men.

“You should be fucking thanking me,” Jungkook glares.

That’s the moment where your patience fractures like glass. A laugh explodes from your chest, the kind of sound that only comes when you’re so far past your limit that your body doesn’t know what else to do. You throw your hands in the air, exasperated, stunned, teetering on the edge of hysterical.

“Thanking you?” you repeat, incredulous. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me just clear my schedule so I can fall to my knees in eternal gratitude.”

He doesn’t blink. He watches you with that calmness, like he’s the victim here. You keep going, the rage pouring out unchecked now. “Thank you for what, Jungkook? For being a walking liability? For dragging the campaign into a scandal before we even hit global release? For making my job a nightmare?”

And then he says the sentence that knocks the wind out of you. The one that makes everything go suddenly, dangerously quiet. “This campaign is nothing without me.”

The words land like a slap. Your mouth parts, stunned at first. A full second passes before the heat rises to your face, before the fury starts buzzing in your limbs like electricity, before you really register what the fuck he just said.

Beneath all of it — the rage, the resentment, the sheer disbelief — it’s there. That horrible, humiliating ache lodged deep in your chest. Because god, you hate him. You hate the way he talks, the way he breathes, the way he stares at you like he’s not afraid of you. But what you hate more is the way you still want him, even now and even when he’s infuriating and reckless and dragging your hard work through the dirt, your body still betrays you. It aches in places you swore he couldn’t reach. It’s disgusting. It’s pathetic. And you’d rather die than let him see it.

You step in closer, close enough to smell the cologne on his collar. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, this wouldn’t be an argument; it’d be something else entirely. Something much worse.

“Is that what you think?” you whisper, voice cutting and low, trembling with rage you can’t contain.

His eyes flicker, uncertain for the first time.

“Fine,” you continue, sweetly now. Your voice dips into something syrupy, bitter enough to rot your teeth. “You want a thank you?”

“Thank you, Jungkook. Thank you for being the absolute worst celebrity I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. Thank you for the emotional whiplash, for reminding me every single day that talent doesn’t equal professionalism. Thank you for making my life a fucking nightmare. Really… thank you. “

Jungkook’s lips twitch, not in a smirk, not exactly, but not a smile either. It’s a little wicked. The kind of expression that says I know what I’m about to do, and I know you’re going to let me.

Then he leans in slightly, enough to make your breath pause and your spine lock straight. His voice drops into that low, dangerous place that always sets your nerves alight. “You are so fucking welcome.”

That’s really all it takes.

It’s like a match to gasoline. Like every insult and eye-roll and pointed glare was just foreplay for this exact moment.

And then he’s on you.

There’s no grace to it. No warm-up. No time to second-guess what the hell is happening. His mouth crashes into yours like it’s been building since the first time he pissed you off. His kiss isn’t sweet. It’s not poetic. It’s not some delicate, well-choreographed thing you’d find in a film scored by violins.

It’s a breaking point: his lips bruising yours, his tongue sliding in like he owns the right and claiming victory, like he’s waited too long to keep pretending he doesn’t want this as badly as you do.

And you do. God, you do.

Your back hits the edge of the table. His hands are already everywhere, one wrapped tight around your waist, the other gripping your jaw with just enough pressure to make your head spin. There’s a very real chance he’ll leave marks and an even more real part of you that wants him to.

This is so incredibly, epically stupid.

Anyone could walk by. Anyone could glance through the conference room glass and see you kissing Jeon Jungkook like he’s the only thing keeping your heart from flatlining. This is career suicide. This is the real scandal.

For a moment, you don’t care. You don’t care about the job or the risk or the headlines this could spark by morning.

Right now, you need this. You need him. You need the way his mouth drags against yours, hungry and punishing. You need the little sound he makes when you fist your hands into the collar of his shirt and yank him closer like you’re daring him to ruin you.

You need the way he tastes, like it’s the final word in every fight you’ve lost to him.

Your heart is hammering. Your skin’s on fire. And all you can think between the biting kisses, the ragged breaths, the way his teeth graze your bottom lip like he wants to keep a piece of you, is how badly you want more.

He knows, because the grip on your waist tightens like he’s trying to anchor you. His breathing’s uneven now, ragged against your cheek. His lips are red, swollen. He pulls back just a fraction to look at you.

The worst part — the part that makes you want to scream into the nearest cushion and maybe also sue him for emotional damages — is that this is his fault. All of it. Three nights ago, he told you to get off. Just like that.“Maybe you just need to get off.” So you did. Not with him, because you still had a shred of pride at the time, but alone, practically shaking. With one hand between your thighs and the other gripping your pillow. The whole time, you imagined him, his mouth, the way he’d sound telling you to let go, like it was an order, not a favor. You’d never cum so fast in your life.

Now your body’s not even pretending to be neutral. You want him. And honestly, you can’t even blame yourself anymore. What choice did you ever have?

His mouth is back on yours in an instant, hotter, rougher, like he’s trying to erase every sharp word you’ve ever thrown at him and replace it with this. Tongue, teeth, hands. It’s all-consuming.

His lips drop lower, dragging along the edge of your jaw. He bites once, hard enough to make your pulse stutter, then soothes it with the flat of his tongue, mouth trailing down your neck like he’s tasting a victory

The heat of his breath hits the column of your throat, and you shudder. Your hands scramble for something to hold onto, fingers gripping the edge of the table like that might ground you, like the cool surface might offset the fire currently crawling beneath your skin. But then his mouth finds the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he sucks lightly, enough pressure to make your knees go soft and a gasp slip from your lips before you can bite it back.

And that’s when reality sucker punches you.

This is a conference room.

A Calvin Klein conference room with glass walls and a brand reputation you’re quite literally paid to protect. These walls are not built for discretion. You could throw a stapler against them and still hear the gossip echo through the elevators.

You moan again and it’s the sound that yanks you back into yourself.

You break away from his mouth, breath ragged, pulse sprinting, trying to pull oxygen back into your brain and remember things like logic, boundaries, laws.

Your fists are knotted in the collar of his shirt as you breathe out, “Lock the fucking door. Close the blinds before someone sees.”

Jungkook freezes for a second. And then that smirk creeps back in like it never left, like you didn’t just try to be the voice of reason and immediately lose to your own body chemistry.

He leans in again, and his mouth grazes your ear, his tone low “What?” he whispers, a chuckle riding the syllable. “You don’t want anyone to see how desperate you are for me?”

Your breath hitches at that. You should be angry. You should throw him across the room and write him up for misconduct and file a strongly worded HR complaint with yourself.

But instead, your stomach flips. And his hand slides down your side, fingers digging in just tight enough to make you feel pinned in place.

“You don’t want anyone to see you thank me properly?” he murmurs, his mouth grazing the side of your neck again.

You hate that it lands. You hate the way heat immediately pools deep in your stomach, sharp and unrelenting, like your body has fully abandoned ship and left your brain behind with a middle finger and a “good luck.”

With every brain cell you have left, you know you should push him away. You should shut this whole thing down before it crosses a line so thick it might as well be in neon.

Instead, you let go of his shirt and he grins like he knows exactly what that means.

With a breathy exhale, he turns and strolls toward the door with that godforsaken confidence, the kind that makes you want to rip off his shirt and punch him in the face, preferably in that order. His movements are infuriatingly casual. You hear the click of the lock, sharp in the quiet room.

One by one, he draws the blinds closed, shielding the floor-to-ceiling windows from view. Not that there’s anyone left to see; It’s late and way past working hours. The only people left in this building are you and him.

By the time he turns back to you, the air feels different. It’s the kind that screams no take-backs.

When Jungkook starts walking toward you, you swear your lungs forget how to function. He’s looking at you like he already knows what’s about to happen and he’s already halfway through imagining exactly how you’ll fall apart for him.

Which, for all intents and purposes, is so annoying.

You hate how good he looks under fluorescent lighting. Hate the way he moves like a storm rolling in. Hate the way your stomach flips when his hands find your hips, fingers curling tight, tugging you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His lips press against yours again. His mouth is all heat and pressure, tongue pushing past your lips.You don’t stand a chance. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling, gripping as he groans into your mouth. His fingers drift lower, trailing down your waist with infuriating patience.

He smirks against your lips, no less. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs with the kind of voice that says I knew you’d break eventually, like this is some victory lap and not the exact thing he’s been secretly begging for just as much as you have.

His hands slide up your thighs now, slow and teasing, thumbs grazing the hem of your pencil skirt. He pushes the fabric inch by inch, taking his sweet time, fingers skimming bare skin like he’s trying to savor the reveal.

Your breath stutters. Jungkook, the ever observant bastard, notices.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm as he says, “Still waiting for that thank you, sweetheart.”

Your pulse jumps and he takes that as an invitation to move his fingers even higher. Your head tilts back against instinct as his mouth drags along your jaw.

“Come on,” he hums, voice silky. “Be polite.”

You’re already dizzy. Your body’s betraying you by the second, caving faster than you’d like to admit. Every part of you is screaming more, while your brain is just quietly short-circuiting in the background, waving a white flag.

But there’s still a sliver of fight left in you. You grit your teeth. “Fuck off.”

His hands shove your skirt the rest of the way up, no hesitation, fabric sliding around your waist like gravity’s no longer relevant. He steps back half a beat to look and the second his eyes drop, you see it.

His resolve flickers long enough for his jaw to tense, for his breath to catch ever so slightly at the sight of your black lace panties stretched against skin. It’s the tiniest shift but it’s there.

He clicks his tongue, a single, dismissive tsk like this is an error. A styling choice to be corrected. Like your underwear is somehow offensive to his sense of dominance and he’s going to rectify it immediately.

His fingers trace the curve of your hip, dragging over the band of lace like he’s thinking about doing something with it but not yet. He stays right there, just beneath the threshold of satisfaction, basking in the power of your suspended breath.

He leans in, “Only polite girls get what they want.”

Your pulse spikes so fast it makes you dizzy. His lips ghost along your jaw barely there, and then a sudden squeeze at your thigh

“That dirty mouth?” he murmurs, dragging his lips back to your ear, “It’s not getting you anywhere.”

His presence is overwhelming. He’s not just standing in front of you, he’s all over you. In your space, in your breath, in your bloodstream.

He’s not even doing that much and you’re still putty in his hands.

His fingers skim lower, brushing dangerously close, hovering over the heat between your thighs like he’s got nothing but time. He doesn’t dare touch you fully though.

“You feel that?” he whispers, his knuckles grazing across your clothed clit.

You hate the way your head tips back slightly. The way your lashes flutter without permission. The way your hips tilt forward subtly enough to betray you completely.

You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. “Oh, baby…”

His voice is smug as his thumb drags along the soaked strip of lace between your legs. His lips curl as he feels it, the proof of what he’s doing to you.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He’s just confirmed his own suspicions.

“Still telling me to fuck off, when you’re this wet for me?” His words go straight to your core.

You dig your nails into the glass table like it might keep you grounded, like maybe furniture will save your dignity when your body is this far gone. Every muscle is wound tight, clenching around nothing.

“Shut up,” you snap.

Or at least, you try to. Your voice cracks and it’s more of a gasp than a threat.

Jungkook laughs so sure of himself. The sound rolls over your skin. “That’s not how you thank me, sweetheart.”

His thumb slides down again, agonizingly slow, pressing right where you’re aching, but lightly to make you whimper.

Your hips jerk forward instinctively. He watches the way your body reacts, eyes locked on your every movement, cataloging every breath, every flinch, every subtle giveaway.

“C’mon,” he breathes, low and taunting as his fingers drag along the damp lace again. “Be polite. Say thank you.”

You want to kill him. You want to slap the look off his face, shove him into the wall, storm out of the room with your head high and your dignity intact.

Instead, you bite down on your bottom lip so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t split.

Your chest rises, sharp and fast, trying to hold yourself together while his fingers keep up their rhythm, the barely-there pressure that amount to nothing and everything all at once.

Every motion is deliberate, cruel in the way only Jungkook can manage. He drags his fingers over the soaked fabric with precision, keeping you right on the edge without ever tipping you over.

His dark eyes flick up to your face, full of wicked amusement. Your whole body trembles, thighs twitching with every gentle, useless stroke that doesn’t give you what you need.

It’s humiliating, honestly, how badly you want this. How badly you want him to just pull your panties aside and do something about it. You hate how soaked you are.

Jungkook chuckles. “Getting desperate, baby?”

His fingers press down slightly harder, dragging slow and steady over your clit, still over the lace, still refusing to give you the friction you’re dying for. It makes your breath sink into your chest, your thighs squeeze together, your pride snap a little further.

“No,” you force out, barely above a whisper. It’s pathetic. You know it, he knows it. You hate how weak it sounds, how shaky your voice is like your body’s begging even when your mouth is trying to hold the line.

And then — god help you — his thumb swipes over your clit, the lightest brush, and it shoots lightning straight up your spine.

Your head tilts back with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut. His lips brush your jaw, deceptively soft.

“Then why are you shaking?” he whispers. He already knows the answer and just wants to hear you admit it.

Your pride is threadbare. Your breathing’s a mess. Your thighs are trembling. Your self-control has officially packed a suitcase and left the building.

“P-please, Jungkook—” you gasp, voice shaking.

His cock twitches against the front of his jeans at the sound. Before you can even protest or say some other snarky remark, his fingers vanish.

You blink, stunned as he pulls back. He shakes his head slowly, like he’s the one let down here. “That’s not a thank you, sweetheart.”

You don’t even have time to react. One second you’re trying to remember how to breathe, and the next, he moves. Hands firm on your waist, grip unyielding, and then he lifts you like you weigh absolutely nothing. As if you’re just another object he’s decided he wants to rearrange, only this one’s got a mouth and an attitude and a skirt that’s now hiked halfway up her thighs. He places you right on top of the conference table and your breath catches.

Your heels skid against his jeans, scraping uselessly as you scramble to steady yourself. It’s humiliating how easily he manhandles you, how your pride takes a nosedive the second he steps between your legs and palms your knees wide like it’s the most obvious place they should be.

You’re caged in now. The position, however, seems to be a problem. A very large, very solid, very painful-to-ignore problem currently pressed against your cunt.

You grit your teeth, already seething, already spiraling, already half out of your mind with the unfairness of how badly you want this.

His head drops slightly as his tattooed fingers trail down again, grazing your inner thigh, slow and dangerous, until they find the damp lace between your legs. “Try again,” he whispers.

His thumb presses against your clit again but it’s still not enough. It’s slow, careful circles that make your hips twitch, make your legs shake.

His expression is ripped straight from your nightmares, or your fantasies. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“That’s more like it,” he says like you’ve just proven a point for him. Like your shaking thighs are a confession and he’s been waiting all week to drag them out of you.

His thumb keeps moving, slow and taunting. The pressure is maddening. It’s fire with no release, torture with rhythm.

He tuts softly, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in both of you.

“Such a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice thick like molasses. His fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, hooking in, finally doing what you’ve been silently begging him to do for what feels like years.

He pushes the fabric aside, and the air hits you immediately. You suck in a breath like this whole thing has suddenly crossed from fantasy into something far too real.

Jungkook’s fingers slide through your slick folds, unhurried, gathering every bit of your arousal on those infuriatingly elegant hands. He groans at the feeling, the sound being punched out of him.

And when he lifts his hand to the light, fingers coated, glistening, spreading them slightly to watch your wetness stretch between them, you want to die. You want to combust.

His eyes flick back to yours, “Look at this. Dripping all over my hands. You really are pathetic, huh?”

You whimper. It’s not a choice. It’s not even voluntary. It’s just your body breaking, and he feels it. Feels the way your thighs twitch again, the way you clench around absolutely nothing, the way you respond to every filthy word he feeds you like it’s gospel.

His thumb swipes the slick across your bottom lip, but he’s already following it with two fingers, pressing gently, not forcing.

“Here,” he says, “Be a good girl. Taste yourself.”

And maybe in another life, you’d slap his hand away. Maybe you’d laugh. Maybe you’d remind him who the fuck you are and who works for who in this brand partnership. But, right now? Right now, your body is burning. Your pride is unraveling. Your brain is static.

You part your lips slowly and his fingers slip inside. Your eyes flutter shut while your tongue swirls over them. You taste yourself, sweet and sharp. You suck, gentle at first, then harder, and Jungkook curses under his breath.

You feel him, thick and straining through his jeans, twitching with every movement of your mouth, every drag of your tongue.

“Fuck,” he whispers, watching you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

Jungkook’s grin spreads like wildfire as he slips his fingers from your mouth, glistening with your taste. Under the soft conference room lighting, they shimmer like proof. Evidence. The loss of your ego documented in high definition.

Those same fingers trail back down, dragging across your skin like he’s etching his name into you. He dips between your thighs again, gathering the mess you’ve already made for him and then he inserts one finger… then two.

“F-fuck—” the word stumbles out of your mouth, sharp and fractured.

Your entire body jolts, instinct tightening your grip on his shoulders like he’s the only thing tethering you to the present. His tattooed knuckles vanish inside you, filling you with such ease, the stretch making your eyes flutter.

“Messy little thing, aren’t you,” he murmurs, so clearly pleased with himself it makes you want to scream.

His gaze stays locked on yours as he starts to pump them, dragging along every nerve-ending like he’s studied the terrain. His fingers seek until they find that one devastating spot.

Your head falls back, a moan slipping past your lips before you can catch it. It’s the kind of sound that has no place in a room like this, in a room where you’ve scolded interns and charmed executives.

Now you’re perched on a table in your own damn conference room, gasping around his hand, writhing against his touch like some desperate cliché. Your skirt bunched at your waist and your voice a breathy mess. Every sound that leaves you is proof of just how far you’ve fallen.

“There it is,” he exhales, palm grinding against your clit just enough to make your hips shake.

The contact is almost too much. His other hand grips your waist to steady you. His eyes never leave your face.

“So damn needy,” he teases, leaning in until his mouth brushes yours, until you can feel every syllable fan across your lips. “What do you think they’d say if they saw you like this?”

Your whole body locks up. Your breath snags, your legs clamp tighter around his hand, thighs trembling at the very idea of someone walking in, of someone catching you sitting across a boardroom table with Jungkook’s fingers deep inside you.

“Oh,” he tuts, smug and molten, “you like that.”

His pace picks up, thrusts deeper now, fingers slick and unforgiving, dragging another desperate moan out of you. His rhythm is ruthless, his tone even more so.

“You like the thought of being caught,” he says, “You like knowing you’d just keep taking it. Letting me fuck you open while anyone could walk through that door.”

Your body is giving you away. Clenching, shaking, grinding down against his hand like you’re chasing something you swore you’d never need from him.

He can feel how close you are, how every muscle in your body has gone taut, trembling, ready to break.

And before you can protest, he stops, pulls back just slightly, fingers dragging out. You let out a sound you don’t even recognize — part whimper, part curse, all frustration. You chase what he keeps pulling away, and it’s humiliating how little shame your body has left. You’re supposed to be better than this. You’re supposed to have dignity.

“So fucking greedy,” he mutters, voice all lazy cruelty, thumb circling over your clit in the most obnoxiously light touch imaginable. “But not a single thank you? That’s rude, baby.”

Your eyes snap open, burning holes into his stupidly infuriating face. He’s enjoying this, no, thriving on it like every second you squirm just proves a point he’s been waiting to make.

“Go to hell,” you spit, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Just shut up and do it.”

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you didn’t just give him exactly what he wants. The sound is sharp and sends heat rolling through your spine in the worst way.

“There she is,” he says, and then his fingers enter you again and push deeper. He resumes the same slow, devastating rhythm that makes you want to scream and sob and slap him in the face all at once.

“That attitude’s going to be the death of you,” he shakes his head his other hand pins your thigh wide open. “Can’t follow the simplest instruction, can you?”

You glare, breath stuttering, thighs trembling around his wrist. You’re soaked. You’re twitchy. You’re seconds away from exploding and he’s still talking like this is some kind of training exercise.

“I don’t need to thank you for shit,” you grit out but your voice cracks halfway through.

“Sure you don’t,” he rolls his eyes, his fingers dragging out so painfully slow you swear your lungs stop working. He leaves you empty, throbbing, desperate.

He leans in, lips brushing your open mouth, barely there, like he’s daring you to beg. “Say it.”

The command lands like a slap. Your jaw tightens. Your pride hangs on by a thread. But his fingers curl again and your whole body clenches, bucking against him. His thumb presses harder now, rubbing tight, perfect circles. It’s torture. It’s heaven. It’s both.

“Say it,” he repeats, quieter this time, almost gentle. Which somehow makes it worse.

He doesn’t stop moving. He keeps pushing you closer, keeps working you with his long fingers like it’s some lesson in obedience and you’re failing miserably.

You crumble.

“T-thank you,” you gasp, barely audible, voice catching like it physically hurts to say it.

“There’s my girl,” Jungkook whispers, lips brushing yours. Fingers slam into you, hard and fast. Thumb relentless against your clit. His pace turns brutal in an instant, wringing every last shred of resistance from your body as he drags you straight to the edge.

He fucks you open with his fingers like he has a point to prove, and maybe he does. Maybe this whole thing is some twisted power play.

You’re clutching at his shoulders, his biceps, the table, anything that might ground you while your mouth flies open and your vision swims.

“Look at you,” he scoffs, voice ragged, fingers still thrusting deep and fast. “God, never seen you this out of control. “

You try to speak, try to say something sharp. Anything. But all that comes out is a gasp. Your head drops back and a string of breathless moans tumble from your mouth and you can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

“What?” Jungkook bites, fingers curling again, “No smartass comment now?”

His free hand grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to meet his. You look and feel like someone who’s been thoroughly, completely ruined.

“You were so mouthy earlier,” he taunts, lips brushing yours again, heat radiating between your bodies like static. “What the hell happened to that sharp little tongue?”

You really wish you had an answer.

A helpless sob punches out of your throat, your hips rolling into his palm like you’ve lost all motor control. It’s embarrassing. You should be embarrassed.

You’re too far gone to care, too high on the way he’s touching you to feel anything but that slippery, white-hot desperation boiling under your skin.

“Th-thank you,” you nearly scream, the words barely forming a shape. They’re not even yours. They feel stolen, ripped from someone else’s body and handed to him like a white flag.

Jungkook laughs, fingers slamming harder. His wrist is soaked with you, slick dripping down his knuckles as he fucks you with a pace that borders on brutal.

“That’s right, baby,” he groans, teeth clenched. His breath fans across your lips, hot and ragged. “Keep fucking thanking me.”

Your thighs start shaking. Like, really shaking. Not sexy trembling — it’s full-on, legs-aren’t-working, earthquake-mode collapse. His smirk is practically audible when he leans in closer, pressing his palm down just enough to keep you locked in place.

“Gonna cum for me?” he taunts cruelly. “Gonna soak my fucking hand like a good girl?”

“Y-yes,” you choke out, already unraveling. “Yes—please—fuck—”

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s the kind of orgasm that folds you in half, that knocks the air from your lungs, that crashes into you like a freight train with zero brakes.

You cry out as your entire body convulses. Your juices gush out of you, coating his fingers, dripping onto his wrist, soaking the polished conference table beneath you.

“Holy fuck,” Jungkook breathes, eyes wide, jaw slack as he watches you fall apart in real time. His fingers finally slow, dragging out your high but your chest is still heaving, mind blank, vision fuzzy.

Your hands move on autopilot, grabbing his jaw, dragging him down like you can’t bear another second without his mouth. Your lips crash into his, your breath still stuttering as you kiss him like he’s oxygen.

Jungkook groans into your mouth, his grip on your thighs tightening as his hands, still slick with you, glide up your sides. He doesn’t wipe them clean. He smears you into your own skin, marking you like a trophy.

You reach down between your bodies, fingers fumbling for his jeans like you’re possessed. Your breath mixes with his, frantic and desperate.

“Take them off,” you pant, yanking at the waistband. “Fucking take them off, Jungkook.”

“Bossy now, huh?” he teases, brushing his lips over yours as he bats your hands away with infuriating ease, long enough to shove his jeans down himself.

The zipper splits the silence like a gunshot.

Your panties? Gone. He doesn’t ease them off, doesn’t bother with delicacy. He hooks his fingers under the lace, yanks hard, and the fabric tears clean in half before sailing somewhere behind you like a flag of surrender. You’re too stunned to even flinch.

His jeans hit the floor and boxers follow. Towering over you, cock flushed and straining, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. He’s hard and you’re suddenly aware of just how empty you are without him.

You should stop. You know you should. This is a disaster. A mistake. An HR nightmare.

And then Jungkook smirks like the devil just handed him a keycard to your soul and those thoughts vanish.

His hands grip your thighs as he pushes them wider, spreading you open on the cold, polished surface of the Calvin Klein conference table like this is his personal altar.

“Better say thank you again,” he mutters condescendingly, as he lines himself up with the mess between your legs. “Might be your last chance to be polite.”

And like… objectively? You hate him. Right now… you hate yourself more.

The table is ice-cold against your bare skin, a jarring contrast to the way his body radiates heat between your thighs. His cock drags through your slick, hot and heavy and completely disrespectful, teasing your entrance and tapping against your clit like he’s knocking just to be rude.

A high-pitched moan escapes before you can clamp it down, and suddenly your hands are flying to his shoulders, gripping tight, nails digging in, like he might float away if you don’t anchor yourself to something solid.

“So fucking desperate,” he notes against your jaw, lips dragging across your skin like he’s trying to mark a trail. “You always get this needy when you’re about to beg?”

You want to tell him to shut up. You do. But then he nudges forward again, his cock just barely breaching your entrance, not even halfway in, and your thighs are already trembling like he’s got you wired to a detonator.

“You’re lucky I’m even giving you this,” he says, and… okay. You should slap him. Or yourself. Or whoever failed you in your formative years because what the fuck is happening right now.

Maybe your parents didn’t hug you enough. Maybe this is some long-buried trauma expressing itself through your complete inability to say no to a cocky k-pop idol who’s holding you open like a wishbone and acting like he’s doing you a favor.

But also… it’s been months. Months since you’ve been touched. Months since someone made you feel like this. Maybe ever since someone made you feel like this.

It doesn’t help that he’s so good at this. Infuriatingly, obscenely, life-ruiningly good.

He drags his cock along your folds again, spreading your arousal over his length, dragging it torturously slow over your clit just to feel your hips buck, just to hear that gasp fall from your lips.

“What’s missing?” he asks, fake innocence dripping from every syllable. “Hmm?”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip like he’s testing the weight of your silence. Like he knows your pride is the last thing standing between you and complete humiliation.

You know what he wants. You know what he’s waiting for yet your lips stay sealed. Your nails dig deeper into his skin. You hold on to your last shred of dignity like it’s going to save you from drowning even though you’re already in over your head.

“Fine,” he breathes, feigning disappointment as he presses forward, just the tip. “Guess you don’t want it that bad after all.”

That’s the moment your sanity packs a suitcase and bolts for the nearest emergency exit.

You grab his face and crash your mouth into his like you’re trying to shut him up with teeth. The kiss is messy, all heat and spit and pure, frantic need.

“Thank you,” you breathe into his mouth, unhinged, panting, kissing him again before he can gloat.

“Thank you,” again, more wrecked now, your body grinding up against him like your life depends on it. You’re trying to make him cave, to make him snap. Trying to ruin him the way he’s been systematically dismantling you.

Your hand slides between your bodies like muscle memory, wrapping around his cock for the first time, and…

“Oh my fucking god.”

The words fall out before you even process them.

He’s massive. Thick too. Your fingers don’t even fully meet around him. You blink, stunned, palm moving in slow strokes as you feel the weight of him, already leaking against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you say under your breath, more to yourself than anything.

Jungkook grins, so satisfied with himself and for one brief, fleeting second, you almost come to your senses.

His smirk returns with full force, his dark eyes blown wide, borderline unhinged as he watches you really see him. Watches the way your fingers tremble around his cock, the way your mouth goes slack like your brain is buffering under the weight of the moment.

“Yeah?” he breathes, tilting his head just slightly,“That mouth finally quieted down.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he’s twitching in your grip, thick and flushed and hot against your palm.

“Scared, sweetheart?”

Here’s the thing: you know he’s talking about his dick. You’ve gotten that much. Beyond that, though, you really should be scared. This is a terrible idea. Catastrophically bad. You could lose your job. Your reputation. Your sanity.

And yet here you are, stroking him faster like it’s a religious calling.

Your legs fall open wider and Jungkook kisses you like he’s claiming his prize, mouth slanted over yours, tongue dragging.

The second he slides in, your soul flatlines.

There’s no warning. No buildup. Just the full, devastating stretch of him splitting you open like you’ve never been touched before. He sinks in with ease, your slick dragging down his length like your body knew him. Like it had been waiting.

And holy shit, he’s huge. Your head drops back, mouth open in a silent gasp as your nails dig into his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself against the full-body shock of being filled to the hilt. It’s overwhelming. It’s incredible. It’s so good it feels wrong.

Jungkook moans as he watches himself disappear inside you. His jaw clenches, inked fingers bruising your waist as your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight enough to knock the wind out of both of you.

“Fucking hell,” he hisses, forehead dropping against yours as his cock throbs inside you, helpless against the heat of your body.

His eyes snap up to yours, and without a word, his hand shoots up, wraps around your throat, and squeezes. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispers, “All full of my cock.”

Your nails scrape down his back, thighs trembling as he pulls back slightly, enough to make you beg.

Then, without another word, as if he’s decided he’s done holding back too, he slams into you.

And the sound that tears from your throat? It’s not human.

He pounds into you, deep and unrelenting, each thrust angled to wreck you a little more than the last. You cry out, your whole body rocking with the force of it, your breath cutting out as your walls clamp around him, fluttering like you can’t decide if you’re ready to take this or not.

Spoiler: you’re not.

His grip on your throat tightens, not enough to hurt, but to hold, to remind you who’s in charge here.

The slick, wet sounds of your bodies meeting echo through the room, mixing your breathy moans, with his low, guttural groans. Filthy. Loud. Absolutely not workplace appropriate.

Your cream coats his cock, slicking down to the base, messy and hot and humiliating.

“Where’s that fucking mouth now?” Jungkook snarls, breath ragged as he watches your head tip back in surrender. “What happened to all that attitude, huh?”

You try. You really do.

But all that comes out is a shattered moan, your lips parting around a gasp as your eyes flutter open, dazed and glassy.

“Nothing to say now?” he pants, his hold flexing around your throat, his hips snapping forward like punishment. “So fucking mouthy before… so bitchy.”

Your nails dig into his arm now, clutching anything to survive the relentless drag of his cock inside you. You’re soaking the table. You’re making a mess of yourself.

His other hand grips your thigh, pinning it wide, forcing you to take every inch of him, again and again and again.

You let out something between a gasp and a sob, a high, broken sound that is dragged from your throat as your muscles twitch with every devastating thrust. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

The drag of his cock inside you.

The pressure of his hand tightening around your throat.

The voice in your head screaming what the fuck are you doing while your body clings to him like it would rather die than let this end.

“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he taunts, eyes gleaming, lips cut in a grin so sharp it could slice you clean in half.

Your hands clutch at his wrist like you’re trying to stop him but the truth is more humiliating than that. You want more.

“Say it,” he growls, voice hoarse, wild, like he’s half a second away from breaking himself. “Say how bad you needed to get fucked like this.”

You literally can’t speak — and you wish he would understand this before asking you to say more things — but you try, lips parting, throat working around the words.

“Fucking thank me for this cock,” he snarls, each word a vicious command, each syllable punctuated by a brutal snap of his hips that knocks the breath from your lungs.

You’re gasping, moaning, barely holding onto coherence as he drives into you, stretching you so full it feels like your body is being taken apart from the inside.

“Th-thank you,” you whimper, the words stuttering out of you, barely a whisper. You hate how easily you say it, how naturally it slips from your tongue. At this point, you do mean it though. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s obliteration. It’s ego-shattering, soul-rearranging ruin, and you’re giving in with open arms.

Jungkook groans, his eyes squeezing shut for a second as your walls clench around him, squeezing so tight his rhythm falters, hips stuttering as a curse slips from his lips.

Then he’s moving again, faster, rougher, desperate in a way that makes your stomach flip. One hand drags down your stomach, the other grabs the collar of your blouse and rips. Buttons go flying. Fabric splits.

And suddenly you’re bare beneath him, chest heaving, breasts spilling out like a reward he’s been waiting to collect.

“Fucking hell,” he bites his lip ring, eyes darkening.

His palms are rough, fingers greedy. He grabs your breasts like he’s starved, squeezing, rolling your nipples between his thumbs until your back arches, your body chasing his touch.

He slams you flat onto your back, the cool glass of the conference table slapping against your skin like a punishment. The temperature sends a jolt through you, makes you arch up into him, makes your breath catch in your throat.

He doesn’t stop or give you a second to process. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open wide, and before you can regain your breathing patterns, he’s already hiking one leg up, hooking it over the thick band of muscle in his tattooed forearm. The shift tilts your hips and the second he thrusts back in, your entire nervous system stops working.

You scream. Not a cute sound. Not a porn sound. It’s raw.. It’s the kind of noise that rips out of you when someone hits a part of you you didn’t even know could feel.

“Holy fuck,” you sob, fingers clawing at the glass beneath you, nails skittering uselessly against the smooth surface. There’s nothing to hold onto. No leverage. Just the dizzying rhythm of his cock dragging in and out, in and out, too deep, too good, too much.

Jungkook groans low in his throat, head dropping, dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches himself disappear into you, thick and soaked in everything you’ve already given him. Your cream is everywhere.

“That’s it,” he grits out, his voice wrecked and strained, every muscle in his body flexed, straining with restraint. “That’s my girl.”

And all you can do is say the only thing left in your vocabulary.

“Thank you… thank you, Jungkook—” the words tumble out in gasping fragments, broken between moans, between thrusts, between the feeling of him absolutely ruining what little control you thought you had left.

“Yeah?” he pants, reaching up to grab your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, forcing you to look at him even though your eyes are already half-rolled and glassy. “That’s all you can say now, huh?”

You nod, barely, because clearly speaking is no longer a skill you possess. And it makes him laugh as he pushes your leg higher, spreading you wider.

His rhythm snaps into something faster now, his hips slamming into yours with a pace that feels like it should knock the table off its legs. He’s so deep. So deep you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.

God, he looks so good like this. Face flushed. Veins in his neck standing out. Tattoos flexing. Sweat dripping down his chest as his abs tighten with every brutal thrust. You want to kiss him. You want to claw at him. You want to cry.

“You were such a bitch to me,” he grits out, eyes locked on yours, voice pure venomous lust. “Thought you were untouchable.”

You would’ve snapped back. Any other time. Any other moment. But then he slams into you again, sharp and sudden, and the breath is knocked right out of your lungs, your hands flailing for anything.

“And now look at you,” he spits, voice dropping, almost fond in how cruel it is. “Just a pathetic little slut for my cock.”

This is exactly how you imagined it three nights ago. When you were alone in that hotel bed, hand between your thighs, chasing the memory of his voice, the feel of his breath on your skin. You pictured this exact stretch, this rhythm, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, or, well, into the conference table. Somehow, it’s better. It’s so much fucking better than anything your desperate, horny little brain had managed to conjure. Because of course he’s good at this. Of course he’s the kind of infuriating, smug fucker who can read your body like it’s his native language. Every thrust, every snap of his hips, every filthy word slipping past his lips feels custom-built to ruin you.

You whimper pathetically, your nails carving down the ridges of his forearms as your whole body trembles beneath him, too far gone to pretend you’re still in control. Your hips jerk up to meet every punishing thrust, desperate for more even as your brain screams that this is a bad idea, a terrible idea, that you should still have a shred of self-respect left.

You don’t, and it gets worse every time he opens his mouth.

Because of course his filthy, cruel little comments only make the fire in your gut burn hotter. Every time he mocks you, your core clenches like your body’s trying to wring the arrogance out of him.

“F-fuck you—” you manage to get out, voice wrecked and thin, but even you can hear the edge of a moan tangled in the syllables.

“Already doing that, sweetheart,” he pants, his grin stretched.

His thumb finds your clit, pressing hard, rubbing little circles that send lightning up your spine, and your back arches clean off the table like he’s shocked you straight out of your body.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, like he’s not the one actively rearranging your internal organs. “Thought you were tough. Thought you could take it.”

His thrusts pick up speed, slamming into you with relentless force, his cock dragging over every hypersensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where you’re about to break.

“You were so fucking loud earlier,” he grits out, eyes burning, “What happened to that mouth, baby?”

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear, hips slamming into yours like he’s trying to knock the voice back into you. “Use it,” he snarls. “Come on. Say something.”

But you can’t. You literally cannot form a single syllable. Your body is locking up, every muscle coiling tight as your release barrels toward you like a goddamn freight train. All that comes out is a high, ragged keening sound, your mouth hanging open, your nails scraping down his arms, your thighs quaking around his waist as he fucks you toward the edge.

He feels the way you start to squeeze him as if your body’s trying to pull him deeper, hold him in place, never let him go.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, voice cracking, eyes slamming shut as your body milks him. “F-fuck, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

Your moans dissolve into pure nonsense, half-sobs, half-praise, all desperation, as the pressure builds unbearably.

And somewhere, in the scrambled static of your brain, one final thought surfaces: He’s going to ruin you for everyone else and you’re going to let him.

“Jungkook, fuck, please,” you gasp, voice so raw you barely recognize it as your own.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice gravel-rough, “This is what you fucking wanted, huh?”

Yes. Yes. This is exactly what you wanted, what you fantasized about with your fingers buried between your legs three nights ago while your rational brain screamed at you to stop.

His thumb drops to your clit again, pressing down hard, dragging tight, vicious circles that send electric shocks shooting up your spine. You cry out loudly, the sound ricocheting off glass walls that have seen way too much.

“You wanted me to fuck you like this,” he growls, teeth gritted as he watches the way your breasts bounce with every punishing thrust. “Wanted me to ruin you, didn’t you? Wanted to act like — fuck — a fucking brat just so I’d fuck you stupid.”

You’d deny it if you could, really. But he slams into you again and all that comes out is another broken moan as your nails carve into his arms, your brain gone static.

“Say it,” he snarls, hand gripping your face now, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his. “Fucking say it.”

“I—” you gasp, lips trembling. “I wanted it. Fuck, I wanted your cock so fucking bad.”

That’s what breaks him. Jungkook lets out the filthiest groan you’ve ever heard from a man as his whole body locks up for a moment, abs tightening, hips faltering like he’s trying not to lose it right then and there.

“F-fuck, baby,” he grits out, every muscle straining, “Be a good girl, come on. Cum for me.”

God, you do.

Your body shatters, legs locking around his waist, your release crashing over you so hard you forget your own name. You sob as your walls tighten around him, trying to drag him under with you.

“Oh my fucking god,” you cry, because there’s no other vernacular for what this is. Every nerve-ending is on fire, your skin tingling, your mind white-noise and wreckage.

Jungkook groans like it’s being torn from somewhere inside his chest and you feel his cock twitch, his rhythm faltering.

“F-fuck, fuck, baby,” Jungkook pants, his whole body jerking with the effort of holding back. You feel the twitch of him inside you and then suddenly he’s pulling out, just in time, hand flying to his cock as his other arm braces above you.

“Shit, oh, god [Y/N],” he groans. His brows knit together, eyes slamming shut as his release hits him hard, stroking himself feverishly as hot, slick ropes of cum spill across your stomach.

His thighs tremble, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts, strokes growing slower as he rides it out.

He’s so fucking pretty while he does it, like offensively pretty.

Like who the hell gave him permission to look like that while literally unraveling over you? Chest flushed, skin glowing, lips parted just enough to show his teeth as he groans your name like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. His sweat-slick hair falls into his eyes and you hate him for being this hot, for wrecking you and somehow looking like that while doing it.

You don’t know if it’s the orgasm or the emotional damage but your brain stops working a little.

Jesus Christ. You need therapy. Or an exorcism. Both at the same time probably.

For a second, the room is just breathing. Yours and his, probably fogging up the glass.

Jungkook finally exhales and when he looks down and sees the wreckage — you, splayed out and trembling, his cum smeared across your stomach like a signature — he grins.

“Such a fucking mess,” he notes, tone hoarse as his fingers swipe through the creamy trail across your stomach and smears it like an artist admiring his work.

Your body twitches again, a soft aftershock rippling through you, and he notices. His eyes drop to your still-quivering thighs, the way your breath catches, the way you’re still coming down like he’s rewired you from the inside out.

His tongue swipes over his lip ring. He tilts his head like he’s deciding whether to keep going or let you recover. Either way, you’re doomed.

Instead, he settles on, “You really should thank me for this one too, baby.”

And all you can do is lie there, half-naked on a conference table, covered in cum, dignity somewhere on the floor next to your ripped panties, and wonder how the fuck this became your life.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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