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Let it be known that Jeon Jungkook isn’t a creep. He’s not some weirdo that likes preying on the weak. He’s not some sex-crazed freak or some perv that’s peeping through shower curtains.
It’s not really his fault his dad remarried a woman with an insanely cute son.
When Jungkook first met Jimin, it was over dinner at some overpriced steakhouse his dad had picked out. One of those spots where the waiters wore bowties and poured your water every five minutes like you didn’t know how to hold a jug. It was the first dinner they were having as a “new” family. The first one since the wedding announcement, all smiles and champagne and awkward hugs.
Jimin had walked in behind his mom, holding her hand like a kid, even though he was clearly already grown. Eighteen, they’d said. Homeschooled his whole life. Smart, sweet, polite.
Jungkook remembered thinking he looked like a doll. Blonde hair, soft features, big eyes that darted nervously around the room. He barely touched his food, sitting ramrod straight while his mom and Jungkook’s dad talked like this was all normal.
Jungkook had tried not to stare, really. He had. But every time Jimin glanced up, lips shiny with lip balm and cheeks pink from the heat, Jungkook had to look away before his face could give something away.
He didn’t know what it was at first. Just something… off. Something tight in his chest. Curiosity, maybe. Annoyance, maybe. Some part of him instantly latched onto Jimin, like a splinter that got stuck too deep to fish out. No matter how hard he tried not to look, not to listen, not to care—he just couldn’t stop.
Jimin was even sweeter than Jungkook could have imagined.
A doll, in every sense of the word. Innocent and naive in a way that made Jungkook’s heart constrict painfully. He said things without knowing what they meant. Asked questions that made Jungkook blink and sit there in silence, wondering how someone that pretty could be that clueless. It was like watching a baby deer stumble through a forest full of wolves.
Jungkook chalked his weird obsession with Jimin up to instinct. Just some intense, older-brother need to protect him. That was all. Someone had to. Jimin was just so dumb. So sweet and so believing. Like it’d take minimal convincing to make Jimin believe mermaids were god damn real.
Someone needed to protect him.
Jungkook stepped up. That’s all it was.
He helped Jimin figure out how to log into school portals. Drove him to appointments when their parents were too busy. Showed him how to use apps on his phone, and a million other things that Jimin should have know— but didn’t. But that was fine. Jungkook was happy to teach.
And now, months later, Jimin was living in the same house. Room just down the hallway from Jungkooks.
And yeah, maybe sometimes he stared a little too long when Jimin bent over to grab something. Maybe he stared longer than necessary at his bare legs. Maybe he got a little too hard when Jimin padded around the house in those tiny sleep shorts, that left very little to the imagination. Yawning and rubbing his eyes like he didn’t know what he was doing. Like he had no idea much self restraint Jungkook was exhibiting when he did that, mumbling “Kookie” in that sinfully fucking sweet voice.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t Jungkook’s fault.
So when Jimin knocked on his bedroom door past two in the morning, looking like something out of a wet dream—all wide eyes and flushed skin, tousled blonde hair, wearing nothing but one of Jungkook’s old shirts—smooth and soft, thick thighs on display for Jungkooks viewing—he really felt like the universe was testing him.
Jeon Jungkook isn’t a creep.
But he is just a man at the end of the day. And every man has their limits.
Jungkook blinked, once, twice, trying not to make it obvious he was staring.
“I—um,” Jimin started, voice quiet. He shifted his weight like his feet hurt. “I think something’s wrong with me.”
Jungkook leaned back in his gaming chair, setting his controller down, stretching his legs out a little. “What do you mean?”
Jimin looked down at the floor. He was chewing on his lip now, teeth digging into the plush pink like he wanted to disappear into it. “It’s… uhm. It’s my body.”
That made Jungkook’s brow twitch. “Your body.”
“Yeah. I was laying down, and I—I don’t know, it started tingling.” Jimin’s face scrunched up in confusion, like the sensation had truly scared him. “Like… in my… you know. My, um.” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely downward, too embarrassed to say it.
Jungkook exhaled through his nose, arms crossed loosely across his bare chest as he studied Jimin’s pink face. “Your dick?”
Jimin’s eyes went wide.
Like really wide.
His whole body seemed to jolt, panic flashing across his features like Jungkook had just accused him of a crime. His lips parted and closed again, hands fisting at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them.
“I-I…” he stammered, shaking his head so fast it made his hair fall into his eyes. “I don’t— I don’t have—”
He cut himself off. Couldn’t even say it.
Just stood there with his cheeks burning red, mouth trembling like he wasn’t even sure why he was so embarrassed—only that he was. Embarrassed and confused and standing way too close to someone who suddenly didn’t feel like a brother at all.
Jungkook frowned, the wordless panic in Jimin’s eyes slowly clicking into place.
Wait.
Wait.
“You don’t have a…?”
Jimin’s eyes darted up, then back down. His silence said enough.
Jungkook blinked. Brain blank. Just static noise and a dull throb behind his eyes as he tried to piece that sentence together. He stared at Jimin for a second too long. Watched the way Jimin shifted his weight from foot to foot, arms folded across his belly like he could hide himself.
And suddenly, Jungkook felt like a fucking asshole.
“Okay—” he cleared his throat, ran a hand over his face. Trying to will his heart to calm the fuck down. “It’s fine. Just—Jimin, what do you feel?”
Jimin hesitated, still looking anywhere but at him. “It’s… it’s warm,” he murmured. “And kind of… tingly? Not in a bad way, I don’t think, just… weird. I feel it when I move.”
Jungkook nodded, slow, careful.
“I thought I did something wrong,” Jimin added in a tiny voice. “Like maybe I got a rash or— I don’t know. I’ve never felt it before. And it won’t go away.”
Jungkook’s stomach twisted.
There was no way to explain the way it made him feel. Protective, yes—but also something else. Something hotter and stickier and much less appropriate. He shoved that down fast. Locked it up tight. He couldn’t go there. Not when Jimin was looking at him like he was the only person in the world who could fix this.
“Okay,” Jungkook said again, this time more gently. Exhibiting another level of self restraint that Jungkook felt like deserved some sort of award.
But then again.
He’s just a fucking man.
And every man. Has their limits.
“It’s probably nothing,” Jungkook starts slowly, uncrossing his arms from his chest, sitting up slightly in his chair. “But if it hurts, maybe I should… check. Just to be safe. Just to make sure..it’s nothing serious.”
Jimin didn’t move. Just blinked up at him.
Jungkook softened his voice. “Only if you want.”
A beat of silence passed.
And then, slowly—timidly—Jimin nodded.
“Alright. Lay down on my bed. Spread your legs open.”
Jimin hesitates. His hands tighten around the hem of the shirt—Jungkook’s shirt—and he looks at Jungkook with a gaze so uncertain, so wide-eyed, it makes something in Jungkook’s chest twist in a way that borders on pain.
But then, slowly, Jimin moves. He turns, knees pressing into the edge of the mattress, and starts to crawl up like he’s never laid on someone else’s bed before. Like he’s stepping into foreign territory barefoot and blindfolded.
Jungkook watches every second of it. Watches how the oversized shirt rides up his thighs as he moves, exposing pale, soft skin that glows in the low light from Jungkook’s monitor. His legs are bare. His steps are tentative. Every motion feels obscene, like it should be blurred out, like there should be some kind of warning label burned into Jungkook’s brain.
Jimin sits back against the pillows, nervous. The hem of the shirt flutters around his hips. His knees are still together, like he’s waiting for permission.
And Jungkook… fuck, Jungkook feels like he’s losing his mind.
He’s hard already, has been since the moment Jimin walked in, but now it’s worse. Now it’s dangerous. His thoughts aren’t just slipping—they’re crashing. Loud and hot and reckless. Every rational part of him is screaming to shut this down, to stop before he does something unforgivable. Before he ruins this trust, this delicate, sacred thing Jimin’s unknowingly placed in his hands.
But Jimin just looks at him like this is normal. Like this is safe.
There is just— only so much. Jungkook can take.
“You can open your legs now,” he says, quieter this time. Nearly a whisper.
Jimin does. Not instantly—he’s still shy, still squirming—but slowly, he parts his knees, spreading himself open in the middle of Jungkook’s bed like it’s nothing. Like he has no idea what it looks like. Like he has no clue what he’s doing to Jungkook.
Jungkook feels drunk.
Like he’s been drinking something sickly sweet and potent and it’s finally hitting him all at once. His throat feels dry. His skin’s on fire. His hands are twitching at his sides and it takes everything in him not to lean forward and touch. Just to see what he feels like. What he smells like. Tastes like on his tong—
He shouldn’t be thinking this. Shouldn’t be feeling this.
It should be illegal to look this good. This soft. This trusting.
Jimin doesn’t even know what’s between his legs—doesn’t understand what it means, what it does to people like Jungkook. He’s laid out here like a gift, one article of clothing away from being completely bare, completely his if Jungkook just—
Jungkook clenches his jaw, squeezes his eyes shut for a split second, tries to breathe. Tries to control whatever animal is clawing its way out of Jungkook.
“Okay,” he says, voice raw. “I’m gonna take a look now. Tell me if anything hurts.”
And still—Jimin just nods, obedient and open and so stupidly fucking good.
Jungkook moves his chair without a word, rolling it across the floor with one hand until it’s positioned right at the edge of the bed—right between Jimin’s parted thighs.
He’s laying back, propped up slightly on his elbows, legs open and bent at the knees, the oversized shirt barely covering anything. And beneath it, thin white panties.
Jungkook stares. He can’t help it. His eyes drag over the soft curve of Jimin’s thighs, plush and smooth and so god damn thick, it makes Jungkooks mouth water. He stares at the subtle dip between them, the way the cotton clings tight to what lies underneath. There’s a faint dark spot, barely noticeable, like warmth has soaked through. And Jungkook feels something throb so hard in his pants he has to grit his teeth to keep from groaning.
He extends a hand forward—slow, trembling at the fingertips.
He swears he stops breathing.
His finger hovers just above the center of the fabric, so close he can feel the heat radiating off Jimin’s body. The air is thick, weighted, suffocating. His ears are ringing.
And then—gently, so fucking gently—he presses the tip of his finger to the clothed slit.
Just to test the waters.
Just to see.
Jimin lets out a tiny breath, an almost gasp. His toes curl a little, his thighs twitch, but he doesn’t close them.
The cotton is warm. Hot, even. Soft and damp and barely offering any resistance as Jungkook strokes the pad of his finger upward—slowly, steadily, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of something he’s only ever imagined.
He really shouldn’t be doing this.
He knows it isn’t right. Taking advantage of Jimin like this. Sweet, little naive Jimin.
But the way Jimin shudders slightly, cheeks pink and lips parted, like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be embarrassed or scared or something in between—it sends what feels like a damn lightning strike straight down to his cock.
“Is this where it feels weird?” he asks, voice hoarse, huskier.
Jimin nods, hair falling into his eyes. “Y-yeah. Right there.”
The heat seeps into his fingertip, soft and humid. He feels something give beneath the fabric—something squishy, something that molds around his touch like it’s supposed to be touched. His jaw twitches. The veins in his neck strain under the weight of everything he’s not doing.
“Is… is something wrong?” Jimin asks softly, voice small, fragile. He’s staring up at the ceiling, too embarrassed to look down. His hands are fisted in the hem of the shirt, tugging it down like he can hide. “Can you tell?”
He wants to lie. Wants to say yeah, totally fine, all good, and leave before he fucking combusts. But his hand is still there, his finger still pressed against something that feels nothing like what he expected. And it’s like his mouth is moving before his brain can catch up.
“I dunno yet,” Jungkook says, voice low. “I can’t really tell with your panties on.”
He knows he’s baiting him.
He knows.
But Jimin doesn’t.
Sweet little Jimin. He’s so trusting. So easy. Like he was made to be ruined.
“O-oh…” Jimin mumbles, fingers tightening on the hem of his shirt. “Should… should I take them off?”
Jungkook doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. He can’t—he’s too tightly wound. Like a dog about to bite.
“I think that’d be best,” he says, carefully. “Then I could actually see if there’s anything wrong.”
Jimin nods, still looking at the ceiling, like he’s trying to disappear into it. His fingers reach down, shaky and unsure, and hook into the sides of the white cotton.
Jungkook leans back slightly to give him space. To give himself— enough room to watch this show. To permanently sear this image into the front of his skull.
Jimin shifts, hooking his short fingers into the waistband—thumbs pressing into the soft dip of his hips. His knees draw together instinctively, thighs brushing, as he starts to slide the cotton down. The fabric clings, snug between his legs, damp at the center. Jungkook can see the hesitation in his movements, the way his fingers tremble just a little.
He lifts his hips in a small, awkward roll, letting the panties slip lower. Down past the swell of his ass. Over the curve of his thighs. White fabric dragging over flushed skin.
He peels them off all the way, inch by inch, until they’re hanging at his knees. Then ankles. Then off.
He doesn’t look at Jungkook once.
Just lies there, legs closed, panties bunched in his hand, shirt still rucked up high on his hips. Chest rising and falling.
Jungkook’s breathing doesn’t sound like breathing anymore.
“Spread,” he says. Voice flat. Low.
Jimin obeys. Because after all, he’s the one who asked for Jungkook’s help.
His knees fall open again, slow, shy. And there it is.
A chubby little mound, hairless and flushed. Pink and damp. Fat lips pressed tight together like they too are shy and wanting to hide. Jungkook stares like he’s seeing a miracle. Like it’s something holy.
It doesn’t even look real.
The skin looks soft enough to melt. Glistening at the seam, catching the faint glow of the monitor light in a way that makes Jungkook’s mouth feel dry and dirty. Everything about it is small, untouched, undiscovered.
And now it’s spread open for him.
He can see the faint twitch of nerves under the skin, the way it pulses with heat, like it’s alive and waiting. Like it knows it’s being stared at.
He can smell it now, too—faint and warm and sweet. It makes something in his chest clench, something animal and wrong and hungry. His cock throbs in his pants, thick and aching, pressing up against his waistband like it wants to see too.
Jungkook’s fingers flex on his thigh. He doesn’t touch. Not yet.
But his mind’s already there.
Every part of him wants to touch. Wants to slide two fingers right between those perfect lips and spread them open. See what’s hiding. See if he can make it twitch. Make it swell. Make it drip. Wants to press his mouth to it, taste what’s making the air so thick, hear the way Jimin would gasp if he—
“C-Can you see now? Is something wrong?” Jimin’s voice shakes. Barely above a whisper. Like this is all affecting him too.
And god, Jungkook knows it is.
He watches in real time as a bead of slick wells up between Jimin’s lips—clear, wet, glinting in the light—then drips. Slow. Like water through a crack.
Jungkook’s brain short-circuits. He doesn’t know how he’s still upright. Doesn’t know how his hands aren’t already on Jimin, spreading him open, tasting the heat that’s pouring out of him like a secret.
He stares. Unblinking. Lips parted.
“I think something is wrong, actually,” he says blankly. Voice empty. Like he’s not totally in his body.
Jimin jolts. “What? Really? Oh my god—what is it?” His toes curl into the sheets. Chest rising quick. He’s anxious, pink all the way down his neck now.
Jungkook keeps his eyes trained on the twitching mound between Jimin’s thighs.
“Need to spread you open a little,” he says, calm. “Can’t see inside. Okay?”
Jimin nods fast. “O-Okay. Yeah.” His voice is shaky, breath catching on the last syllable like he’s not sure what he just agreed to.
But Jungkook’s already moving. Impatient and greedy.
He brings his hand forward, index and middle finger spreading open the lips of Jimin’s pussy. Opening him up to reveal all the soft, pink parts that it was hiding away before.
Warm. Slick. Everything is so soft it sinks under his fingertips.
He spreads further, unnecessary but out of Jungkook’s control. Holds the fat little lips with careful pressure, thumbs brushing the wetness collecting at the edges. Everything gives so easily, like Jimin’s body was built for this.
His clit’s right there—hard and flushed, twitching slightly as air hits it.
He doesn’t even have time to think about all the ways he wants to suck the little bud into his mouth because it’s the rest of this pussy that makes Jungkook pause.
Jimin is soaked.
Obscenely, stupidly wet.
It glistens under the glow of light. Glossy and thick, painting every fold. Slick pools at the entrance, gluing the lips back together each time Jungkook tries to hold them apart. There’s a slow, steady drip sliding down, tracing the path of his body, catching in the curve beneath him.
Jungkook’s fingers slip a little. The sound it makes—wet and quiet and real—sends a jolt down his spine.
His breathing is shallow now. Jaw clenched. Eyes glued to the mess between Jimin’s legs, the place he’s holding open like a secret peeled raw.
It keeps getting wetter.
Like it knows. Like it’s aware of the attention, aware of Jungkook’s gaze and how heavy it sits, unblinking. The folds twitch, glisten. A new bead of slick pushes out and drips down, slow and shameless.
Jungkook swears it’s begging.
Like the whole thing has a mind of its own. Touch-starved.
“Is it…” Jimin swallows, voice small. “Is it really bad? Like—do I need to go to the doctor or something?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. Just stays hunched over, fingers holding those soft lips apart, watching the wet multiply like it’s growing just for him.
He can’t stop staring.
His dick aches—sweatpants sticking damp against the head, the fabric darkened with a patch of pre he refuses to acknowledge.
“No,” he finally says. Rough and scratchy. “I don’t think you need a doctor.”
Jimin blinks. “I don’t?”
Jungkook shakes his head, slow. Calm. In control, even though every part of him feels like it’s burning.
“I think I can treat it here,” he lies. Smoothly. “It’s not serious. But it could get serious if it’s ignored.”
Jimin’s eyes widen. “Oh—”
“It’s okay,” Jungkook cuts in, reassuring. His thumbs gently press outward, spreading the lips further, all soft and twitchy and pink. He watches as more slick pools near the opening. It’s slow and lazy, like it has nowhere else to be.
“I can fix it. If you let me.”
Jimin swallows. He finally glances down, brave enough to look. Brave enough to see what Jungkook is seeing.
“W-Will it hurt..?” he asks, voice quiet. Small. There’s a tremble in it that doesn’t go unnoticed.
Jungkook doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even pretend to.
“No,” he murmurs. “Actually… it’ll feel good. Really good, Jimin.”
Jungkook finally flicks his eyes up. Just once. Staring at Jimin’s flushed face, parted lips, glassy eyes.
“Want me to fix it?”
Jimin nods, just a little.
“Y-Yeah,” Jimin breathes. “Okay. Please…”
Jungkook moves in without hesitation. Sits between Jimin’s legs and pulls him open again. Two fingers, firm, spreading the soft heat apart like it’s routine.
“God, you’re leaking,” Jungkook mutters, almost to himself. “Didn’t even touch you yet.”
Jimin’s already flushed. Panting a little. His hands are gripping the sheets like he’s bracing for something.
Jungkook drags a single finger up through the wet mess. Flat and slow. Up from his small entrance to his hard clit.
Jimin gasps—loud. His thighs twitch, knees threatening to close.
“Don’t move,” Jungkook says, calm but firm. “You said I could help. So let me help.”
Jimin nods fast, eyes glassy. “S-sorry…”
Another swipe. More slick. It’s everywhere now—shimmering on his inner thighs, dripping down the crack of his ass, sticking to Jungkook’s fingers.
“You feel that?” Jungkook’s voice is low, almost a whisper, laced with a false concern that masks his true intentions. He moves his thumb to circle teasingly around Jimin’s hardened clit. “It’s not normal to be this wet without any real reason.”
Jimin’s breath hitches, confusion and arousal mixed in his wide-eyed gaze. “Is that bad?” his hips squirm and jolt sporadically, like Jimin isn’t even aware of the action.
Jungkook smirks slightly, continuing his slow, deliberate strokes around Jimin’s little bud. “It could be. If we don’t take care of it, who knows what could happen?”
“But it’s okay,” Jungkook adds. “I know how to handle it. That’s what I’m here for.”
He keeps his fingers moving—never inside, just circling over the same bundle of nerves— again and again until Jimin’s whole body is twitching.
“You just needed someone to take care of it,” he murmurs. Admiring how Jimin’s hole is gasping open and shut. Wanting something that Jimin doesn’t even knows it wants. “That’s all this is. Your pussy is just hungry. Course you didn’t know what to do.”
Jimin moans into his pillow, face burning. His legs are shaking now.
“I’m not even doing much,” Jungkook says. Eyes darting up to occasionally take in Jimin’s disheveled appearance. “Just touching. Look how messy you already are.”
He pinches Jimin’s clit gently—just enough to make Jimin jerk.
“Sensitive, huh?” he mutters, watching him squirm. “Bet you’ve never even had anyone down here. All this slick and no one’s touched it before?”
Jimin nods into the pillow, breath catching. “N-no one—never—”
Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “So it’s extra hungry.” His voice is calm. Patient. Like he’s explaining something obvious.
“Been neglecting your pussy for too long. We just have to give it some loving.”
Jimin blinks slow, dazed. And for whatever reason—maybe because he’s overwhelmed, maybe because Jungkook sounds so sure—he thinks it all makes sense. Jungkook’s smarter. Older. More experienced.
He knew coming to Jungkook was the right choice.
“H-how do we…” Jimin starts, voice thin and cracking.
But he doesn’t finish, because Jungkook’s already doing it. His fingers slide down, slow and steady, collecting the slick dripping from his entrance. It coats his skin easily, no resistance. Jungkook drags it up without a word—up, up—to Jimin’s clit.
And when he rubs—gentle at first, slow circles—it’s so slippery there’s no friction. Just pressure and heat and wet, over and over.
Jimin’s whole body twitches.
“Oh—!”
Jungkook doesn’t stop. Just watches the way Jimin jerks, breath catching like he doesn’t know what’s happening to him.
“This is all it needed,” Jungkook murmurs. Breath ghosting over Jimin’s pussy with joe close he’s gravitated. “Just a little attention.”
Jimin whines into the pillow, hips shifting involuntarily. His legs try to close again, too sensitive, but Jungkook’s hand is already there, holding him open.
“Easy,” he mutters. “Let me help you.”
Jimin nods, teeth sinking into the fabric beneath him. His hands are fisted tight.
Jungkook keeps rubbing.
Slow, steady circles. Just his clit. That’s it. He hasn’t even done anything else.
And Jimin’s soaked.
Drenched honestly.
It’s actually starting to pool beneath him, darkening the sheets. Every time Jungkook moves his fingers, there’s more. Like his body’s pouring it out with nowhere for it to go. His thighs are slick, the inside of them glistening. It’s obscene. Almost gross.
And Jungkook can’t stop staring.
He’s never seen anything like this. Never been with anyone who gets this fucking wet from so little.
His clit is swollen now. Really hard. Sticking out more than it was before—tight and flushed and sensitive. Almost looks like a tiny cock.
Jungkook presses his fingers around it. Gently. Squeezes once. Just to see.
Jimin jerks so hard he almost chokes on his breath.
Jungkook laughs under his breath. “Hungry little pussy.”
He flicks it. Just barely. Jimin gasps, hips kicking up off the mattress. One hand shoots down like he wants to cover himself, but he doesn’t follow through. He just grips the sheet instead, breath stuttering.
He doesn’t even notice he’s spreading his legs wider.
His body’s doing it on its own.
Jungkook looks up at him—really looks. Jimin’s neck is flushed red, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack and wet. He’s panting. Quiet little whimpers leaving his lips without him realizing.
He’s close. Jungkook can tell.
He hasn’t even put a finger in. Hasn’t used his mouth. Hasn’t done anything.
And yet Jimin’s already about to cum.
Jungkook’s close enough to lean in. Could taste him if he wanted. Could get Jimin to cum on his tongue. But he won’t. Not yet.
He’ll save that for later.
Jungkook keeps going.
His hand doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Just keeps circling that swollen little cock-clit, letting the slick do the work. It’s so wet now his fingers glide with no effort, just this constant, slippery motion that makes Jimin tremble like he’s short-circuiting.
He’s not even moving much anymore. Just twitching.
His legs shake. His back’s gone stiff. He keeps tensing like he’s trying to hold something in, but he doesn’t even know what.
Jungkook watches his face—flushed and dazed, mouth open, eyes barely focused.
“Breathe,” Jungkook mutters. “You’re holding your breath.”
Jimin sucks in a gasp like he forgot how. Nods frantically.
Jungkook presses just a little harder.
Jimin chokes on a sound—somewhere between a moan and a sob.
“Yeah,” Jungkook says under his breath. “That’s it. Let it out.”
His clit’s practically throbbing now. Hot and tight. Jungkook rolls it in between his fingers, massaging it, pinching it. Watching Jimin’s reactions.
Jimin jerks. His legs snap wider. His hips roll up once—like he can’t help it—and then he grabs the pillow and whines into it.
Loud.
Shameless.
The sound shoots straight through Jungkook. He adjusts his grip, holding Jimin’s hip down with his free hand.
“You’re about to come,” he tells him flatly. “You feel that?”
Jimin nods against the pillow, barely holding himself together. His breath’s all over the place now. High-pitched little gasps that keep breaking off into whimpers.
“Kookie—” he pants. “I—something’s—something’s happening—”
“I know,” Jungkook says. Still calm. Still circling. “It’s okay. Let it go, let it feel good. Let’s give your pussy what it wants, okay?”
Jimin nods, the motion jerky and disjointed. He bites his lip, hard enough that Jungkook thinks he might draw blood. It’s a visual Jungkook finds unexpectedly compelling.
Jimin makes a strangled noise and Jungkook knows he’s not going to last another ten seconds.
So he doesn’t let up.
Not even a little.
He shifts slightly, gets a better grip, and puts both fingers together—pressing down firmly, right where Jimin’s swollen and twitching. He starts rubbing fast. The skin there feels swollen and flushed, slippery to the point of rubbery, like it’s too full of blood and overstimulation. Every motion makes a new noise. Every twitch from Jimin makes another flood of slick drip down his thighs.
Jimin cries out. Tries to squirm, but Jungkook’s arm is holding him steady.
“Kookie—oh my god—Kookie—!” His neck is flushed red. Chest heaving. Eyes rolled half back, mouth open, drool sliding from the corner.
“Give your pussy what it wants,” he says, low. Flat. “Let go Jimin.”
Jimin nods fast, gasping into the pillow, too far gone to say anything. His legs are spread as wide as they’ll go now, toes curling. His whole body’s stiff—pulled tight like a rubber band ready to snap.
One last pinch of Jimin’s clit and jimin’s entire back is arching off the bed, entire body shaking with the force of an orgasm so violent, Jimin goes temporarily cross eyed.
Jungkook just watches. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t touch again.
Just lets Jimin ride it out—red-faced, cross-eyed, twitching through the tail end of something his body clearly had no idea it was capable of.
It’s the hottest thing Jungkook’s ever seen.
And he’s not willing to stop now.
Jungkook’s still breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he just ran a sprint. His eyes stay glued to Jimin, who’s sprawled out in front of him, legs trembling, flushed from head to toe.
“Still hungry,” Jungkook mutters, mostly to himself. His voice is low, hoarse. “I can tell.”
Jimin flinches. Tries to lift his head. “H-huh? A-are you sure? I—I thought—”
Honestly, Jungkook doesn’t really hear Jimin. Doesn’t really care about whatever Jimin is saying.
He’s standing, pushing back the chair with his foot. His hand grabs Jimin’s thighs, both of them, and folds him easily. Bends his knees back until they’re nearly pressed to his chest, until Jimin makes a startled squeak, hands scrambling for balance.
It’s too much. Too fast. Too exposed.
“Wait—Kookie, what are you—?”
In this position, everything is exposed—spread wide, still swollen and red from how hard he came. Jungkook takes it all in like he’s committing it to memory. Like this is something he’s earned.
Jungkook settles between his legs, kneeling on the bed now, one hand still holding him in place, the other yanking his sweatpants down in a single motion.
Jimin can’t see much—just the blur of movement, the way Jungkook’s body shifts, the sound of clothing rustling. His head turns, trying to look, but the angle’s wrong. He’s pinned, stuck, breathing hard with his thighs squeezed together and bent back, his body trembling.
He hears Jungkook’s breathing change—heavier now. Rougher.
Something hot and thick brushes against Jimins pussy. It’s thick and big and Jimin makes a confused noise, soft and shaky. “W-wait, are you—?”
Jungkook doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t even glance up.
He lines himself up and starts to rub—slow, lazy strokes. Back and forth. Cock head parting Jimin’s slippery folds easily. It drags through the mess between Jimin’s legs, slick spreading easier with every pass.
“Gonna use your pussy juice to get myself nice and wet,” Jungkook mutters, like it’s obvious. Like it’s no big deal. “Don’t even need lube.”
Jimin sucks in a breath like he wants to protest, or ask something, but no words come out. Just another noise, tight in his throat.
Jungkook doesn’t give him space to think. He keeps grinding slow, heavy, dragging each movement out like he’s testing every inch of contact. Like he’s making sure he feels everything.
His jaw’s tight. His grip on Jimin’s legs even tighter.
Jimin’s hands are fisting the sheets again, breath coming out in stutters. His whole body’s shaking. Not from fear, not really—but from something deeper. Something that burns hot and makes him feel sick and dizzy and floaty all at once.
He doesn’t understand what’s happening.
Jungkook does though.
He pushes forward, lining up his cock head with Jimin’s pulsating, hot entrance. The resistance is immediate. Tight. Squeezing around him like it doesn’t want to let go.
Jimin gasps—loud and startled. His whole body jerks under the pressure, hips twitching, shoulders curling in like he’s trying to get away from the feeling but doesn’t know how.
Jungkook barely hears it.
It’s all background noise to him now. The sounds Jimin makes, the way the bed creaks under them—it all melts into one steady rhythm in his head. All he can feel is the way Jimins pussy grips him. Hot and pulsing and like it’s already trying to milk him.
He groans under his breath, brow furrowed, both hands locked tight around Jimin’s legs. He presses them down against his chest, folding him in half again, using the leverage to push deeper.
Jimin makes a noise—high, raw, panicked.
But Jungkook doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t want to stop.
The pressure is unreal. Every inch is like a fight. Like the body underneath him is still trying to figure out what’s happening. Like it hasn’t caught up to the decision that’s already been made.
Jimin’s face is flushed, his mouth keeps falling open, trying to form words but only managing breathless little gasps. His eyes are glossy, half-lidded, completely overwhelmed.
Jungkook’s breath is ragged now. His grip bruising. He pushes in deeper. Wanting to feed his cock inside as quickly as possible.
He slams forward in one hard, final thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
Jimin lets out a sound that doesn’t even register as human. High, broken—more like a gurgle than a word. His eyes roll back, legs twitching in Jungkook’s grip. His whole torso jerks up off the mattress, back arched like his body’s trying to fight off a voltage.
Breathing through his nose, jaw clenched tight. His hands are locked on Jimin’s thighs, pressing them hard into his chest to keep him still. He feels everything—every twitch, every spasm, every pulse that squeezes around him like it’s trying to force him out or pull him in deeper. He can’t tell which.
He watches Jimin’s face the whole time.
His lips parting, eyes barely open, forehead damp with sweat. He’s trying to say something—his mouth moves—but nothing clear comes out.
He shifts his weight forward, grinding in a little deeper just to feel the way Jimin’s body shudders under it. Jimin pussy is hot and tight and impossibly wet, and it envelops around Jungkooks cock like a blanket. Squeezing him like some sort of constrictor.
Jimin squirms again, makes another strangled noise, barely even conscious of it.
Jungkook exhales slowly. “Too much?” he mutters, not because he cares, but because he wants to hear what Jimin sounds like when he’s past his limit.
Jimin—still dazed, still trembling, blinking rapidly to try and stay conscious only nods barely.
“You can take it,” Jungkook murmurs, voice soft. Hips rolling slow and deep. His cock slides in with an obscene squelch, the kind of sound that makes both of them gasp a little—he’s so wet, it’s leaking out around the base, thick and glistening, every thrust stirring it up more.
Each time he sinks in, it’s a little sharper, a little deeper, the slide getting slicker, smoother. “Shit—listen to you,” Jungkook breathes, brows drawn tight, watching where they’re joined, watching how his cock disappears into soaked heat and comes out glossy, shining. “So fucking wet.”
The sound is obscene, wet little schlk-schlk noises every time he thrusts forward, hips snapping into Jimin’s with more force now, less hesitation.
His breath hitches every time Jungkook bottoms out, that sensitive place deep inside kissed over and over, tighter every time like his body’s trying to suck him in, keep him there.
Jungkook grunts low, sweat gleaming down his neck, his jaw tight with restraint he’s fast losing. “Your pussy loves this,” he hisses, dragging his cock out slow, just to slam it in again with a wet slap, watching Jimin jolt, whole body quaking, pussy squeezing like it’s begging. “Was made for cock.”
Jimin can’t speak. Can’t think. Just feels. Feels everything.
His eyes roll back before they cross, lashes fluttering, pupils blown wide and useless—barely even seeing anymore. His mouth falls open, a messy ribbon of drool spilling past the corner, running down his chin, catching at the curve of his throat as his body locks tight, trembling, clenching down hard on Jungkook’s cock like a vice.
Jungkook shifts his grip, one hand sliding down between them, two fingers pressing flat against that soaked, swollen clit. His fingers grind tight little circles there, slick with everything Jimin’s already leaking, pressure firm and unrelenting.
Jimin jerks like he’s been shocked, high breath snapping into a choked scream. His whole body bows, spine arching sharp as a bowstring, thighs trembling wildly. His eyes cross, lips parting wide in a silent O before a gasping sob punches out of him.
It hits like a dam snapping.
A hot, wet gush sprays out around Jungkook’s cock, loud and sudden, drenching both them. Jimin gurgles out a moan, the sound raw and unfiltered, body wracked by violent tremors as the flood pulses out of him, soaking everything. The sheets, Jungkook’s chest, the back of his thighs— slick, warm, messy.
Jungkook swears he’s seeing colors.
“Fucking—fuck, fuck—shit—“he chokes, hips slamming forward one final time, burying his cock to the root, so deep Jimin’s body jolts with it. His eyes fly wide, lips pulling back in a silent snarl of pleasure as he unloads, thick pulses of cum shooting straight into that fluttering, sopping wet cunt. He can feel it flood out around the base, warm and sticky, mixing with the spray still leaking from Jimin’s clenching hole.
They’re both coming at once.
Jimin’s cunt won’t stop squirting, pulsing around him, soaked and messy and overworked, every spasm drawing more out of Jungkook’s cock, every twitch making Jimin gush again like his body’s addicted to it now. The mess is unspeakable—slick thighs, smeared cum, sheets ruined—but they’re both of a cloud too high up to give a shit.
Jungkook stays buried to the hilt, breathing ragged, hips twitching with aftershocks while his cock keeps spilling the last of it deep inside. Jimin’s still trembling, still drooling, little whimpers spilling out of his throat like static.
Jungkook finally releases his grip, fingers sliding off the tender flesh of Jimin’s inner thighs—bruised with finger prints.
The second he lets go, those legs fall open like doors unlatched, limp and useless, spread so far apart they tremble at the joints, slick with cum and flushed to the point of oversensitivity.
Jimin doesn’t move. He’s blinking slow, unfocused, lashes fluttering as he stares up at the ceiling like it’s miles away. His lips are parted, red and wet, a streak of spit still trailing from the corner of his mouth down his cheek. Every few seconds, his body twitches—little aftershocks still racing through him.
Jungkook stares at his ruined pussy.
Red and swollen, raw around the rim, fluttering faintly as it leaks slow drips of cum and slick onto the already-soaked sheets below. Jungkook’s load is still slipping out in thick, white trails, creamy and obscene against the ruined pink. His hole keeps twitching like it doesn’t know it’s over.
Jungkook stares.
Not with guilt. Not with regret.
Not even a little.
He feels calm. Satisfied.
Like something in him that’s been gnawing for too long of a time has finally shut up.
He shifts back slightly, eyes still locked on the mess he made. He knows Jimin won’t be able to walk right tomorrow. Knows he’s probably not going to look at him the same again.
That’s fine.
“See,” Jungkook says softly. Almost tender. “Told you I could fix it.”