#Swipe Right | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stutterfly · 2 years

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Swipe Right 06 | Overheating | JJK (M)

Rating: M (Explicit 18+)

Pairings: Jungkook x Reader, brot7 x friendship

Genre: E2L, fluff, angst, humor, smut, PersonalTrainer!Jungkook, fuckboy!Jungkook, Nerd!Jungkook, Nerd/IT!Reader

Word Count: 6.7K ish (I’m doing smaller chapters going forward)

Last time on SR05: Tension is at an all-time high, a side effect from crossing some lines and flirting indiscriminately. It complicates your newfound friendship with Jungkook. Things are definitely more blurry since you woke up alone in his bed.

CW & Other Tags: slow burn, fuckboy Jungkook, pining, sexual tension, grinding, daydreaming about that sweet sweet fantasy baby

Series: Activate your SIMCard

Fic: Swipe Right (6/?- Ongoing)

Do not repost.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Six in the morning. Six in the morning on Monday. Whose idea was this?

You’re on your final lunge and you feel your stance wobble once again as you begin to sink down. Fuck past you for suggesting this. This is terrible. You hate everything.

“Slowly,” Jungkook is quick to remind you. “You got this.”

Despite his optimistic tone, his voice is an unavoidable irritant. Formality hasn’t been in question, no that’s not the problem here. He’s been a total professional: no wandering hands or eyes, just a firm encouraging tone with a laundry list of tasks, all of which seemed designed to drain you of all energy before the day has even begun.

You’ve been at this for a while on your own, but obviously lenient with intensity. Of course you’ve ignored bodyweight exercises. You’re at the gym. If you wanted to just do push-ups and lunges, you’d be at home not doing them. He’s the one with the muscles, so maybe he’s right as much as you hate to admit it. Maybe personal trainers are certified for a reason. As you struggle to maintain your balance and nearly topple over, you surmise the reason being they need everyone to know they basically have a degree in sadism.

With a quickness that shows your guilty need to be done with this activity, you bring yourself upright far too fast for his liking. He frowns, arms crossed as he watches your form, or lack thereof.

“Hold on. One more time.”

DEMON.

“Slowly come up. Like this.” He demonstrates again, eyes focused ahead. You watch as the exposed thickly carved muscles of his calf tense, awe overtakes envy in a rush to your brain. He pauses, his knee hovering above the floor before looking at you and gesturing towards his leg as he rises at a careful pace. “It’s about control.”

Pfft. I hate control. Look at my life. You think I have any of that?

“One more,” he says again. “Just one.”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you do it like he demonstrated, albeit less stable.

“Nice work.” He holds his hand up for a high-five, which you tap if only to signify an end to this session. “Now we stretch.”

He’s already taking a mat out for you before you can protest. If he senses your irritability, he doesn’t let on. The difficulty you’re having keeping your energy up is a contributing factor, but the source remains your own emotional attachment to the man himself. Sunday morning you woke up alone with the foggy memory of trying to seduce him. There’s enough shame swirling around your body to steep and brew into a giant pot of dumb-bitch juice. The more you focus on the memories you can’t change, the more you start to panic.

All this dumb bitch juice makes it hard to focus... But isn’t it made from concentrate?

Your internal joke brings a small smile to your lips. It pushes the panic into the past where it can’t hurt you now. Humorous deflection is a coping skill right? As you finally drag yourself over to where he’s waiting, you notice Jungkook smiles like a big puppy. Your insides churn. He probably thought you were smiling at him. You purse your lips and follow his lead into performing cooldown stretches.

It's not until you're down on your back with your ankle on your knee that you allow yourself to glance at his face. He’s focused on his own stretching, which gives you a heartbreakingly beautiful view of his profile. Instead of using this time to deepen your own stretch, you study his features. Beads of sweat behind his ear, the loop and stud embedded at the base of his earlobe, and the several empty holes above them and you quickly count them. Does he really have six? The sharp outline of his jaw leads your eyes to his chin, where they quickly follow the slope of his deep-pink parted lips up the flat tip of his nose and the large curve above it.

“Alright. Last stretch.”

There’s no time to think about the implications of such a shape because Jungkook hops to his feet. You sit up, eager to block his view from such a vulnerable double-chin position as he rounds the mat you’re on.

“Ah, no. Lay on your back. You’re gonna raise your leg,” he coaches.

You tick your jaw and lean back on your elbows, not allowing yourself to fall completely on your back when he’s standing right there. Slowly your bent leg rises in a half-assed attempt to please him. He grabs the bottom of your pitifully hovering sneaker.

“Straighten,” he says, guiding your leg up with a hand on your knee to keep it in line. “Like that.”

The burn travels up your hamstring. Skepticism erodes as your muscles relax and you lay flat against the mat. He’s been professional this whole time. It’s just your own stress and confusion getting the better of you. It’s not his fault your mind is in the gutter. Everything is fine.

“Feel okay?” he asks, leaning forward to meet your gaze.

Strands of hair fall out from behind his ear as he looks down at you. Suddenly everything is not fine. Your cheeks burn and you forget how to articulate your thoughts as lurid fantasies begin to creep into your brain. So this is how he’d look, huh? Great. Way to give your inner crush some fuel for that fire. You might as well be back in his room, sucking on his fingers.

If he leaned over he’d look like— He’d sound like— Oh fuck. He knows. Stop thinking about it. Stoppit.

“More? Less?” he guesses aloud while gently pressing your leg further towards your chest and then letting up. “We’re trying to find the sweet spot.”

Is he fucking with you? He must be.

“Shouldn’t be painful,” he continues, lightly testing the tension in your leg. “Just a satisfying stretch.”

Every word makes your face hotter and the blood rushing through your ears even louder. He knows how this sounds right? He has to know.

Your silence causes his big brown eyes to regard you with curiosity. “Is it uncomfortable?”

“It’s good,” you say, all too quickly for it to be genuine but it seems to satisfy his concerns.

Finally he lowers your leg and motions for you to lift the other. One of his hands clasps around the back of your ankle while the other supports your knee. He starts to carefully press your leg towards your chest but lessens the pressure the moment you inhale sharply through your nose.

“Bodies aren’t symmetrical. Sometimes stuff works differently on each side and that’s okay. It’s about finding the spot that works for you. If it’s tighter on this side that’s okay. Is here good?”

“Little more,” you mumble, trying your best to ignore the fire in your face. When he adjusts the position, you feel that sweet perfect stretch he’s been talking about. “Oh, right there.”

His fingers tighten over your knee and dig into the soft flesh of your thigh for a brief moment. It’s gone before you can guess if you imagined it or perhaps it was some sort of spasm in your own muscle.

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He’s said that line a lot to clients over the years during sessions, but for the first time he’s speaking to himself. Immediately you release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding and it serves to cover his own exhale. There’s a complicated tension between the pair of you and there has been for a while. This certainly isn’t helping assuage it right now, but he’s hopeful with time it will get easier to navigate.

“Alright, that’s it. Nice work. You made it through.”

He offers his hand and you clasp your own in it with a smile. Although it seems effortless, his biceps bulge as he swiftly brings you to your feet. It takes active brainpower to immediately release his hand instead of holding on for comfort. The way you snap your hand away while emanating such a warm smile is a perfect example of the dichotomy wrestling your psyche. If he notices, he says nothing. The water bottle nearby doesn’t seem to be enough to quench your thirst. Unsurprising, considering the way your mind wanders.

“So, what do you think? Same time tomorrow?” He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet when you look back; it’s hard to draw the line between enthusiasm and anxiety. Maybe he notices more than you think. Maybe you’re reading into his fidgety nature far too much.

“Sure.” You pop the lid closed on your bottle and flash him a half-smile. “I’ll text you later?”

He gives you a nod and the warmth of his smile lights his face. “Looking forward to it.”

“Thanks, Jungkook.”

There’s an awkward pause as you consider going in for a hug. Then you mull over the possibility of a handshake, high-five, or a fist-bump. Instead you land on a delayed, dorky wax-on wax-off “wave.” Cool. Gonna be thinking about that awkward karate kid exchange all day. Can the floor please melt your legs down to stumpy bones so you’d have something else to think about? That’d be great.

He crosses his arms with a sense of pride as he watches you hurriedly make your way towards the lockers. That could have gone much worse. You didn’t even ask for your sweater. Good. He didn’t bring it.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

You look down at your hands and knock your gloves together, trying to make sure your fingers are positioned correctly within. It’s hard to get used to the cumbersome coverings. They weigh your hands down and draw attention to the lack of strength in your wrists. Even though you know the basic motion, the multiple warnings you’d received about damaging your wrist are all you can think about. You decide it’s best not to practice the motion until you can watch someone else do it first.

The class is bigger than expected, which only adds to the anxiety bubbling in your stomach. For some reason the lack of shoes makes you feel more exposed. You don’t need strangers looking at your feet. Thankfully there are a lot of bags for you to choose from and the back corner of the room seems relatively secluded. You awkwardly let your water bottle roll away from your armpit and trap it between your gloves to set it on the floor nearby. Taking a deep breath, you focus on the mirror at the front of the room and wait for the instructor to arrive.

Ignoring the chatter of other attendees’ conversations, you do your best to tell yourself no one is looking at you and no one’s talking about you. You’re not interesting enough to talk about. You repeatedly chant this to yourself, but still you feel like the subject of every conversation surrounding you. Why couldn’t Jennie or Namjoon just come to the one class with you? It seemed so doable after work, especially with how good you feel after this morning’s first session with Jungkook. But now you’re not so sure you should be here.

Confidence, you remind yourself. You’re doing this to instill confidence. Embracing change and exploring the unknown has never been your forte. It’s unsettling to try something new by yourself. All your life you’ve felt like an outsider when performing any physical activity. No matter the sport, you always seem to feel like you’re doing it wrong. A combination of grade school bullies and unempathetic PE teachers steered you towards a different path in life, a nerdier, less physically active life.

Any time you start to veer back in this direction, your body has a very visceral reaction. You get defensive in your discomfort, burdened by memories too embarrassing and upsetting to properly process. It’s no wonder that even as a full grown woman you still feel like that girl who’d cry in a bathroom stall after gym class. Your pulse quickens, your face heats up and tears threaten to spill from behind glassy eyes. Why did you make yourself do something sport-related? Morning training is one thing, but is this really something you think you can just do by yourself?

Taking a deep breath, you begin to count the bags in the room; it’s all you can do to keep yourself from bolting before the class even starts. Punching things is probably just what you need to deal with these feelings. Just as your eyes reach the bag nearest the door, a familiar face walks past the threshold.

Jungkook is clad in a black muscle shirt and basketball shorts to match, and his hair is tied back into the world's tiniest, pristine ponytail. While he grins and greets the other students in the room, you slink behind the hanging bag you’ve chosen to be your partner for the night, hoping it will block you from his sight. He doesn’t teach kickboxing; you checked. Attempts will be made to combust on the spot if he announces he’s covering for the instructor.

There’s an unmistakably Jungkook cackle. You peek around the bag just in time to watch a girl punch him in the arm. He feigns being hurt, whining that he needs an ice pack for the pain. She feels up his arm and gives his bicep a squeeze, calling him out for faking. He grins that stupid grin you hate so much: the one where he shows off his teeth and his nose is outlined by wrinkled skin.

She offers to make it up to him with dinner and you tune out the rest with a sigh, feeling irritated that everywhere he goes women seem to throw themselves at him. You’re mad at yourself for letting it bother you. It’s not her fault he’s so attractive. It’s not her fault he didn’t fuck you this weekend. It’s all so complicated with him, and it’s not her fault, but still. You’re jealous.

There has to be a way forward, a way you can let this go. Let him go. He was never yours anyway. Another deep breath escapes your mouth. At least your rooted anxiety over the newness of this class seems to be replaced with a comfortable irritation. Maybe you can channel that energy into this activity.

People are already starting to warm up, delivering soft punches and kicks to their bags. You awkwardly stand behind yours without a clue as to what you should be doing other than waiting. Much to your dismay Jungkook crosses the room, the pads of his bare feet silent until he stops two bags in front of you. He sets his water bottle down, a focused look on his face as he begins to wrap his hands in a pretty black and red band. He expertly covers his hand, entrancing you with the circular motion.

He paces as he wraps, sparing a quick glance towards the back of the room. He does a double take, frozen in place as he stares at you. For a second you think he’s imitating a statue, but then he blinks and a cloyingly sweet smile graces his lips. It makes you wish you’d walked out when you had the chance.

“Princess!” His exclamation draws far too many eyes to your corner. “Surprised you’re here after this morning.”

You don’t dare look around the room to see if flirty girl is giving you the stink eye. It’s enough just to feel the gaze of others heating your face like a million laser pointers.

“What are you doing here?” you grumble, hiding behind the bag.

He laughs, holding his unwrapped hand up as if to proclaim his innocence. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’ve been coming to this class for the last two years. You’re the newbie here.”

You purse your lips, feeling foolish. Of course Jungkook takes advantage of the training programs offered here. He has his own schedule that has nothing to do with you. Still…

You stiffen as you watch his eyes rake over your attire. He hums thoughtfully.

“W-What?” Insecurity clings to you in all the places your clothing does too.

“Mm. Nothing.”

“What.” You make sure to enunciate the word for maximum transparency of your irritability.

“Didn’t peg you as a boxer. First time?” he asks while flexing his fingers to test the fit.

You fold your arm across your chest and hug your elbow with your giant glove, offering a small nod. He briefly pokes his tongue into his cheek. Is that a sore spot? He got a small taste of your confidence level regarding exercise this morning, or lack thereof. Maybe that’s something he can help you with.

“Don’t worry. It’s really fun. Addicting.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and his smile puts you at ease.

The instructor walks in and introduces herself, sparing you from having to say more. She turns on some high energy music and has you all doing burpees as a warm up. You already want to die. Apparently you’re not the only newbie here today so she teaches the class how to stand while performing the three main techniques for throwing a punch: jab, cross, and hook.

You make yourself as unassuming as possible as you try to get the hang of each technique. Ten minutes in, you’re out of breath and sweating buckets. The instructor, Dara, watches you a couple times and fixes your weak elbows, asks you to use more force on the bag, and tells you “don’t forget to breathe,” like you’re not out here gasping for air.

When it’s time for a water break, Jungkook turns to look back at you. He looks every bit as sweaty as you feel.

“Doing okay?” He picks up his water bottle and puts his whole mouth over the wide opening to drink.

You nod between heavy pants and free one of your sweaty hands from the confines of the glove. “Yeah… Fine… You...?”

You focus on your own bottle. It’s like you can’t get the liquid into your mouth fast enough. You try to breathe it in like oxygen and subsequently choke out a couple wet coughs. He looks up from his shirt, which he’s folded up to wipe the sweat from his face. The set of heavy glistening creases lining his stomach claim your attention. You choke again for another reason entirely.

“You sure?” he asks, concerned with your apparent inability to breathe like a normal human.

“Just tried to inhale my water. It’s fine,” you joke, walking around your bag until you can no longer see any part of the sculpted perfection that is his body.

“Ah, I’m tired,” he groans. He circles his bag, smoothing unruly wisps of damp black hair from his forehead. “Halfway there though.”

“Hah, only half?” Despite your best attempt to sound confident, your breathlessness betrays your tone. Thank fuck he pulled his shirt back down.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna give up,” he teases, reaching across to poke your sweaty arm.

“No!” You’re quick to put your glove back on just as the instructor starts the music again.

“Good. You’re doing really well.” He makes sure you can see his smile and wink before he turns back to his bag and starts running through the combos again.

Your anxiety heightens when the instructor tells everyone to find a partner to practice kicks. You’ve been circling the bag to get the hang of moving while hitting, so you look over your shoulder and purse your lips. Jungkook’s eyes are as big as they are nervous when you find them. Being that he’s the only person you know, he seems the logical choice. You don’t want to talk to a stranger. Plus, if you’re being honest you’d rather pair with him before flirty girl can snatch him up.

He’s frozen. He’s used to pairing with the teacher: the teacher that can easily bench twice her bodyweight. You’re giving him those deer-in-the-headlights eyes and it’s hard to look away. He’s never been more terrified of hurting someone.

“Jungkook, do you wanna…?” The uncertainty in your voice makes your own ears flush with the same heat radiating from your cheeks.

Everyone else is already kicking away. He looks uncomfortable even as he nods and forces a smile. He holds the bag steady for you as you practice, though his eyes look vacant. You practice for a few minutes but the exertion has taken a lot out of you. Aren’t you supposed to trade off?

“Kook.” You sigh when he doesn’t respond, delivering your combo to the bag without a care in the world regarding your form.

Bap-bap-bap.

“Jungkook.” Again you practice the combo, this time clumsily adding the two kicks at the end.

Bap-bap-bap… Bap... Bap.

The chains linking the bag to the ceiling rattle but the bag itself barely sways with the way he’s holding it. Why is this so hard? Wiping the sweat from your brow, you tap his arm.

“Hey.”

He snaps out of his daze but continues to stare blankly at you. “Hmm?”

“Can we switch off?” you ask, fighting through your wheezing.

He nods, wetting his lips and moving around the bag. He looks pissed when his fist makes contact. Part of you shudders at the intensity of the motion, the other part fixates on his face as you’re pushed back by the force. Luckily the instructor swoops in at the last minute to keep the bag from smashing you in the face.

Jungkook seems to visibly relax at her intervention. After showing you how to hold, she lets you take the bag back on your own. He starts delivering heavier blows that cause the bag to sway slightly, but you're determined to keep it as steady as possible. You can take it. You want him to know you can absolutely take it.

By the end of class you're on the floor pretending to stretch but in reality you want an excuse to lay down and never get up again. As the rest of the students file out one by one, you're left staring at the flood lights above with a thigh crossed over your knee. Your chest is on fire and it feels like your ribs are going to crack open, chest-burster style. You think you're alone until Jungkook's voice calls out to you.

"You should sit up." His face blocks out the light as he peers down at you, strands of his hair. He offers a hand but you wave him off.

"Just let me die here,” you wheeze. “How can my chest be so sore? My arms should be sore, right?"

"You're not breathing when you hit."

You furrow your brow and turn your head as he walks away. “What?”

"Every time you hit you have to exhale. Like this." He takes a moment to demonstrate.

You hadn't heard them with the loud music and other sounds of practice filling the room, but now they're clear as day. Each time his fists make contact with the bag, he releases a tiny exhale that almost sounds like a breathy, restrained groan. Each one feels like an impact to your own gut.

"It's why some people yell when they hit. You were holding in every breath, every sound. I could tell. You gotta let it out."

"Why didn't you say anything?" you mumble, slowly sitting up and scooting back against the wall.

"Dara told you to breathe but you weren't getting it. I made the same mistake when I started. After that first session, I never made it again. You won’t either, right?”

You raise your eyebrows and nod in thoughtful agreement. Breathing is way too difficult to be an automatic thing right now so you force the air through your lungs and watch him take a few more powerful swings at the bag.

“You know, the reason I've stuck with this class for so long is because it makes me feel free. Weightless. There’s so much that used to make me feel weak and now it’s like…” He hums thoughtfully and presses an open palm to the bag. “I don’t carry it with me every day. It all spills out so I don’t have to.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” you say, legs outstretched.

“I’m not some character with a tragic backstory,” he says with a laugh, softly tapping against the bag a couple times. “Waiting to be revealed.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine. I just mean there’s no real secret,” he interrupts your fumbling words. “I used to be really timid and shy.”

You scoff and bring yourself to your feet. “Yeah right.”

“For real.” He pauses to let you take a few swings at the bag and notes your form. “Try to relax your stance, though.” He performs the motion slowly to demonstrate. “Confidence only came when I started considering who I am, who I want to be, and merging them together.”

“And you figured all that out?” you question, trying to mimic his posture. “Sounds fake.”

He shakes his head, rounding the bag to stand beside you. “Not at all. It’s something I’m still working on. Like you and that left hook combo.”

Self-consciousness sinks in with him so close, and you show off what little you’ve gleaned from watching him. You push past the clunky unnatural feeling in your limbs to force them into a fluid motion.

He cocks his head to the side. “Slow it down a bit and show me again?”

Swallowing down your pride, you go through the process again, this time painfully slow. “Ah, right there. Try to drop your shoulders a little, and keep this up.” He lifts the tip of your elbow with the pad of his finger.

“Like this?” you demonstrate the motion with uncertainty.

He hums a pleased sound. “Better.”

You fall into a pattern of sharing jabs at the bag.

“So, how did you go from shy guy to…”

“To...?” he wonders, landing a soft combo against the firm surface while quirking a brow at you.

“To someone who makes bets,” you pause to release a couple blows of your own, “about getting into girls’ pants.”

A loud sound forces its way through the ring his lips make. “Long story short? I grew up and girls paid more attention to me. I got used to it.”

There has to be more to it so you take your turn and ask the burning question on your mind. “Can I hear the short story long?"

His elbow drops a bit as he lightly taps the bag, clearly caught off guard. You reach out for his arm just as he’s retracting it.

“Slow down and show me again?” you interject before he can find the words to begin.

When he extends his arm again you press your finger against his elbow similar to his earlier motion. As soon as his eyes are on yours, his face relaxes into a warm smile.

“Helping me keep it up?”

Licking your lips in response is unintentional, but it undoubtedly makes no difference in his perception. “Just returning the favor.”

He sweeps the back of his wrist over his forehead and sighs, mumbling something indiscernible under his breath.

“What?” you ask, truly wondering.

He looks from the bag to you and shakes his head. It’s a dangerous line to walk yet you’re both sprinting toward some imaginary goal anyway. He doesn’t even know what that goal might be, but it seems you’re both eager to reach it first.

Maybe you want to push him over the edge, maybe he’s hoping the same from you. It doesn’t matter. He knows this is the part where he’s supposed to answer and reveal whatever kind of tragedy you think might be lurking amongst his past. The problem is it doesn’t exist.

Still. He flirts, and you flirt back. Normally he’d know how to take it from here, but there are rules in this case. He’d break every one of them if it meant relief from this tension. If he could indulge in you tonight and say fuck tomorrow without consequence, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Future Jungkook’s problems tend to have a lasting effect on present Jungkook so he reasons there’s benefits to reap from abstaining from impulsivity. Keep walking those fine lines.

“I was just curious. You don’t need to tell me,” you offer, trying out another hook against the bag. Still feels weird. Weirder than this dance with Jungkook.

“Shoulders and hips should be down,” he mumbles again, instinctively reaching out to fix your form. “Like this.”

His palms perch on your shoulders and gently press down. When your back stiffens, so does he, an apology already at his lips for invading your space. Before he can step back you stop him.

“No, it’s fine. Show me.” You lift his hand in yours and aim towards the bag. “Guide me?”

Lines. What are lines? How does he feed them? How does he not cross them? You don’t seem to have a problem. So why does he? Perhaps he could defuse the bomb of his frustration with a heartfelt story, or distract with some kind of history you might find relatable. Instead he finds himself considering how best to blow it all to hell.

Sweat-drenched clothes be damned. He slides his hand over your shoulder and taps the back of your calf with his big toe. “Move this forward a little.”

Your foot inches towards the bag while his arm leads yours in a slow swing.

“Like...”

Bap.

“...this.”

His fist makes contact with the bag with yours secured beneath. His other hand slips over the sheen of your knuckles, directing another slow hit to the bag. The effortless glide of his wet skin against yours should feel disgusting. The heat should feel unbearable. You’re so tired, so overheated, so out of breath, and sore, and sickeningly slick in more ways than one. Your body should be telling you to rest, yet it’s taking everything you have to not give in to the instinct to rub yourself against him like some kind of horny slug.

The weight of his hot, sticky chest clings to your back. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks. “See the angle of your wrist? You turn it like this. Strong elbows, strong wrists, relaxed shoulders.”

It’s hard to tell if your legs wobble because of the unfamiliar stance, a lingering weakness from the intense workout, or just your lingering weakness for him. You don’t deny yourself the pleasure countering the weight of his chest with your back. He doesn’t pull away. You don’t pull away. It feels so… intimate.

“Is that all there is to it?” you wonder with a not so subtle wiggle of your ass.

Wetting his lips, he drops his chin down and lowers the tone of his voice.

“There’s also … relaxed hips,” he whispers, dropping his hands to your waist.

The statement is pocked with grit, reminiscent of a sleepy morning in bed. Avoiding the sun. Rolling over. Curling up beneath the warmth of sheets. The weekend comes rushing back in an instant. His arms around you, leg propped up over yours, clinging to your form like he'd never let you go. His fingers in your mouth, bobbing ever so slowly while you suck on them. The shaky breath at your ear, wishing he'd fuck you like that. Nice and slow.

He thumbs your shirt and drums his fingertips over your hips. He slots a thigh between your legs and all but dares you to rest your cunt there. “Strong legs.”

“How strong?” you ask, a slight waver in your tone.

Everything is jelly. You might as well give in to your inner slug. The bulging muscles above his knee welcome the heat of your cunt. The entire room feels like a thousand degrees. Can he tell the difference between your sweat and arousal? While you can’t be sure of the ratio at this point, the urge to feel him beats any embarrassment into submission. It feels good. It feels so good.

“Very.” His fingers dig into your sides and press your hips down to better connect with his thigh.

He can feel you. Hot. Sweaty. Breathless. There’s no time to think or dwell on the best way forward. His dick is hard and you’re here. You’re so fucking hot like this. He rocks his hips in time with yours and watches with satisfaction as your lips part like you’re about to make noise. All he wants to do is spin you around so he can fuck you against the bag. That’s crossing the line though, isn’t it? Not the time. Not the place. If it was…

He drags his nose along your neck with a deep inhale. “I can show you.”

You whimper his name so quietly, so needy, and fuck he’s hard. It would be so easy to take you to his car and give you what you both want. Suddenly he knows he’s in trouble. Where’s the line? Where’s the fucking line? He doesn’t want to stop, but that probably means he should.

“We should go.” He half-groans, half-sighs as he steps back.

The embarrassment hit is immediate. As he shifts, you compose yourself into a publicly appropriate stance. Where does your self-control go when it comes to him? It’s like he’s magnetic. You know better, but you’re drawn to him. You want him. Surely he can’t hurt you twice, especially now, right?

“It seems like you got it now,” he says quietly.

You clear your throat as though it might cleanse the heat from your face. You regain your footing well enough to spin around and assess the situation. Jungkook is already facing away but you can tell he’s adjusting the waistband to his shorts. Proof. Your stomach soars like you’re on a rollercoaster. There’s a certain power you only feel when you know for a fact you’ve caused a boner.

“Don’t want to get locked in after dark,” he jokes, gathering his things.

Don’t you? It’s a thought you share, but refuse to say aloud.

“Um…”

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “That was…”

“Fun,” you finish at the same time he says “dumb.”

His eyes widen and he looks down at the floor, a coy smile curling the edges of his mouth.

“Dumb,” you attempt to cover. “I said dumb. No, I—Same. Bad. Hormone. Dumb things. We— Y’know… Let’s just… forget about it. Cool?”

“Cool,” he says, desperately trying to not burst into laughter. You’re so endearingly awkward and cute and wonderful. Listening to you speak after you get embarrassed is becoming his new favorite hobby. It’s adorable.

You kneel beside your bag, awkwardly putting on your shoes at a weird angle. No way you’re sitting with your legs spread open right now. “I’ll keep practicing.”

“Practice is good. Just…” he pauses thoughtfully, “remember to breathe. This is one of the few places where you can make as much noise as you want. Take up space. Let out whatever is bothering you and leave it at the bag. Stop worrying someone is judging you. Just let it out. We all need this for different reasons. We're all focused on relieving our own stress. And this works. You’re welcome here. This is your space. Claim it."

Blinking a few times, you’re nearly awestruck into silence. A nervous weak laugh escapes you. “That sounded almost wise. Where did Jungkook go?”

He wipes down his slick face with the inside of his shirt with a laugh. It doesn't really help this time since it too is covered in sweat. If you didn’t know better you might guess he’d just climbed out of a pool. Yet the proof is in the tiny puddle of sweat surrounding the bag the pair of you shared moments ago. Your eyes instinctively dart to his waistband. Are you disappointed or relieved to find nothing but a thin line of hair trailing down from his navel?

"Ugh, I need a shower," he mumbles while stretching his feet out in front of him. He looks over at you suddenly and wiggles his eyebrows. "Wanna join me?"

You scoff. "And there he is."

The longer you sit, the more the adrenaline slows for your body to remind you of its exhaustion. The floor is starting to look like a good place to nap and your arm feels like it might not keep you upright much longer if you stay.

He jumps to his feet with a light chuckle and offers you a hand. "Kidding. You know I’m kidding. Come on. You're gonna need some sleep if you're gonna make our 5am sesh tomorrow."

You roll your eyes and grasp his hand with both of yours. "Ew. Don't call it a sesh."

He brings you up faster than anticipated. Your form collides with his, legs definitely more jell-o than flesh and bone right now, knees threatening to immediately buckle when he starts to let go. His laugh gets caught in his throat. Sore muscles flex tighter, warming his chest with a new shot of adrenaline.

One hand is still firmly clasped around yours, trapped between your bodies. His other hand gropes your sweat soaked shirt, long fingers digging into the small of your back. Your legs threaten to stay formless blobs the longer you remain so close. Even covered in sweat he looks so good. He smells so good. Why does his gross sweat smell so good? Pheromones be damned. That’s just not fair.

"… You good?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

His hand remains at your back and you let it. Swallowing down a wave of butterflies that threaten to spring from your throat, you hum a weak sound of affirmation. His thumb kneads against the fabric of your shirt, massaging gentle circles into the flesh beneath. The butterflies gladly change course and head straight down to your cunt.

Goosebumps erupt across your body. Can he tell? An uneven breath struggles past your lips. The circles stop abruptly and the weight of his meaty palm meets your back. He doesn’t pull you closer, but god you wish he would at least once more tonight.

"This is a good shirt," he mumbles, his breath close enough to mingle with yours. "It's soft."

"Thanks. It was six dollars."

Why is that the only thing you can say? Lightheaded and anxious once again, you reach for his shoulder but your hand falls short, resting flat against his chest. His shirt is soaked through with sweat and you can feel the taut muscles beneath. It’s disgusting. It’s wonderful.

He laughs through his nose. ”Feeling mine now?”

Kiss him. Do it. Get it over with. Maybe this feeling will stop if you just—

"Gross. You should shower," you blurt, using his pecs to propel yourself backward with a push. Gelatin legs or no, you need to extricate yourself from this now. You’ve already done enough tonight.

"Wow," he scoffs, then laughs. “That’s true.”

“I mean I should shower too. Oof—” Chains rattle as you knock into one of the bags. You briefly regard it like you’re about to apologize, but quickly focus back on him. "We should shower.” You reach out to steady the bag so the chains aren’t so loud. “I mean. Not-Not together. Obviously. Like, separately. We both. I..."

“Yeah?”

He watches with raised eyebrows, bottom lip trapped beneath his teeth as he tries to hold back his smug grin. “Oh, go ahead. Finish your thought,” he encourages, allowing his grin to spread.

"I’m good. Good-Oh!” You back into another bag and reach to stop it from shaking as you scurry past it. “Night.”

"See you tomorrow!" he brightly calls after you.

How the fuck are you so cute?

Working out is a high in itself, but the one he feels right now is different. He almost feels invincible. Almost feels like it’s the right thing to do to chase after you. Almost like nothing can go wrong if he just gives in. Catching a glimpse of a dopey smile in the mirror gives him pause. It looks like trouble wearing his face.

He pokes his tongue into his cheek and pulls out his phone, searching for that dating app he downloaded. His chest may be light and buoyant, keeping him afloat in a sea of endorphins, but his legs are heavy with the weight of reality’s anchors. Distractions seem like a better option than mistakes.

#bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook fic #bts fic #swipe right

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