Fics like stress relief

“Jimin-ah.” Jungkook’s voice is tense. “What are you doing on that couch, sweetheart?” Jimin’s eyes squeeze shut, cunt clenching tight. “Nothing,” he says. “I’m doing nothing.” “Tell me,” Jungkook rasps. “Tell me if your hand is between your thighs right now.” Jimin’s face turns bright red. “I’m not—” “Don’t lie to me, Jimin.” There’s so much authority in Jungkook’s voice that it has Jimin going limp with submission, head lolling back as his eyelashes flutter, his hand pressing down on his aching clit as he tries to regain his rapidly dwindling sensibilities. But the wine makes him braver. Makes him open his mouth and admit shameless things like, “It is.” Jungkook doesn’t let him get away with being vague. “It’s what?” “My hand,” Jimin gasps out. “It’s—it’s between my thighs.” Or: Park Jimin has a terrible day, gets one very ill-timed call from Jungkook, accidentally confesses more than he means to, makes several questionable decisions that end with him getting drilled sobbing and screaming into his couch, and somehow ends the night with a boyfriend—not necessarily in that order.

Fics like stress relief

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