Rapture Without Absolution // JIKOOK

The apartment balcony became a secret theater, every movement of Jimin across the courtyard burned into Jungkook's skin, a pulse he couldn't ignore.
Jungkook's eyes traced the rise and fall of Jimin's body, memorizing angles and shadows, pleasure creeping along his spine without permission.

Every time Jimin leaned back into someone else, every gasp that floated across the space between them, Jungkook's fingers betrayed him, a slow confession he never dared voice.

There was a cruel sweetness in knowing Jimin was unaware, yet somehow perfectly knowing, his own want mirrored and sharpened by the scene.
The air on the balcony felt thick with tension, almost alive, as if it could taste Jungkook's desire and tease him further.

Jimin moved like sin incarnate-effortless, untouchable, yet teasingly close-turning Jungkook's restraint into a fine wire of unbearable tension.
Each secret observation became ritual, each hidden thrill a pulse that throbbed louder than any thought of shame or propriety.

And when Jimin finally spoke that night at the party, naming the truth Jungkook had tried to bury, the confession hit like fire, stripping pretense, leaving only raw, desperate need.

The world shrank to the curve of Jimin's hand on him, the weight of Jimin's gaze and Jungkook's surrender, a collision of want that had been building for too long to deny.

Even after the night ended, the memory of Jimin's claim, his control, and the heat of shared, reckless indulgence lingered, echoing through every nerve in Jungkook's body.