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dreamersparacosm · 19 days ago

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𐙚₊˚⊹ househusband!jk x wife!reader 𐙚₊˚⊹

warnings ; reader is THIRSTINGGGG over her husband, jk is a little chef, oral (m recieving), you play with his balls, oh dw he cums and you swallow (bc you’re hungry… duh. get your head out of the gutter!)

prompt ; in which you devour an appetizer before your main course.

In your defense, your husband while he’s cooking is something straight out of an erotic romance novel.

When you first started dating, you thought the way to your heart were words. Grand gestures. A well-timed compliment. Maybe even a bouquet of flowers if you were being a drama queen about it.

But then, Jeon Jungkook made you dinner for the first time.

And that was enough to bring you to your knees (or more realistically, for him to have you bent over the dining room table while he fucked you from behind and the food grew cold.)

The first time he cooked dinner for you, it was some spaghetti dish you still can’t pronounce. It was unreasonably good. The man didn’t use a single measuring spoon or cup and managed to concoct a dish that would have Gordon Ramsey foaming at the mouth.

He had set the table, poured you a glass of red wine, and stood back with his arms crossed, eyeing you take your first bite with an evil glint in his eyes.

You hadn’t even finished chewing before you moaned. Audibly moaned, and it was only your third month in a relationship. You should’ve gone to prison after that, but instead, he smiled widely, bunny teeth poking out from beneath his top lip.

“Good?” he asked.

You licked your plump pink lips, swallowed hard, and met his eager eyes. “Have me for dessert, baby?”

Oh, and he did.

Now that you’ve been married for a few years, living out your days in a quaint cottage in the suburbs, he cooks for you most nights of the week. You work long, treacherous hours, and the career he built as a self-made wedding photographer doesn’t require much physical labor. He’s more than happy to cater to you, to treat you like the princess you are. Some may call him a simp, but those who dare do so forget that he’s getting his dick pumped dry by a beautiful woman every single night — so really, who’s the winner here?

He’s in that kitchen day and night, chopping up vegetables and searing meats like this is some Michelin star restaurant. The apron you got him for Christmas has become a form of foreplay.

All this to say — the wetness soaking your underwear currently is no one’s fault but his.

When you were in your single girl era, you used to fantasize about nights like these. Candles lit, soft yellow light pooling over the living room, a throw blanket draped over your legs while you ignore whatever Netflix show you threw on earlier and stare at your husband in the kitchen.

You haven’t paid attention to that damn television in the last twenty minutes. The moment you had looked up and saw him — black t-shirt, loose gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, apron tied lazily around his waist — it was over.

He’s stirring something in the pan. Those godforsaken biceps of his strain everytime he reaches up to pluck a jar of seasoning off the shelf.

Sometimes you swear the man knows what he’s doing to you. He’s been letting his shirt ride up to show the cut of his waist every ten minutes and no one can possibly be that oblivious.

Enough is enough.

Throwing the blanket off your legs, you stand up, a woman on a mission. If dinner’s going to be that good, he might as well earn it.

The kitchen floor is cool against your bare feet, the hem of one of his oversized t-shirts brushing against the tops of your thigh with each step. He’s far too focused in the kitchen to hear your little feet padding towards him, especially as he gives the pan a toss, whatever he’s sauteeing crackling gently. He’s humming to himself, probably some melody he’s made up on the spot, and you admire the view from behind.

His broad shoulders, the hair that curls at the nape of his neck…

It’s a crime to be married to someone this attractive.

You snake your arms around his waist, warm palms sliding over the front of his apron before sneaking their way underneath his black t-shirt, splayed across the planes of his abs. You press your face between his shoulder blades and breathe in his musky scent. Something spicy and soapy and oddly familiar to that cologne you bought him for his birthday.

He chuckles, the vibration from his chest reverberating against your cheek. “Hi, princess.”

Your hands move to squeeze his biceps. Has he been going to the gym more frequently or are you just ovulating? “You been lifting or is this just from all that cooking, baby?”

“Did I not lift you last night?” he jokes, smiling over his shoulder at you.

Now that you think about it, he did. He had scooped you up like you were deadweight, wrapping your thighs around his waist and carrying you into the bedroom so he could—

Yesterday’s news. Whatever.

“Hmmm,” you hum. “You should bring me to your gym. You can use me to do push ups. It’s only right… y’know, as your wife.”

“Is that so?” He stirs something in a pot that’s simmering on the back burner. “I’d probably get a little distracted though.”

“I’m always a good girl,” you pout. That elicits a shiver down his spine that you note. God, he’s so easy.

Before you can get his mind wandering even more, he turns to press a quick kiss to your forehead. Your knees dip slightly at the sensation of the cool metal of his lip piercing against your scalding skin.

You hop up onto the counter, legs swinging gently as he focuses on the steaming food in front of him. With each movement of your legs, that t-shirt that you’re wearing rides up a little higher, and it does not go unnoticed by him. His eyes flick downwards, and for a millisecond, his tattooed hand pauses mid-stir.

“What’s on the menu tonight, chef?” You tilt your head at him, eyes batting ferociously as your lotioned legs rub together.

His Adam's apple bobs up and down a little. “Little bit of everything. I found this old chili oil in the fridge, so I’m doing garlic noodles with that crispy tofu you liked last time.”

“You’re so thoughtful, baby.” You ramp it up more, knuckles caressing the soft skin of his cheeks. “I really liked the crispy tofu. Can you make it extra crispy?”

“Always.” He flips the pan again, searing what you assume is the tofu. Or the noodles. You don’t know or care to actually find out.

“I loveeee this little apron on you.” Your hand moves from his face to his waist, playing with the red strings of the apron.

You're not normally the kind of girl who speaks in a baby voice to her husband, but you’re starting to get desperate and it’s showing. That masters degree of yours has exited the chat.

Jungkook grins at you widely. “Yeah? I love wearing it for you.”

Still nothing. He resumes his stirring and flipping and whatever the fuck else he’s doing.

You shift on the counter, pressing your thighs together as tightly as humanly possible. Why must the universe curse you with a husband who cares so much about how his food tastes that he can’t give in to your sexual advances? It’s your fatal flaw.

Resting your elbow on your knee, chin tucked in your palm, you ask, “Do you remember the first time you cooked for me?”

He warbles out a sound of agreement. “The spaghetti puttanesca?”

Yeah, yeah, whatever it’s called, handsome.

“Mhmmm.”

“Well, I remember you nearly passing out from how good it was.” He laughs lightly to himself at the innocent memory. You’re about to snap that distant memory in half.

“Yeah, well, I remember you fucking me on the dining room table.”

He damn near drops the wooden spoon he’s holding, shoulders drooping as he quickly realizes his wife isn’t there to play nice. His big brown eyes snap to you, and the tiniest smirk curves upwards on his lips.

“Oh?” he questions unaffectedly. “That’s what you remember?”

“Bent me over before I even got to finish the plate,” you shrug. “I came like, four times.”

Jungkook snorts at that. “You mad you didn’t get to finish the plate?”

“Never, baby. I love affirming your talents. I’m just mad you didn’t make me cum a fifth time.” Your wandering hand creeps up to the hair at the nape of his neck, tugs a little in a way that causes him to whimper.

He turns the heat down gently, inhaling deeply. “Girlfriends have an orgasm limit of four times.”

“Well, now I’m your wife, right?”

“Damn straight.”

When his brown eyes meet yours this time, you catch how dark they are, how they swallow up the whites of his eyes. To your dismay, though, he looks away quickly, snatching up the sesame glaze from a nearby cupboard, your hand falling down to your knee in horny shame.

“I’m serious, though,” you begin. “You’re so talented, baby. You always take care of me.”

He moves closer to you again, and you take the opportunity to play with the brown tresses at the back of his neck, twirling one around your manicured finger. His sweet spot. “Yeah?” His voice is barely a whisper.

It’s one thing that he’s so undeniably sexy. It’s another thing that he’s all yours — married and adorned with a gold band on his left hand.

Your hand slides from his hair to his shoulder, thumb brushing over the fabric of his shirt. “You make it so hard to behave sometimes.”

There’s an unconvincing little cough that chokes its way out of his mouth. He picks up a pair of tongs, tossing around the tofu.

You need to behave. The poor man is cooking for you like the angel he is. There’s a vibrator upstairs that works perfectly well; you could march right on upstairs and get to work.

But you don’t want that. You actually want his heavy cock lodged deep in your throat, and those breathy little moans he makes when he’s about to finish.

Normal. That's what you need to be.

But you’ve never been very good at normal when it comes to him.

Sliding off the counter, you sink down. All the way down. Knees to the cold tiles of the floor, palms spreading across his meaty thighs.

“U-uh? Baby?” His voice pitches higher on the pet name. He glances down at you, holding the tongs in one hand. “What the— what are you up to?”

Your eyelashes bat flirtatiously, lips parted slightly, bedroom eyes in full swing. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweatpants, mouth brushing over the soft fabric, against the outline of his semi-hard length. “Keep cooking, baby.” You don’t even have to look up at him to know he’s gawking at you.

The gulp that follows is obscenely hot. His hands hover stupidly near the stove like he’s trying to remember how gas works. You can hear something bubbling — low and simmering, like your patience.

Inch by inch, you tug his sweatpants down. The apron comes next, the knot behind his back coming undone as your nimble fingers desperately play with it, floating to the floor like a sad little white flag of surrender. He gasps softly while his boxers drag down, head tipping back at the sensation.

He’s fully hard now, his thick cock flushed at the tip and seeping pre-cum. “Jesus,” you nearly moan out, licking your lips at the delectable sight in front of you.

“I-I’m cooking,” he tries, voice cracking like a boy in the trenches of puberty. “Baby, I need to—ah fuck.”

No one finds out what he needs to do, your hand wrapping around the base of his length, stroking agonizingly slow. “Then focus,” you murmur, lips hovering near the white liquid on his tip. “Chef.”

Jungkook’s cock twitches at the little pocket of pleasure he’s being granted, so beyond hard he doesn’t even know what else to say. He’s looking down at you with so much adoration, like he can’t believe his life choices have led him to this moment. He just wanted to make you dinner and now your cute eyes and lips are going to live in his daydreams for days to follow.

“Fucking hell.” One of his hands grips the edge of the stove.

Smirking lightly, you joke, “Language, chef.”

“I-I can’t burn this,” he mutters to himself, eyes darting from the pan back to you.

“Well, you better focus.” Your thumb swirls the precum from his tip across the rest of his shift, running along one of the veins of his cock. He’s always had the world’s prettiest cock you;ve ever seen on a man. It’s thick, long but not to the point of pain. Absolutely scrumptious.

“Baby, please,” he’s begging now. “You’re not gonna actually — shit.”

Oh, but you are.

Your tongue drags flat and leisurely up the underside of him before wrapping your lips around the head, the taste of salt and something slightly sweet invading your tastebuds. You involuntarily moan at the flavor of him, the vibration sending shockwaves up his spine. “Ohhh, fucking hell, princess.”

You pull back a little to spit, let some saliva dribble onto his cock messily that you both watch in excitement. Your tiny hand works in tandem with your mouth, twisting at the base, taking as much of him as you can. “Don’t you dare stop cooking,” you manage to get out between, hand stroking him feverishly now.

He looks down at you, eyes lidded, as if to say you cannot be serious right now. “I can’t even fucking think right now.”

Up on the stove, you hear the noodles hiss, fully neglected now. At the noise, he tries to focus. With one hand, the one obtaining the wooden spoon, he stirs the noodles, but you’re getting sloppier now with each stroke of your mouth. Saliva is trickling down your chin, eyes watering as you struggle to take him as deep as you can. You’re practically gagging on it while his hands shake to stir those damn burning noodles.

His other hand buries itself in your hair, fingers curling around the strands. Tries to gather all of it into some half-assed ponytail, guiding your movements. He can’t help himself; he needs to feel his cock hit the back of your warm throat.

You gag around him again, breath hitching through your nose. “Goddamn, you’re so fucking sexy, baby,” he praises. “Don’t stop.”

When your eyes raise up to look at him, you know immediately it’s a mistake; what you see nearly makes you cum in your lacy pink panties. His lip ring is tucked between his two top teeth, a pink flush creeping up his neck. The veins in his neck bulge faintly.

“Holy shit,” he exhales, head falling back as you hear the wooden spoon drop into the pan. “So fucking good, baby, feels so good.”

You respond with a drag of your mouth across the length of him, your hand reaching to palm one of his weighty balls. So full with what you want. You knead it in your palm in unison with your mouth working him. That’s more than enough to send his hips flying forward like they want to fuck your mouth, but he controls himself unfairly well.

Jungkook tries to pick up the wooden spoon again, but you catch a string of curses falling from his lips as a dollop misses and hits the floor beside your feet.

Your mouth pops off him for a breath of air, gasping as a string of saliva trails from your mouth to the tip of his cock. “Need help, chef?”

“Yeah,” he groans, hand tightening in your hair. “Need you to not fucking stop.”

He’s on the brink of his orgasm — you can sense it in the way his breath is more tensed than ever, hand intertwined in your hair to prevent it from falling into your eyes, your name huskier when it rolls off his tongue. You’re not a quitter, never have been — you take him deeper in your mouth, fingers still massaging his balls. His tip repeatedly jams into the back of your throat, and the sounds both you and him let out are similar to some porn video you watched the other day.

“Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna l-last long.” He steadies himself against the stove, those noodles and tofu long forgotten. He’s already mentally preparing to place a takeout order from that burger place you two like.

It only takes a few more strokes before his moans are the only sound echoing off the walls of your home. “Oh fuuuck, shit I’m cumming—”

He gently thrusts his hips, pushing his cock a bit deeper into your mouth, and you feel his salty release hit the back of your throat in a series of spurts, warming your mouth as you fight to swallow it all. Jungkook's moans above you serve as the perfect motivation to be a good girl, to complete the task, and to keep it all from getting too messy. You’re about to have your main course, after all.

You stroke him through it, milking him as much as you can. Take it all. Right there on the kitchen floor, with spit running down your chin and tears in your lashes, you swallow every last drop.

An adorable little smile weaves onto your swollen lips. He's not entirely convinced he didn’t just black out.

With the reflexes of a man slowly regaining motor function, he shuts off the stove. The pan sizzles, a fragrant garlic smell in the air song with the other seasonings he tossed in there when he still had his wits about him. He notes that it doesn’t look burned at all; in fact, it’s completely edible.

Jungkook crouches down a tad to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips, collecting some of the spit and cum that’s gathered there. “One of these days, you are going to kill me.” He presses a chaste kiss to your mouth.

You lean into him, a whimper clawing its way out of you. “Won’t be soon, though, right? I would like to give you head a few more times before that happens.”

He laughs hoarsely, lips brushing against your forehead. “Better not be while I’m trying to cook you dinner. I nearly burned this whole place down.”

“But you didn’t,” you point out as his callused palm caresses your cheek, eyes gazing lovingly into your own. “You cooked me a perfect little meal. And I just returned the favor.”

“Hmmm.” Another kiss to your lips, one that’s sweet and gentle and complete domestic bliss.

He helps you up, your knees aching as you brush your hands down his shirt you’re still wearing. Jungkook reaches for the stack of plates near the sink, resuming those husband duties he enjoys so immensely. He saunters off to the dining table, humming the melody from earlier to himself.

You’re about to make yourself useful and help him with the cutlery when he goes, “Oh, I didn’t make dessert tonight, by the way.”

Reaching to open the drawer, you raise an eyebrow. He usually always bakes a sweet treat for you. “No?”

When you turn around with the forks in tow, he’s leaning against one of the chairs, a devious smirk planted on his face. Something tells you you’re in for a long evening.

“Nah. What I’m having for dessert is standing right in front of me.”

a/n ; idk what this is lol i just saw a tiktok of him cooking and i #lostallchill sooooo here we are. do NOTTTT let this man get out of the military i am gobbling him like my last meal 😂😂😂 ope who said thattttt also this was only edited with google docs spellcheck so any grammar errors are between you and god

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