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johobi · 7 years

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When You Least Expect It | 09

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Taehyung

Word count: 11.6k

Warnings: depression, anxiety, a very vague allusion to self-harm, graphic, penetrative sex, vulgar language etc.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732419/navigate

A/N: I’m sorry this took so long to edit!!

Next: 10 || WYLEI Masterlist

You’re in love with your childhood friend, Taehyung. The problem is, you treasure your friendship with him far too much to ever risk losing it. Oh, and he’s quite the Casanova. At your wits’ end with feelings you can no longer hide as diligently as you once did, you ask him to set you up with someone, anyone, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid a heartbreaking conversation.

The three days following that ill-omened evening passed with as much ease as a spell in the Underworld. You could have been swayed into believing that that was where you were now sentenced, perpetually, to reside, but for your familiarly unextraordinary surroundings. The Black Dog had become Cerberus, and tirelessly upheld your condemnation. Never too far astray, and possessed, always, of a voracious appetite for your misery, the hound snuck its way into the sanctuary of your home and watched you reduce to a melancholic soup between the stale, rumpled sheets of your seldom-left bed.

And you still functioned, yes – to the casual eye. But only to deter interrogation over that most unbearable of subjects. Adopting a frivolous front was so mentally taxing, that you attended only those obligations that demanded your appearance. Like at work, for example. Your sole method of coping, there, came in the form of the new hire Hoseok presented to you on Day One, Post-Taehyung.

In the wake of such devastation, it was far easier to assume a different role; a different life.

So, on Day One, you became The Trainer. The Trainer was bubbly, comedically clumsy and ever so relieved to have the extra pair of hands. Even Hoseok loved The Trainer. So much so, you began to wonder if he preferred her to the real you. The you that slept little, ate less, and, when at home, did nothing. Even when the roots of your hair came to shine like you’d been baptised in a font of grease, you did nothing. And when the blank page of your perennially unstarted assignment began to blend in with the walls surrounding it, you did nothing then, either.

On Day Two, as you lay there in the comforting—for its sheer suffocation—murk of your apartment, the laptop winked its final goodbye as it gave up hope.

And on Day Three, the day that should not have been Day Three but the date with Jungkook you had so been looking forward to, you gave up hope.

As the intervals between his determined door-knocking grew, hailing his weakening will, the path to him felt far too long; far too treacherous to tread. The exhaustion that dogged you saw corridors and rooms outstretch the paltry floorspace detailed in your tenancy agreement, casting Jungkook beyond reach.

You would never make it.

The rapping stopped.

So, this was loneliness. Four blank walls and sour-smelling sheets.

You rolled over, eager to succumb to the lethargy that lapped at your toes. That buffered you from the vulturous circling of your more serrated thoughts.

But then you saw him. Saw his kind, softly-sloping features. A face that granted you succour for its sheer existence.

Your phone cast you in a cool glow, not far removed from your waxen complexion. Jungkook vibrated incessantly, and would not go unignored. When his attempt to reach you passed its fourth minute, the gamble of picking up had your heart hammering. If you answered, what would you be met with? An anger that burned so hot, it could disintegrate what fragile matter of you that remained? You just didn’t have the strength.

But if you didn’t, Jungkook would be gone.

Just like him.

And the crippling fear of that possibility had your thumb swiping in a panic-stricken fumble to admit his call. “H-Hello?” you mumbled, voice uneven for its prolonged disuse.

“____?” came Jungkook’s sweet, agreeable – oh, so, so agreeable – tones. They cracked under concern. “Noona, are you okay? Where are you? I’m at your apartment, like we arranged.”

No, you hadn’t even possessed the decency to cancel the meeting you knew you would never make it to. But that’s what you did, when things became unbearable. Avoided them. Like you did, now, with anyone or anything related to the man who had cut you to ribbons. Even Yoongi, who, by mere association, had become painful to be in the presence of.

“I’m sorry, Jungkook,” you rasped flatly. “I’m not feeling well. Hiking is too much.”

The fury would come, any second now. You didn’t even care to brace for it. Just a hope remained, that it would push you a stage past numb and into an anaesthetised utopia.

But it didn’t. Only warmth trickled forth from the speaker. “That’s okay, noona. We don’t have to go hiking. Are you sick?”

“Yeah, something like that that,” you mumbled, as indistinct as the enigma of an answer you’d given. Had you the strength, you’d have berated yourself for harbouring reservations about expressing your mental anguish to him. Jungkook had, after all, sworn himself to be nothing but a willing ear to your woes. As always, though, your reluctance to add to his burdensome load prevented you from voicing them. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Wise to your tendency for deflection, however, he wouldn’t allow you to withhold it from him. “Not feeling well in yourself?”

Such a gentle, considerate way to put it. Dare you say, the faintest of somethings tickled your necrotic heart? Maybe it was still capable of sensation. “No, not at all. I’ve been having some very bad days.”

A sigh filtered through your phone, but it wasn’t one of frustration. Nor despondency, which you feared more. “Noona, I know you have this thing where you feel like you have to keep everything to yourself, but even when we can’t be together in person, I’m at the end of a line, at the very least,” was Jungkook’s tender appeal to you. “Texting is great at hiding emotion, because I had no idea you were struggling. That, or I’m an idiot and should have realised.”

“You’re not an idiot,” you immediately dismissed such undeserving slander. “I mislead you on purpose. I was trying to dig my own way out of this hole, but, uh,” you cast a despairing look around the disarray surrounding you. “That didn’t happen. Sorry.”

Jungkook was swift to scold you. “Stop apologising, seriously. We don’t have to go hiking, but I don’t want to leave you alone—I mean, unless you want to be alone, that is,” he added hastily. He was trying so hard to say the right thing. A blooming warmth began to thaw you. “But I don’t want to leave you alone. I want to be with you. We could just spend the day inside and chill out? That sounds just as appealing to me.”

You surprised yourself. Spurning his company had seemed like a dead cert. “No, I don’t want to be alone. But you can’t come in, my place is a fucking pig sty and I’m—I’m embarrassed.”

At your confession, he addressed you with an impassioned softness. “Noona,” he murmured, the word like a velvet-wrapped embrace as it kissed your ear drums. “There’s no need for you to be embarrassed. But, I understand, and I won’t ask to come in. Why don’t you come to my place?”

Now that it was he himself proposing it to you, the prospect of a fresh environment and more Jungkook became the only appealing suggestion to broach your shroud of gloom since its descension over you. Nothing could be better for you than to gain distance from the pungency of unlaundered clothes and the ecosystem that now thrived in your kitchen sink. You grasped the opportunity with both hands. “I-I’d love to. That sounds like a really nice idea. Can I have, like, ten minutes to make myself somewhat presentable? I’m sor—”

“Of course,” Jungkook cut through your forthcoming apology. He wasn’t having it today. “Take as long as you want. I’ll be waiting in my car, okay?”

“Okay,” you hugged the phone closer with both hands. “Thank you, Jungkook. Really.”

“It’s cool. Selfish, really. I wanted to see you so badly,” he admitted with a bashful chuckle, the pure noise summoning the makings of a smile to your face. And thank God, because you’d been convinced future appearances of the expression would prove elusive.

It was imperative that he knew this. “I wanted to see you, too. I really did, I was just—so—I don’t know. Well, you do know. And you didn’t give up and leave me to it. You could have done, probably should have, but—”

“Stop, noona. Go get yourself ready, and—” Jungkook paused to draw in a sharp, excited breath. “Hey, why not get some stuff together to do some baking? Not that I’m any good at it, but I know how much you love it. Why don’t you show me how to make something?”

A faint chuckle threatened to shake free the device you clasped so weakly. Jesus, you really needed to eat something soon. “That does sound fun. You probably won’t have all the utensils I’ll need, so I’ll bring what I can. Uh, just—”

“Hm?”

“I look like shit, so try not to look too horrified when you see me,” you rushed out with a grimace that couldn’t be seen, but felt all too well in your self-deprecative humour. Even as physically and emotionally weak as you were, you were incapable of giving yourself a much-needed break from criticism, no matter how undue. Indeed, had you been laid out on your death bed at this very moment, dragging in your penultimate breaths, you’d likely be apologising to Jungkook for the haggardness of your appearance, or how abrasive to the ears your final gasps might be. “I’ll try and lessen the damage if I can,” you continued, though the appeal of applying make-up was a zero on a scale of I can’t even be bothered to breathe to Do I really have to comb my hair?

Now Jungkook was frustrated. But only enough to target you with a playful chastisement. One that had you swooning like a silent movie starlet. “Don’t you dare, or I’ll come up there and throw you over my shoulder before you have a chance to,” he warned with an authoritative growl. “Just keep yourself comfortable. We’ll probably get messy anyway, I’m notoriously clumsy with food. Especially if I’m wearing a white shirt, which I am.”

“Okay, okay,” you relented, his encouragement invigorating your faltering limbs enough to haul yourself from bed. You fished around in the pile of clothes that, while a little creased, were still unworn. “I’ll get my ass into gear. I’ll be down soon.”

“’Kay. I’m just outside,” was his parting comment before he hung up.

One brisk shower, a hesitantly adorned romper and a perilously pinned bun later, you were ready. Well, not ready, as such, because you still considered your appearance lacking, but Jungkook’s sternly-worded warning rang in your ears and prevented you from making further embellishments. Bare- and fresh-faced was how he was going to receive you. Okay, so maybe not fresh, more weeklong, sequestered neglect-faced, but at least it was bare, as ordered.

Having haphazardly shoved into a box what culinary implements and ingredients you could think to bring, you hauled the cargo with great difficulty down the narrow staircase descending. Your choice of flats afforded you, at least, the agility to catch yourself on the next step when you nearly met your neck-breaking end a few times.

With an incredibly unattractive scowl, you sandwiched the box between the wall and your body as you fumbled with the lock, and wore the expression still when the door opened into Jungkook’s immediate face. Abruptly, you wiped your features free of their unsightly crumpling and, quite of their own accord, found them curving to accommodate a giddy smile. One he wrenched from you with such ease. And giddy, because how the fuck did he get more beautiful with each meeting? The party felt so long ago now, but in reality, it had only been a week or so. The heart — and, indeed, the eyes — evidently grow fonder with time. “Jungkook, I thought you were going to wait in the car? You made me jump.”

“Sorry,” your guts twisted at the crooked grin he slapped on as he immediately relieved you of your load. “I thought you might need help carrying stuff.”

Forever obliging to lighten your figurative and physical strains, Jungkook’s attentiveness sent you into an inward flap. And the re-emergence of his beautiful fucking buck-teeth only intensified the party-for-one taking place in your stomach. Luckily, you were adept at channelling an outward serenity. “Thank you,” was your predictably unimaginative response. Honestly, he deserved so much more than that – not just for carrying a stupid box – but the words to express complex sentiment often abandoned you.

One side of his mouth pitched higher as he led you to his car. “Wow, this is a lot of stuff. Are we preparing a seven-course meal?” he jibed, gently setting the culinary collection into the trunk. He treated even the most inanimate of objects with the care and consideration with which he handled you, as though he considered anything by proxy just as precious. Why, exactly, had you been so unwilling to spend this day with him, again? Free from insidious thought – momentarily, at least –and rooted in the reality of his uplifting presence, the hopelessness of 30 minutes ago seemed lifetimes past.

Jungkook caught your quiet smile as he darted around the car with an adamance to hold open its door for you. “There she is,” he grinned openly when you neared him, hands on hips. “I love your dress, by the way. You look beautiful, as ever.”

“Oh my God, stop,” you groaned, plopping into your seat with a huff and whipping the seatbelt around you. “And it’s not a dress, it’s a romper.”

He closed the door and leaned through the open window to scrutinise the garment in question. “I don’t know what that is.”

It was the most throwaway of comments, but it tore a bark of laughter from you, as though he’d hammered on your chest to extract it from you himself. It was an odd, but welcome, sound. “That’s so funny, and I don’t even know why.”

Giggles continued to hijack you as Jungkook rounded the car and took to the driver’s seat, an eyebrow hooked high in amusement. “If I just say random words, will you laugh?”

“No,” you were perceptibly shaking, now, exposing you for the flimsiness of your denial. And even when you perched an elbow on the door to better adhere a hand to your mouth, it did little to stifle the string of hiccups you were now stricken with. Your chest ached for each sharp intake of breath they prompted. “Fuck, I can’t s—hyuh!—stop!”

As the engine turned over, Jungkook adopted a brassy voice that was comedically dissonant from his usual, reserved tone. He strained his vocal chords into breaking. “Cucumber, squash—oh, this fucking car—moist, cheese, moist cheese,” a hyena-like cackle, interspersed by loud, abrupt squeaks, resounded as your attempts to hinder the noises fell flat. His unrelated interjection — as passionately voiced as the rest of his nonsense recital — only heightened the hilarity of the situation.

“Fuck,” you tittered, wiping away a tear born, for once, from something other than melancholy. “You’re—hup—insane.”

Jungkook yelled victoriously when the car finally growled to life. “I was getting worried, there.”

A snigger. “Yeah, me too. Not for the car, though.”

“I’ve got more where that came from,” he tongued his cheek like the appealing bastard he didn’t know he was, peering behind the both of you to check for blind spots. As he pulled away: “Especially if I get to hear more of your ridiculously adorable hiccups.”

Your cheeks bulged with captive air. “Please, no,” you sighed, releasing a long, restorative breath. When no further hiccups came, you wrapped your stomach in a wary hug. “I’m aching. Sounds like your car’s on its way out, though.”

Jungkook’s face fell slightly. “It is. I’ve been told to expect it. I can’t afford anything else, though, and it’s already had some emergency maintenance,” you watched, distracted, the way his mouth puckered and slackened as it shaped every enchanting syllable. Receptive to the allure of the sight, your lips parted in harmony. “It won’t go on for much longer. I’m looking for better paid work, actually.”

That drew you back. “You’re leaving the school?”

“It’s not that I want to,” Jungkook nibbled on his lower lip like the long-eared mammal he so endearingly resembled. “I don’t have much of a choice. I won’t be able to afford rent, soon. The car trouble is only adding to the list of money troubles I’m having. And I really don’t wanna be stuck in this situation for too much longer,” his addendum was voiced with an understandable, though subtle, distress.

You wanted to draw his hand into a consolatory hold, but it was more pressingly occupied. “I’m really sorry to hear that. I know how tough things can get.”

Jungkook delivered a heartening slap to your bare thigh, sending you rocketing up in your seat. “Don’t worry, I’m surviving. To be honest, I was doubtful of whether I was going to bother sticking around this city. Until I met you,” the volume of his admission plunged dangerously close to a whisper. He stole a meaningful glance your way, the coyest of smirks twitching upward his mouth. Jungkook had an aptitude for pulling off such contradictory expressions. “Moving away from home definitely seemed like the best decision at the time, but I began to doubt it a couple of months ago. When I got poor, basically,” he snickered. “Things are really tough on your own.”

The breath you’d been inadvertently holding since the – by no means unwelcome – introduction of his hand, flowed free. “Right? Bit of a culture shock. I should’ve gotten a roommate, really, but my studio is just about manageable.”

Your heart fluttered to an unsteady rhythm when Jungkook became conscious of where his fingers were so intimately situated. Lingering along the innermost of your thigh, they skimmed the supple flesh beneath them as he corrected the bold manoeuvre and removed them entirely. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” he begged his pardon with a clear of his throat, eyes glued a little too firmly to the road.

“Now it’s my turn to tell you off for apologising,” your lips plucked up slyly. “Not after the things we’ve been talking about. Anyway,” you drizzled the last word with a stomach-turning sweetness. “What were you saying about not sticking around until you met me?”

Jungkook’s flushing subsided somewhat with the diversion from altogether more sordid topics. “It’s simple, really. I want to stay here, now. Because of, uh, you,” but ruby kissed his cheeks all the more avidly for the heart-pounding proclamation.

God, you needed to kiss him.

Unfortunately, unless a kiss was worth the certain, gory decapitation the distraction would bring, you’d have to go hungry.

And you were positively starving.

You clenched fists around your seatbelt, like you didn’t trust it to hold you in place for much longer. However, even if your traitorous hands didn’t uproot the meddlesome restraint, the blaze of adoration raging against your ribcage would easily incinerate it. “Wow,” was your eloquent response.

Jungkook didn’t allow you to elaborate. “I—I mean, don’t think that I’m putting pressure on you to like me, or anything—”

“Fuck’s sake,” you growled, all a shackled beast burning with the frustration of being denied its master’s touch. Jungkook’s eyes widened fretfully. “I really gotta kiss you right now, but I can’t. You’re driving.”

The heated exclamation alone was enough for him to momentarily forget the importance of steering the death contraption you were both belted into. When you realised he was no longer adhering to the highway code, but instead lavishing you with a protracted, open-mouthed ogling, you pushed his face frontward. As heart-stopping as Jungkook was, the magnetism of his stare would, for sure, guarantee your collision with something far more fatal than each other. Nevertheless, he spent much of his time casting you vital, sidelong looks. “I—I can stop. I can stop right now. I can pull over right here.”

Your head hit the headrest with a dull thump, overcome with mirth for his urgency. “We have all day. Keep driving, I have some refrigerated stuff in the back.”

Jungkook emitted a desirous whine. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

“Tough,” you snapped merrily, spotting a camera case in the backseat as your eyes perused its hazardously stacked contents. Guilt gored you when you caught sight of his thoughtfully-packed backpack. He’d clearly been prepared for your originally intended date activities. “You brought your camera, after all.”

He peered over his shoulder. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Well, now I can take pictures of you in the comfort of my own home, instead.”

Turning in your seat, you propped your chin upon the heel of your hand. There was no way you could let pass such a fortuitous opportunity to see him squirm. “Yeah? What kind?”

His mouth hung open a fraction at the bait, but avoided the snare. “Whatever you like. You’re my muse.”

The sincerity of the compliment threw off your sultry play. You’d never met a guy who countered coquetry with kindliness. Undefeated in all your many bouts of flirtation thus far, Jungkook was the only one to frequently give you pause. Who knew your Achilles heel was not, in fact, obscenities so appalling that Eros himself would recoil in revulsion, but plain old flattery? Flattery that spilled with such liberty from behind those exasperatingly darling teeth? “Stop being so nice.”

“Why do you always say that?” his brows met in bemusement. “It’s as if no-one’s ever treated you the way they should.”

He had no idea how close that hit to home. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just particularly kind.”

“I’m not,” the furrow deepened. “Sounds like you dated some douchebags.”

“Quite a few,” you began, then thought better of elaboration. Jungkook didn’t need to hear the true extent of your hormone-fuelled regrets. “But that doesn’t matter, now. You’re opening my eyes to a lot of things.”

“I’ll take that as your roundabout way of admitting that you really like me and wanna spend all your time with me. Forever,” Jungkook’s jesting crinkled the corners of his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

And, yes, you did.

Because you no longer wanted a life that was absent of something so diminutive, so tremendous, as the way his features puckered around joy. You wanted to watch those creases, with time, score themselves between his brows and atop his cheekbones.

And you wanted to be the one who engraved them there.

“Forever is a long time,” you cautioned with a wink. But inside, you were already living it.

You were enamoured.

When he parked beside an obnoxiously up-market apartment complex, you presumed it was to grab some snacks from the gentrified establishments opposite. However, as he lugged the box of utensils to your window, he ducked his head in, confused. “Why aren’t you getting out?”

“Wait, you live here?” you gawped, eyeballing the building that emanated affluence. “No wonder you’re fucking broke!”

As you exited the car, mouth still unflatteringly ajar, Jungkook developed a sudden interest in the – miraculously unblemished – paving beneath your feet. As one of the great unwashed, you felt at risk of apprehension for even daring to tread there. “It’s nowhere near as expensive as it looks, but, yeah. All my savings are gone. I didn’t really budget all that well, but I kinda left home in a hurry. This was the first place I could find.”

Was he really that naïve about financial matters? “Why not just downsize, then?”

“The landlord won’t release me from my contract. I have another six months left on it,” he huffed in vexation, tapping a six-digit code into the pad adjoining the gate. With a buzz as grating as the needlessly extravagant entrance it controlled, the lock released. Jungkook stood aside, stubborn in his chivalry, to allow you entry. “If you ever wanna get in, the code is 093457. Can you remember that?”

Wow.

Without a whisper of doubt fogging his eyes, he’d placed a ghost of a key in your palm. Like it was of no more significance than those digits of his stored in your phone.

Boy, things were progressing rather quick.

And you were clinging, white-knuckled, to the front seat of this rollercoaster as it barrelled down a track conspicuously free of obstacles, squealing for it to go faster. The opportunity to alight had long since passed. All you could do now was throw up your hands and scream. “I think I can, yeah. Thank you. I’ll make sure to come here in the middle of the night to relieve you of all the rich-people possessions you probably own.”

As you entered the lobby, as plush and immaculate as it could only have been, Jungkook ushered you into one of the immediate elevators. The cubicle alone, less of walls and more of mirrored panelling – you know, so you can better appreciate how wealthy you look when en route to brunch with dahling Cressida – was bigger than your only bathroom.

“I’m far from rich,” he muttered into the box staunchly cradled to his chest. A billow of powder stirred under the gust of his breath. Looks like the flour didn’t survive the journey. “Not anymore. My parents are, though. Maybe that’s why it was hard to let that lifestyle go. I made a lot of mistakes learning, that’s for sure. Still am,” was his barely audible addition.

You stood a little straighter. This was his first time mentioning more than their existence in passing. “Why did you decide to leave?”

“They started pressuring me into things,” the offering was vague and ominous in tone. Eyes rising to the mirror image of him opposite, Jungkook engaged his counterpart in a steely staredown. “Business stuff. I didn’t want anything to do with it.”

The hum of the ascending elevator filled the hush left by your introspective pause. “You’re not part of a family-run crime syndicate, are you?” you posed, only half-joking.

Jungkook’s scowl broke with a bob of his shoulders. His laugh could be corked and peddled as a cure-all. And you’d be first in line. “No, it’s not quite that bad. Though, that’d probably be infinitely cooler than the reality. My parents—well, my father—is the head of a pretty large conglomerate. My mother is a member of the board.”

Your eyebrows shot up into the stratosphere. “Whoa. Hella rich, then.”

“Hella? Have you been playing Life is—”

“—Strange? Absolutely. I’m hella fond of that word, now,” you expressed that fondness with a toothy grin that tripled his. But your glee faltered somewhat when you recollected his earlier visitation of your apartment. “Shit, and you’ve been in my hovel of an apartment. I bet that must’ve been like dumpster diving.”

With a ding of announcement, the lift drifted to a halt. Taking the lead again, Jungkook shook his head. And like a cat stalking the metallic shimmy of a bell-toting toy, your eyes snapped to the quiver of his helix piercings. There wasn’t a thing about this man that wasn’t sexy as fuck. “I loved it so much I considered asking to move in as soon as I stepped foot inside.”

You rolled your eyes at his back. “Let’s swap, then. What do you have, a three-bedroom? Four?”

Jungkook crowed. “Okay, I’m stupid with money, but I’m not that stupid. It only has one bedroom. As you’re about to see,” he gestured to the door he now stood before. “Can you take this for a sec?”

“Sure, I should be carrying it anyway,” you relieved him of the box that clanked with the promise of sweet concoctions. “Did you just say I’m about to see your bedroom?”

He fished in the pockets of his jeans for his keys and, with a smooth turn of burnished brass, let you into the awaiting opulence. “I—I meant the apartment,” he spluttered, and you watched, with a kittenish smirk, the tips of his ears tinge red. “You know what I meant.”

“So, are you famous enough for me to Google y—whoa.”

Okay, so it wasn’t on the same scale as Yoongi’s gratuitous bachelor pad, but it was sumptuous all the same. “Nice,” you whistled, your focus fastening to the splendour beneath your feet. Rich, restored mahogany kissed your unworthy soles – something you were all too aware of, as you hastily slipped off your scuffed excuses for shoes – and played host to a number of tastefully-placed shag rugs. Rugs that just cried out to be rolled on. You eyed one, transfixed, a cat again. A cat that had located its next nap spot.

Juxtaposed with the knife-point angles and frigid decor of Yoongi’s apartment that so became him, Jungkook’s was warm- toned, with soft furnishings and of a lived-in air that appealed to you immensely. “This is probably how I’d decorate my place if I had any money,” you lauded, resembling a Nodding Dog for all your vague head-bobbing. “I like it.”

Like Yoongi’s, though, Jungkook’s apartment was open-plan but for the bedroom and bathroom tucked away to the side. Shafts of light, streaming from a slanted glass wall – a fixture imposing in its sheer immensity – brought forth golden tones latent in the dark wood. The sight further compelled you to flop down, belly-up, and bask, feline-like, in the warmth of its glow.

Jungkook deposited the the box – its contents, now, as tossed as a salad – on the asymmetrical countertop of his rustic breakfast bar. And with an expectant hand poised to catch his four-digit camera, he shrugged the strap free from his shoulder. “I’m glad you like it,” his voice took on that fondness for you that you could never quite understand.

What, in all actuality, did he see in you?

When you had drunk in your legal limit of his pleasantly sedative abode, you turned to him, giddy. His eyes played on you, cryptically astir at having won your acclaim. Chin in hand, he propped himself against the counter, looking nothing short of smitten. “I’m glad you like me.”

The boy had a talent for sending you off-kilter.

You tugged at the hem of your shapeless one-piece, jerking your head at the wonder of his affection. “I don’t understand why, but I’m glad you like me, too.”

“Don’t make me list the reasons, or we’ll be standing here all day,” he cracked over his shoulder as he rattled his way around an array of hammered-gold cannisters. Lifting each one free of its lid in turn, he peered dubiously into their depths. “I can never remember what’s what, here. You want coffee? Tea? Something else?”

“Just some water, thanks,” you croaked. God, you sounded like shit. Like a frog had taken up permanent residence in your windpipe and insisted on strumming your vocal chords for you. “I’m trying to keep away from caffeinated drinks at the moment.”

“Ah, of course,” Jungkook acknowledged with a click of his fingers. You watched with a vested interest as he rolled up the sleeves of his—indeed, white, and imminently on course for soiling—sweatshirt to oblige you. A succession of dulcet half-murmurs and airy croons drifted past his lips.

Fucking hell, he could sing, too?

“Voice of an angel,” you muttered, more an aside than anything, but the volume of your contemplation was enough for him to hear. With the full weight of his stare pinning you in place, you threw one of your own, much heavier, at the works of Bernini he called legs. “Thighs of a devil.”

Jungkook turned to the sink, a suppressed grin warping the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t realise I was singing.”

“Oh, you didn’t realise you were singing,” you pitched deeper to mimic him. “You just happen to have a voice that explains the immaculate conception, and you didn’t even realise you were using it. I see,” in a mannerism most certainly acquired from Jungkook, your tongue planted itself firmly in your cheek. “It’s not like you were trying to show off for me, anything.”

Whatever danced in the dark depths of Jungkook’s eyes, then, hit your circulatory system like a stimulant. “You’re asking for it,” was his harbinger of a warning.

You drew sullen circles into the countertop, jutting your lip to bait his scrutiny. “For what?”

The devious twitch of his lips was tacit enough. Leaving you to braise in the juices of your own undoing, he returned to the task at hand; your all but forgotten glass of water.

With a flurry of excitement, you pulled objects indiscriminately from the box, not caring where or with how much might you unloaded them. Your attention was better spent elsewhere, namely leering at the prominent veins that scaled Jungkook’s arms like ivy. When you tracked their descent to his generous hands, wet from the faucet, your want for him manifested in a bitten bottom lip.

“What are we making?” Jungkook startled you out of your indecent introspection, catching you on the edge of exposure. His lips curled tellingly. “Something sweet?”

“Something creamy,” was your proposal, steeped in suggestion. For some reason, Jungkook seemed oblivious to the water now surging over the rim of the glass. “I’m thinking a pavlova, because I’ve forgotten a lot of things. Got lots of eggs, though!”

Not a glint of recognition. “I don’t know what that is, either. I’m not doing great today, huh?”

“You’re doing just perfect,” you hushed him, taking the proffered drink. There was about as much clinging to the exterior of the glass as there was inside it. Looking up from the bowels of your emptied box, you affixed a sceptical smirk. “You don’t have an electric whisk, by any chance?”

Jungkook scratched at the back of his head. An imagined itch, to be sure; the gesture another of his wholesomely appealing habits. “Nope. I’m not exactly Gordon Ramsay, I’m sorry to say.”

“Then I’m gonna need your big, strong, man-arms, probably. Beating eggs is fucking exhausting.”

Flipping open the dozen you’d successfully remembered to bring with, you cracked one against the rim of your mixing bowl with a precision and fluidity that impressed Jungkook enough to provoke a gasp.

“Holy shit, I’ve never seen anyone do that except on TV,” he gaped, studying the art of yolk separation in an awed trance. He could catch flies with the amount of air exposure his mouth was getting.

And there he went again, affecting you in the smallest, most trivial of ways.

Teasing him was fast becoming a prized pastime. “You’ve never seen anyone break an egg before, Jungkook? Do you just live on instant ramen, or something?”

The swipe was barely glancing, but he played up the wound with the eyes of a Disney critter. “First of all, yes, I have seen someone break an egg. You know exactly what I meant. And, second of all, this is exactly what I was talking about.”

“What is?” you chuckled, siphoning your fourth egg into the awaiting gloop.

“All the bad things you say are gonna get you into trouble, one day.”

You stilled. That was a very direct attack. So direct, your pussy throbbed in the wake of its impact.

Feigning virtue was always fun. “I have no idea what you mean. I’m just crackin’ some eggs.”

Jungkook’s silhouette loomed closer. “You wanted me to beat something for you?”

Whisk in hand, your knees felt dangerously close to knocking themselves out and rendering you a floor-bound Salmonella risk. Unprepared for this lobbying of impurity, it took you a second longer than you’d prefer to formulate a counterattack. “I’ll need to see how capable you are, first.”

Yeah, not your best.

Jungkook, however, took it as his cue to mold himself to your back, granting your upper arms an explicit squeeze with the hands you were so fucking obsessed with. The sleevelessness of your romper had been a point of internal contention for you in your earlier clothing deliberation, but now it was the most valued of selections. You experienced, unobstructed, the softness of his unmarred palms as they ghosted down your arms’ reach and engulfed your fingers whole. Never had you felt so delicate as you did, then, swallowed in the expanse of his strapping hands.

Decisively, he plucked the implement from your slackening grip and hauled the bowl closer to him. Or you, rather, a little too comfortably wedged between the pressure of his body and the countertop that never asked to be part of this charged exchange. The warm, sturdy enclosure within which Jungkook held you captive tightened when he began whipping the bowl’s contents with a strength that struck you dumb. Like a primitive ape, you fawned over your mate's show of power, because the display was nothing if not to titillate you into a hard, dirty rutting.

And, fuck, you wanted that.

You leered, mesmerised, at the succulent bulge of tendon and vein alike as his hands whisked up a storm, his biceps rhythmically buffeting your shoulders with the effort of the motion. Hot breath met your ear, liquefying your entire being. “How’s this?”

“G-Good,” you couldn’t have given him a more vivid, greener light. All that he did piqued the fierce interest of your every nerve ending. And that was a reality all too apparent in the collecting slick coating the crotch of your panties. You should have been adding some sugar to the eggs around about now, but honestly, who gave a fuck about that anymore? “Until it forms stiff peaks.”

Jungkook pulled the whisk from the mixture to test its consistency, but didn’t return to the task when it proved unsatisfactorily blended. Instead, he dropped the implement into the creamy mess and seized, suddenly, the clothed swell of your breasts, adamant on turning you into a creamy mess, apparently. The switch in intent caught you wholly unawares. Like a boneless fish, you flopped into his built physique, lolling your head against his broad span of shoulder. “Oh, f-fuck.”

The fabric of your one-piece wasn’t the thickest. With impressively able hands, he kneaded you like dough, plying you into a putty that bulged from between the gaps of his wolfish grip. It wasn’t long before you were rising to readiness, a glaze streaking the space between your legs.

Jungkook was priming you for consumption.

His thumbs grazed to and fro over your budding nipples, wakening them to the chafe of your outer layer. “Feel pretty stiff to me,” he practically purred into the nape of your neck, his lips brushing a template of where he would later revisit. “I’d say you’re done.”

And from the burgeoning bulge making known its presence at the crack of your ass, you’d say he was about done, too.

A hand ventured lower, and then higher, as it slid surreptitiously beneath the hem of your shorts. “Do you want me to keep going?” Jungkook near-whispered, pausing his pilgrimage to your saturated cunt. You craned your neck, with some difficulty, to face him. “If you don’t want this today, I can stop.”

A dazed smile. “I want it. Today. Now,” and, bonding your lips in a kiss that should never have been broken on that night on the balcony, the heated, humid rejoining drew a muzzled moan from the both of you. Immersed, again, in the ambrosia of each other’s unfastened mouths, the steady undulation of Jungkook’s jaw as he received you felt as innate as your own heartbeat. How quickly he had attuned himself to your motions, your tempo; and, with a studious tongue, taken such an intimate cast of your mouth, knowing, already, how best to tease whimpers from you. Together you drowned, caught in a sea of saliva and amassed lust. Lust built from weeks of needless principle.

Oh, why had you waited so long, when this was nothing but right?

The potency of your monstrous, reciprocal desire now unleashed, it spurred your hands, your tongues, to paths they were keen to retread.

Jungkook was particularly quick in infiltrating that one part of you that begged for reunion. But despite his haste to submerse his fingertips in your gooey delight, he skimmed the outskirts of your panties with an infuriating lightness. He tore away from the kiss as though scorched. “You’re already this soaked?” he exclaimed, tormented, knocking his forehead to yours like the revelation had physically weakened him. “How are you so fucking sexy, noona?”

“It’s all you,” there was no need for exaggeration. Not when him simply broaching the meagre cotton barrier snatched the neediest of whimpers from you. Feeling his fingertips glide along the curve of your slippery slit, you briefly fretted that spontaneous human combustion may not merely be a myth. Because as he slathered himself with your syrupy, fervent welcome, you swore you were the pyre of a building inferno. “Don’t you dare tease me, Jungkook, you’ve gotten me so fucking horny,” was your urgent warning, coasting close to shrill. “Put those goddamn fingers--that you know I’ve been fantasising about--inside me, already.”

A husky chuckle tickled the nerve endings spanning your shoulders, every centimetre of your skin pining for the touch of his supple mouth. Kisses that he generously gave, but sprinkled chaotically, like he didn’t want to neglect any one part of you. The cupid’s bow that dipped his upper lip assailed you with volleys of heated adoration, riling you into a squirm that only pressed you closer to the tip of his other, drawn, weapon. “You mean, these?”

Oh how easily they sunk into you; two at once, with an immediacy that spoke volumes of Jungkook’s desire to touch the lining of your most sensitive parts. He half-hummed, half-whined his approval for having been re-embedded in the heat and squeeze of a place his cock wished it could inhabit. For now, it was forced to experience your narrow reaches vicariously, through the nubile probing of his fingers. Jungkook was bewitched. “You feel like fucking heaven, fuck.”

His dick twitched impatiently, pressed flush to your backside as it was. And, though cosy in the pressure with which your asscheeks provided, it answered to a higher call, now; your warm, throbbing pussy. You rocked against his languid insertion, more exploratory than possessed by hunger. It seemed Jungkook had become lost to the wonder of your calculated constriction, each tense of muscle prying further open his mouth and eyes. You snickered at his wonderstruck expression. “Never had your fingers this deep in a girl’s pussy, Jungkook?”

“Not one as delicious as this,” he shot back, leaving an aching void in the wake of his exit. Poised to question his knowledge of your taste, he spun you around so you could better view his sampling. He drew the drenched digits to his mouth, their savoury topping bridging the gap between as gooey strings that lit up his eyes in anticipation. As easily as he had buried them in your sopping cunt, he dipped them past the seal of his lips with an agonised crumple to his brow, like he was partaking of some tantalising elixir he’d been forbidden to let touch his tongue. “I knew it,” he murmured thickly, sucking clean his fingers and allowing your essence to titillate his tastebuds. “You taste as good as you smell, and as hot as you look.”

Enthralled by the vision of him drinking from you with all the reverence of a wizened man supping up the Fountain of Youth, the tail-end of his ardent declaration stole your attention enough to tickle you. “I don’t think it’s possible to taste hot? Unless that wasn’t water I showered with earlier, but sriracha,” you teased, slinging your arms haphazardly around his neck. You did so to close the far too vast a distance between your bodies, but, hands upon your ass and subjecting it to a voracious, possessive squeeze, he was already mashing you to him. Your romper may as well have been non-existent for all the dulling of sensation it granted you. When the top of your mound thudded lightly to the rock-hard protrusion reaching for you from behind Jungkook’s jeans, it did nothing to diminish the utter, raw aching the contact inspired.

“Don’t sass me, noona,” the admonishment was stern, but breathless. “Am I gonna have to bend you over my knee?”

Fuck, the suggestion was enticing. Unfortunately, the drooling maw between your legs had no such patience. It demanded gratification. “Not this time, baby. You can punish me all you like later on. Right now, I need your cock,” you cooed, granting its straining outline the coaxing smooth of your palm.

Jungkook stiffened to a rigidity that could rival his dick. “Ugh—I like that,” was his softly moaned encouragement. “Again, please.”

“I haven’t stopped,” a lone brow raised in bemusement. To demonstrate, you increased the pressure you were applying to his captive length, enough friction to have him grinding into your hand like a randy buck.

“N-No, not that—ah,” you stole his gasp with your determined toying. “Well, that too, but—c-call me baby, again.”

Your other brow arched to match. “Oh? You like that, huh?”

Jungkook sobered a little in his self-consciousness. “Yeah,” the arousal that dusted his cheeks deepened into an irresistible scarlet. “I don’t know why, but, man, that hit a note.”

You caught him before he could pull away. “Then I like it too, baby,” the endearment dripped as obscenely from between your lips as the honey from your lower pair. “So fuck me, already.”

The seconds proceeding your demand hung heavy; almost beyond endurance. But then, in slow motion, you witnessed that sudden click; the wildness that pitched Jungkook’s eyes into an all-consuming blackness that entreated you to an amenable doom. The shiver of energy that shifted through him was near palpable; it resonated from the soles of his feet and upward, until, like a carnivore coiled to pounce, he hoisted you with ease onto the countertop.

With a vulgar smack, the backs of your thighs collided with solid oak, and, God, did you wish you’d taken up his earlier offer of some disciplining. The sting would tingle all the more beautifully for having been dispensed by his hefty palm. “You don’t need to ask me twice, noona,” he puffed, excitement rather than exertion stealing his breath. “I’ll give you the fucking you so desperately crave.”

Jungkook’s arms encased your torso, sheltering your heart better than the ribcage that so freely allowed Taehyung to penetrate. “Whoa,” you hiccupped, steadying yourself with a grasp that landed, fortuitously, on his tautened biceps. They shifted excitably beneath your hands. “What are you gonna do with me?”

Legs free and sprawling, you welcomed him into the space between with an invitation written in your tongue’s ink, blotting his girthy neck with saliva.

An invitation he accepted wholeheartedly.

With an appreciative grunt, the mass of his body bore down on and nearly—oh, so nearly—inside you, dancing on the fringes.

You wanted him to invade you, claim and repurpose you. Dismantle your design; one so sorely built in error.

You would no longer be his, but Jungkook’s.

“So, so many things. But, first, I’m gonna give your pussy the beating it deserves,” he leered over you all stone-cold assertiveness, and you shrunk beneath his emanating power, both gut-squirmingly aroused and intimidated by the absence of the usual fumbled words and averted gazes.

He must have been practicing, you mused inwardly, allowing him this momentary victory over you with a sufficiently servile, doe-eyed pout. “Are you gonna let me see your pretty co—oh, fuck!” your yelp was consumed by a hacking cough, when one, misplaced hand catapulted the box whose only remaining contents consisted of the powdery residue left by your battered bag of flour. Your life, never having run the smoothest course, hit you with the timeliest derailments. This one presented itself as a billowy cloud that powdered most of you ghoulishly white. “Oh, God, look at me.”

Jungkook, who escaped relatively unscathed despite his proximity, cackled openly at your misfortune. But he didn’t surrender his hold of you; not even for a second. He only pulled you closer, marring himself to match. “You could be covered in anything right now and I would still be desperate to fuck you,” he stressed with a bow of his head, charting the topography of your sprinkled cleavage with a hot, open mouth, reducing the offending powder—and you, with every enthused flick of his tongue—to a streaky, viscous sludge. “You taste just as good when you’re a little salty.”

You wrinkled your nose at his willingness to ingest meal. “I guess you want this pretty bad, baby.”

Jungkook’s head shot up like he’d been conditioned into uninhibition on that one word’s command. “So bad,” he virtually snarled, scrambling to undress. Endowing you with your first, unfiltered view of his honed build, he yanked his sweatshirt free of his body, latching a smouldering gaze to you as soon as the obstruction was tossed aside. “Before you covered yourself in flour, I thought I heard a request?”

Your eyes trickled freely down his slopes of definition, steered into the trap that was Jungkook’s sublime anatomy. Cut, bronzed abs and a whisper of hair lay breadcrumbs to an outcropping so stark you could hang something off it.

Hopefully you.

“You know what I want,” your tongue painted the outline of your lips as he unbuckled and whipped off his belt with a crack that had your cunt quivering for the lashings of its master’s crop.

“Tell me again,” Jungkook barely breathed, peeling down the zipper of his pants at a pace that was far too leisurely for your liking.

“You’re getting a bit too bossy for your own good,” you cautioned, though the substance of your warning disintegrated upon each, agitated breath.

Clearly, it was for your own good.

Jungkook’s fingers fell away from his front. “Tell me again,” he reiterated firmly.

How effortlessly he flitted between subservience and indubitable control. Hopefully the thorough flouring you’d sustained would stave off the likelihood of you completely adhering to his countertop in your current, sodden state.

The thrum of your clitoris compelled you into compliance. “Please, let me see your cock.”

A triumphant smirk sharpened his features. “That’s my good girl,” he hummed, tugging his boxers down enough to allow it to topple into his awaiting palm like a freshly felled tree. Reality was far more generous to him than the feeble fantasies you’d concocted, with increasing frequency, the last few weeks. His arms weren’t the only appendages lovingly wrapped by veins, green and blue; powerlines supplying the monster that would soon be hollowing you.

Its perfectly pink head enraptured you. “God, you’re so hot—way too hot. I’m so fucking wet, Jungkook, you know I am. I’m so ready,” the sight of his fleshy offering stirred you into near-frenzy. So much so, you grasped for him without pretence; no longer did you possess the constitution to play ruler. “Fuck me, please.”

Jungkook’s calculated façade slipped when confronted with such raw need. He was on you before you could blink, inhaling you into a soul-sucking kiss that saw his tongue tickling the threshold to your throat. Was it possible to swallow and choke on someone else’s tongue?

If so, you gladly would.

He must have been in some state of severe desperation, because Jungkook spared no thought for your poor, flimsy romper as he yanked sharply at your shorts, inadvertently flossing your cunt with the seams. It should have been painful, in theory, and yet the angling strummed your clit to the tune of your resultant, yearnful moans. With a fistful of fabric, he paused suddenly, confused both by your fervid feedback and the stubborn garment that still adorned your body. “What the hell is this thing? Shorts? I thought it was a skirt,” his voice pitched with an adorable curiosity.

Yes, even now, cock out and teeming with pre-cum, he was adorable.

Tongue pinched between teeth, you giggled. “Yeah, and it’s all one thing. Gonna have to take it off in one go.”

With that, you sat straight, teasing two sets of straps down the round of your shoulders. Jungkook was your besotted audience of one, engrossed in your seductive shedding. His chest expanded with a sharp intake of breath when your bra peeled away from your breasts, tips painfully taut from his earlier bullying. “God,” was his succinct, but cock-felt response. And, sure enough, he watched the show unfold with a white-knuckled clench around said cock, spreading its drool the length of it through each your stages of undress.

Unclasping your bra with a fluidity born from nearly three decades of suffering the damned things, you threw the unwelcome item of clothing over Jungkook’s fruit bowl. And, with a jerk of your hips, disrobed yourself of what remained of your layers soon after—including a misguided choice in panties. In fairness, you’d hardly – having been wallowing in the depths of despair not an hour ago – been expecting his scrutiny. Not while you were spread-eagle and, with your fore and middle fingers scissoring the hood of your clit, beckoning him with your pussy like a wanton wench.

You eyed his vigorous pumping of his dick and tutted. “Baby, slow down. Are you that excited?”

Jungkook grunted past the lip caught between his teeth. “Fuck, yes. Ugh—” his gaze was unshakably fixed to the trail that oozed from your tender interior. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, the utterance barely audible above the mouth-watering shlip of his rhythmic movements. Whether his comment had been for your ears, you didn’t know. But your confidence ballooned exponentially, banishing the skulk of inadequacy that had intermittently threatened your enjoyment.

Hooded eyes flew wide. “Wait,” Jungkook panted, stalling his overzealous strokes. “I-I don’t have a condom, I didn’t think—oh, no.”

Wow. He really had left this decision entirely in your hands, hadn’t he? Your abdomen crawled with a warmth not possessed of arousal. “I do,” you assured him, pointing to your purse. “In there.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” he muttered, shoulders sagging for the relief of your divulgement. “And you, of course,” was his snort of an aside as he pulled the accessory to him and rifled, behind thinly-veiled excitement, through its compartments. “Aha.”

It relieved you endlessly to witness him tear open the packet with his fingers, rather than his teeth. Every man you’d ever bedded that had been a teeth-tearer, had, without fail, vastly overestimated their sexual prowess. Jungkook’s concentrated fumbling only made your heart more buoyant. “Let me?”

He couldn’t have moved fast enough. Surrendering the wrapper immediately, he observed keenly, how adept you were at removing it. It could have been candy inside for all the pre-cum his dick was salivating, eager to don the sheathe that would allow him access to the sultry stretches of your vagina.

With a practiced pinch of the tip, you wrapped him from end to base in one soft, sweeping motion, never quite allowing him the gratification of a firm grip. He squirmed nonetheless, ostensibly overcome by both the feeling and realisation of having your touch grace his—very nearly—bare cock. “I wish you could fuck me raw,” you grumbled, never having been too fond of the taste or texture of latex, nor the hindrance it posed when all you wanted was to fully appreciate his silken skin as it caressed your insides.

That was, perhaps, the most provocative thing you could have said in that moment. Because Jungkook snapped to you like he was impelled by magnetic forces and, with a squeak of flesh on wood, pulled you to the very edge. The angered tip of his cock hovered directly beneath, inciting you to your grisly end by impalement. “Don’t say that to me right now, noona, or I won’t even survive putting it in. Jesus,” he ran splayed hands over the planes of your thighs, and thumbs along the pulse points that gushed, with urgency, to provide oxygen to parts of you that were fast becoming deprived.

“I’ll let you fill me right up one day,” you teased, hooking a leg around his waist and bringing your throbbing genitals into closer proximity. “But I won’t tell you when. I’ll just pull it off and shove you back in when you least exp—ungh!”

Jungkook silenced you with a hungry bruising of lips and teeth, delving his fingers into your backside to better guide you to the beacon that, now, stood sentinel between the seam of your pussy’s lips, coating itself in your plentiful excretions. He wrenched himself free of your oral dalliance. “Ready?”

As if your entire body wasn’t crying out for his fullness. God, you’d never experienced such a haunting ache between your legs. “I’ve been ready since date one, and failed date three is the extent of my self-control. Hurry, baby.”

And with a smooth rock of his hips, he eased his way past your slit and into the clamp of your unaccustomed cunt. The sharpness of penetration pushed a gasp from you, halting him immediately. “Are you okay?” he whispered to your lips, tracing each syllable with his hovering mouth.

You were okay.

More than.

Beyond okay.

It was formidable, the intensity of this moment. Skin-on-skin, simmering under a sheen of perspiration; the intimate, reassuring canopy of Jungkook’s weight, anchoring you to reality.

And you needed that anchor, when it was nothing but an unreality that you were melding, after so long, with a man who returned your ardour. A man who pursued you, who desired you, who embraced you without pretence.

That first stab let flow months of unprocessed, pent-up loneliness and desire for companionship. For sexual affinity.

And as he bled you of pain, all that remained was a strengthening, terrifying appetite, brewing in the pit of your being. With an exuberant smile, you cupped the sides of his face. “I’ve never been better.”

Coaxed by the sincerity of your own words, you laxed around your gradual accommodation of Jungkook’s cock, permitting him to share your body; to become the vessel for his enjoyment. He gave in to the pull of your suckling pussy, a breath he had long been holding rushing free to flutter the wisps of hair around your face that had abandoned their hastily styled arrangement. And though it seemed to pain him, Jungkook steadfastly maintained the quiet, intimate exchange that passed between your torpid gazes. As consumed of lust as they were, the darkness that swallowed his eyes was not that same, meaningless, matte void you had seen stare back at you, time and time again. There glimmered, like an uncharted nebula, thousands of stars.

And every one bore your name; shone to be seen by you.

Jungkook allowed you that glimpse of tender emotion before body overrode heart. He pressed welts into your asscheeks with his boisterous grappling. “Noona—God—you’re so tight.”

And you felt it, too; how you hugged him so inflexibly. Your walls spread, burned around the circumference of his cock, hewn wider by Jungkook’s measured descension to your core. The tip of his member brushed conciliatory kisses to your softest spots as it passed, mitigating what little discomfort there still remained.

And soon, there was none.

Soon, each, sunken inch of him induced only the most moreish, pleasing of sensations.

Jungkook’s sculpted abdomen, drawn tightly under the burden of moderation, pressed flat to your mound as you enveloped his full length. You writhed, feeling his mass so perfectly planted within you. “I-It’s been a long while,” your voice was more air than sound, the feeble, soft noise summoning his mouth to provide your own succour.

A few sprawling, desperate seconds later he broke away, though his impression lingered upon your smooch-swollen lips. Despite the visible trembling of his arms, he kept his tone considerately even. “Let me know when, ____.”

Even now, even lodged so deep that his balls kissed at your crammed core, he put you first.

“Now, Jungkook. Now,” you urged, trapping him in a vice of thighs. “F-Fuck me, I’m ready.”

And he did.

Instinct overruled cognition with a hasty, acute snap of his hips. From the very outset he set a hurried, frenzied pace that saw him transform from the attentive man you so treasured, to a rapt beast heeding the call of a pleasure that could only be found at your centre. A centre he plunged with abandon, tapping you for a completion he was racing startlingly fast towards. “A-ah, noona, I—fuck, you’re perfect, you feel so good,” he gushed unfiltered, your clenching pussy torturing him into the most candid of outpourings. His fingertips dug with such resolve into your ass, it felt like he could tear away flesh.

“B-Baby,” you began, but a raucous groan burst forth from him at your weaponization of the term, striking him at his most vulnerable.

He was gone.

Immersed, so deeply, both in your cunt and the effort he was expending to pound himself into its limits, your provocation only served to accelerate his harried thrusting to a dizzying tempo. The furious pacing was nothing but sweet, sweet violence; your plastered, swelling pussy and endless caterwauling was an attestation to that. Each thunderous clap of your flesh battered your clit to inflammation; a willing casualty of the pummelling he was subjecting you to. “You’re fucking me so good, d-don’t stop, oh!—”

With an ear-sundering squeak, he slid you from the breakfast bar and onto the burly shelf of his stiffened forearm, the other more tenderly employed to cradle your waist. In his strong, resolute hold, he suspended you from the floor, legs dangling, as he continued fuck up into you with admirable determination. And though you were quick to ease his burden somewhat by encircling him with your legs, he then began to stagger away from your previous perch. His intended path was unclear, more-so as you ricocheted from countertop to countertop, entwined and blind in a kiss so sloppy you almost missed mouths, drawing the vicinity of your lips into a maelstrom of tongue and saliva.

With the grating crash of unseated pots and pans, Jungkook drove you to the wall, plastering you onto the decor with the momentum of his pussy-rending pistoning. How he was able to maintain such a potent, jarring rhythm despite the strain of your added weight was an absolute mystery, and one you were only sad you were unable to witness in the rippled strain of his muscular thighs.

“O-Oh God, I don’t think I can last much longer,” he whined, the centre of his face crinkling into agony. “I’m already so close, I’m s-sorry—you’re just so—so fucking—ungh!”

An orgasm would’ve been lovely— okay, that was an understatement— but unanticipated. First encounters were often desperate, grasping tussles that lacked the longevity and attention you required to get you there. And yet, this was the first time it hadn’t bothered you. Ushering Jungkook to nirvana was euphoria enough for this cursory experience. It was a gift you wholeheartedly gave to a man who put you first in all things. And, given time, would master your body enough to pay you back tenfold. With a gentle brush of his cheek, you prompted his unfocused attention. “Don’t worry about me. You’re gonna make up for it later, aren’t you?”

Jungkook loudly moaned his affirmation. “F-fuck, yes. I’m gonna worship your pussy, noona. Just wait,” a series of harsh, broken thrusts was his endorsement. The drag and draw of his rigid cock was so smooth, now, so lubricated by a unified ecstasy, that it truly felt like he belonged. Like he was a part long missing from your malfunctioning machinery, well-oiled and barrelling into you to fulfil a function you’d never quite known.

And now you knew.

“Are you gonna dirty my pussy, baby?” you purred the salacious incitement into his ear to feel him flounder. And, boy, did he. The targeted battering he’d been unleashing on you stuttered to an erratic, madcap blindfiring that struck you in places that you would be sure to tell him to focus on later. A jagged rasp of a moan bruised your vocal chords. “J-Jungkook, f-fuck, fill me! I wish I could feel you fill me, want my pussy full of your cum—”

“Agh!” he spat the strangled response from behind a clenched jaw, your body drooping in increments as his knees quaked from the stress. With a surge of decisive strength, he hauled you up and flopped you onto the dining table directly behind, the surface lower in height than where your entanglement first began and allowing him the unhindered scope of your nude vista. Forfeit of decency for being so deep within you, his eyes dwindled on the hypnotic spring of your breasts, fuelling a passion that raged toward combustion. “I-I’m gonna come, noona, I’m so close—God, how are you so fucking gorgeous—”

With one, final, fatal squeeze of your vagina, you bought him a one-way ticket to his end. A last gasp of breath and the indistinct blurring of his hips saw Jungkook through a climax that thrashed him with such intensity that he no longer appeared conscious of the grip he had of your waist. It tightened as painfully as the vicelike restriction that tormented his cock, and his thumbs delved so far into the supple flesh of your tummy it felt like he was palpating you for medical examination.

“F-Fuck, yeah, oh, noona, yes—” he shouted with such vehemence you became conscious of the existence of his neighbours. That thought was fleeting, however, in the literal face of Jungkook, stubbornly grinding every drop of himself into the true recipient you both begrudgingly permitted to participate. And though the condom, surely, dulled his – and your, because you couldn’t think of anything more soul-rendingly erotic than him emptying the scorching contents of his balls into you – enjoyment somewhat, you were an awed spectator to the seraphic beauty of his bliss. Features free of anything but a meditative placidity, Jungkook, with every whoosh of expelled breath, looked a traverser of Elysium’s peaks.

“Wow,” you chuckled, rosy-cheeked and more serene than you could ever remember feeling. “You still in there?”

Jungkook’s eyes peeled open, black as night. With him fucked-out and flying, you were better able to access the rawness of him through the dilated pools that stared back at you.

A secret, there, seemed so within reach—

“Only just,” he panted, each word ousted from lungs devoid of breath. “God. I’m just—wow. I lo—I mean, you were amazing.”

You sat up to take his face into your hands – hands that craved him still. “I barely did anything. You rocked my world and I came along for the ride,” Jungkook slipped his wilting cock from you, the desolate chasm it left in its wake soliciting a gloomy pout. “I don’t want you to leave. You feel so good inside me.”

He held the softening appendage in his palm, eyeballing the abundance of cum he’d soiled its latex prison with. “Jesus,” he breathed, flashing you an impish grin. “I submit this as evidence that I also feel really, really, fucking good inside you.”

“More, please?” you simpered, prying wide your legs to tempt him into another round. “I’m hungry for your cock, still.”

Jungkook was enthralled by the ruddied, slobbering sight. His sagging dick heaved a determined breath, levitating precariously from his palm. “Fucking hell,” he threw an anguished look towards the bathroom. “I’ll give you as much cock as you want, noona. But I need to take this off, first. Let’s take a shower, and then—well. I promised you something, didn’t I?”

Your eyes may as well have lit up with jackpot signs. “You’re gonna worship my pussy?”

“I’ll do more than that,” he vowed, stalking away to the bathroom with an urgency to his gait. “I’ll get the shower going.”

Watching his chiselled backside leave was a perk in itself. You were definitely going to bite it at least once in your future tumbles together.

In his absence, you evaluated the trail of destruction your frantic fucking had wraught. As his guest - and the lucky recipient of said fucking - you felt compelled to straighten the place to the best of your ability. You spotted your purse first, dusted with flour, and patted off the excess that stubbornly clung to its exterior, inadvertently dislodging your phone from its compartment. Quite against expectations, you caught the sleek object before it could clatter to the floor and ruin your week, and with a relieved sigh and a habitual click, began mindlessly scrolling through a day’s accumulation of unnoteworthy notifications. In the midst of the unexceptional, Yoongi’s name popped out at you.

[15:33] Yoongi I don’t know if you have already, but can you talk to Taehyung, please?

Your stomach bungeed to your feet.

No.

Not now.

Please.

[15:34] Yoongi I can’t get hold of him since he told me the news.

Oh, God. What news?

Had he really disclosed the grisly details of that catastrophic evening to Yoongi?

[15:34] Yoongi You know he broke up with Tara, right?

Oh.

Next: 10 || WYLEI Masterlist

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