PRETTY GIRL AVENUE .⋆ JJK
when your AC dies in the middle of july, the only thing hotter than your living room is the boy your brother sends to fix it. gee, i wonder what will happen on this unexpected house tour?
parings. jeon jungkook x female reader
word count. 11.3k
genre. older brothers best friend, “i won’t tell”, dom! but sweet!jk
rating. explicit (18+) MDNI
.⋆ warnings. strong language, manhandling, oral sex (both m! and f!receiving, masturbation, needy!kook, dom!kook, slight choking, kitchen sex, counter top sex, table sex, unprotected sex (don’t do it), penetrative sex, rough sex, cream pie, cum on back, tender aftercare, tabu relationship, secret relationship
spotify playlist
jen’s notes: found this half written story in my drafts and just haaaad to finish it since i thought it would go well with house tour. idk if the dialogue is off in the start since the brother doesn’t have a name, but i didn’t want to write in one of the other members as y/ns brother since that felt kinda incesty to me (i’ve written to many fics about them all). anyway loved this, even though it’s done 100 times before
the fan in the corner of room clicks uselessly, spinning once—twice—before giving up completely with a tired whine.
you groan, dragging the back of your hand across your forehead. sweat glistens there already, beading at your hairline and sliding down the curve of your neck. july has always been brutal, but this—this seems oddly personal.
“oh fuck off,” you mutter, glaring at the silent air conditioner. “fucking shitty fuck.” a row of wise words.
the living room feels like it’s closing in, shadows of the evening stretching across the floor while the last bits of sunlight bleed through the windows. you grab your phone and pace barefoot across the cool tile, though even that is losing its relief.
“—no, i’m not joking. every fan is broken—it’s so fucking hot here,” you pant into the phone, pressing it between your cheek and shoulder as you wrestle with the remote. the display on the unit blinks mockingly. fucking useless.
on the other end, your brother sounds half-asleep. “and you’re sure you’ve tried everything?”
you roll your eyes, can almost hear the smug tilt of his mouth through the line.
“yes,” you snap. “i’ve pressed all the buttons. i’ve unplugged and replugged. i even begged to god. it’s dead.”
he hums, clearly entertained. “you’re not very good at critical thinking, you know that?”
you stop pacing long enough to glare at nothing in particular. “how fucking dumb do you think i am—” you bite out, loud enough that your voice bounces off the walls.
he laughs—laughs—and the sound only sharpens your frustration. “listen here, shithead,” you warn, “i wouldn’t be calling you if it wasn’t serious. i’m about to melt into the floor.”
“yeah, well, i already told you—i’m busy.” there’s a noise behind him, light and musical—a giggle. a girl’s giggle. typical.
you scoff, stepping over to the open window. warm air drifts in, heavy with the scent of asphalt and summer rain that never came. “no. put your clothes on and help a girl in need.”
“there’s a girl in need here too,” he shoots back—and then yelps, clearly swatted for it. apparently the girl in need didn’t quite like her new title.
you wrinkle your nose. “ew. you’re disgusting.”
he just laughs again. “then figure it out yourself.”
“fine,” you drawl, leaning your elbows on the windowsill, the faintest smile curling on your lips. bingo. “i’ll just have to keep every window and door open. let the air in.”
there’s a pause. “there you go,” he replies lightly, though there’s something a little more cautious in his tone now.
“mhm,” you hum. the evening air presses against your bare shoulders. “still too hot to wear a whole lot of clothes, though.”
the silence that follows is thick enough to taste. you can hear his breath hitch, just slightly.
you smile—small, devilish. “but that’s alright, isn’t it? me, undressed, at night, with all the windows open…”
“fuck you,” he snaps, and you can practically see him rubbing his temples. “alright, fine. i’ll— i’ll figure something out.”
“aww,” you coo, all sugar now. “you’re the best. thank you.”
you hang up before he can answer, the smirk lingering on your lips as the heat hums around you—alive, heavy, and waiting.
˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ ·
the ring of the doorbell slices through the thick air of the living room. you jolt upright from the couch, half startled, half relieved that your brother actually listened for once.
you swipe at your forehead—your skin still dewy from the heat—and hurry toward the door, bare feet padding against the tiles. the house hums quietly behind you: the low buzz of a dying fan, the faint chirp of crickets outside the open window.
“finally,” you mutter under your breath, tugging at the handle.
the door swings open—
—and the air leaves your lungs.
it’s not your brother. which would be fine on any other day; but not when all you’re wearing is a bra and a pair of tiny floral shorts. you weren’t joking with your brother—it actually was too hot to be wearing a whole lot of clothes.
your heart stutters hard enough to make your fingertips tingle. because standing on your porch, framed by the glow of the streetlight, is none other than jungkook.
not your brother. his best friend.
he’s wearing a sleeveless black shirt, a chain glinting faintly against his collarbone. his jeans hang low on his hips, scuffed at the knees; the ink on his arms catches the light, every line and shadow familiar and strange all at once. his dark hair falls a little into his eyes, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.
“—oh my god,” you whisper before you even realize it’s out loud. your stomach twists.
jungkook’s expression flickers. surprise. confusion. then something unreadable. his eyes meet yours for a split second before darting downward—blinking hard, head turning away so fast his hair brushes his jaw.
maybe not the perfect timing to be standing almost butt naked at the door.
he lifts a hand, rubbing at the back of his neck, a half-laugh escaping. “jesus christ—uh, sorry,” he blurts, voice rough and uncertain, completely unlike the calm you’ve always known from him.
“oh my fuck,” you gasp, grabbing the edge of the door and pulling it halfway closed between you. the wood feels hot under your palm. “why are you here?!”
he’s laughing now, a nervous, breathless sound that only makes your pulse hammer harder. “i—uh—your brother told me to come by. said something about fixing your air conditioning. he didn’t exactly give me details before he hung up.”
your jaw tightens. of course. of course your brother sent him instead. you picture him—still in bed—with no idea what disaster he’s just caused.
“fucking asshole,” you mutter under your breath, pressing your forehead against the door for a moment before yelling, “give me two seconds!”
you don’t wait for his reply—you’re already running, practically tripping over your own feet as you dart toward the stairs. behind you, you hear the faint creak of the door.
“hey—uh—should i just… wait here?” jungkook calls after you, still half-laughing, clearly trying to play it off.
“don’t you dare come in!” you shout back automatically, already halfway up the stairs.
you slam into the bathroom, searching wildly for something—anything—to throw on. the mirror catches your reflection: cheeks flushed, hair a little wild, your skin glistening from the heat. your stomach flips.
“oh how beautiful,” you mutter, yanking open the cabinet door. after a few frantic seconds, you find a thin, pink robe hanging behind the door. it’s lightweight—practically sheer—but it’s all you’ve got. you pull it on, fumbling with the belt as your heart continues its uneven rhythm.
your stomach turns as you prepare for what’s waiting. jungkook—now practically inside your house.
you squeeze your eyes shut for a second, trying to steady yourself. he’s been around your whole life—your brother’s shadow in a dozen memories: baseball caps, quiet smiles, laughter spilling across your parents’ porch. always older. always untouchable. always the one you pretended not to notice.
you exhale, forcing your feet to move again, and hurry downstairs.
when you reach the bottom, jungkook has one hand braced on the doorframe, shoulders still turned toward the porch like he’s trying not to invade your space. but when he hears your steps, he glances back—and his lips twitch, a soft grin breaking through the awkward tension.
the heat seems even worse now—thick, humming, sticking to your skin no matter how still you stand. it feels louder somehow with him in the room; every slow movement, every breath magnified. you nod at him, finally letting him in.
jungkook crouches near the wall where the air conditioner sits, head tilted slightly as he inspects the silent unit. the white light from the window catches in his hair and the curve of his jaw. he looks so calm—the same way he’s always been, steady in that quiet way that never seems forced.
you hover a few feet behind him, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, heart still hammering in your chest.
“i obviously didn’t think you’d be at the door,” you say quickly, your voice breaking the painfully awkward silence. it comes out higher than you meant, like you’re trying to defend yourself from a crime you didn’t commit.
he glances over his shoulder at you, and there’s that smile again—small, amused, not unkind. “you usually greet your brother like that?”
you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “obviously i don’t! it’s just—its really hot here.”
“right.” he nods, turning back to the unit. he doesn’t tease you further, though his grin lingers as he unscrews the front panel. “okay let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”
you cross your arms, partly to look composed, partly because you’re sure you’ll combust if you don’t do something with your hands. “you actually think you know how to fix it?”
he shrugs one shoulder, still crouched. “guess we’ll find out.”
the hum of the summer evening slips through the open windows—cicadas droning, a dog barking somewhere down the street. the sound fills the space between you, while jungkook quietly works, focused and unbothered by the heat.
you can’t help watching him. the way the muscles in his forearms shift when he reaches for something. his tattoos shifting with his skin. the way a few strands of hair fall into his eyes, and how he doesn’t bother to push them away. there’s something grounding about him—unhurried, capable—and that makes you even more nervous.
he glances up once, catching you mid-stare. “you okay?”
you blink hard, fumbling. “huh? what? i’m just standing here.”
he laughs softly, low in his throat, shaking his head before turning back to the machine. “you’ve never learned how to lie.”
you roll your eyes, trying to hide a smile. “wow, thanks.”
he keeps working, unscrewing a few more bolts. “hand me that screwdriver?”
you hurry to grab it from the coffee table, your fingers brushing his when you pass it to him. it’s nothing—just a second—but your breath catches anyway.
he doesn’t react, at least not outwardly. just murmurs a quiet, “thanks,” before returning to the job, the faintest hint of a smile still ghosting across his lips.
you fold your arms again, eyes drifting over him without meaning to. the tattoos along his arm move when he does, the lines catching in the light. his concentration is intense, the kind that draws you in even when nothing’s happening.
the silence between you starts to feel different—not awkward, exactly, but charged in a way that makes every sound louder. the quiet hum of the screwdriver, the faint rattle of metal, the slow rhythm of your breathing.
after a while he leans back, resting on his heels. “found the problem,” he says, glancing up at you with a small, proud smile. “your filter’s completely clogged. it’s a miracle this thing hasn’t caught fire.”
you laugh, more out of relief than anything. “so, it’s fixable?”
he nods, standing up. “yeah. just needs a good cleaning and a new filter. i can run to the store and grab one if you want.”
you blink, surprised. “you’d do that?”
“sure.” he shrugs, casual as ever. “i was already out anyway.”
“oh, thank you.”
for a moment, neither of you moves. the air conditioner sits open and silent between you, the summer air heavy but no longer unbearable. and as he wipes his hands on his jeans, you catch yourself thinking—not for the first time—that maybe the heat wasn’t the only reason your heart felt so unsteady tonight.
the house feels strangely quiet after jungkook leaves. you stand in the middle of the living room. the silence wraps around you, heavy and still—like the air is waiting too.
you glance at the open air conditioner, a few tools scattered nearby. he’s coming back. soon.
you retreat upstairs, still barefoot, the robe brushing against your thighs as you climb. in the bathroom, the light flickers on with a soft buzz.
the mirror reflects the kind of chaos you’d normally laugh at—hair messy, cheeks flushed from heat, a few strands clinging to your temples. you look… human. but something about it suddenly feels unbearable.
you tug at your hair, trying to smooth it out. “not for him, just—” you mutter to your reflection. reassuring yourself. “it’s polite to look nice.”
still, you reach for your makeup bag.
a sweep of concealer here, a quick dab of blush there. a little mascara—just enough to look awake. you lean closer to the mirror, biting your lip as you assess the result. still you, just… softer. more deliberate.
the robe slips a little on your shoulder; you tug it back up, tightening the belt.
when the doorbell rings again, it’s sudden and sharp. you flinch, hand flying to your chest as your heart jumps. “jesus,” you whisper to yourself, then hurry out of the bathroom.
your feet tap quickly down the stairs, the robe fluttering around your thighs. this time, you pause at the door before opening it.
slowly, you pull it open—just a crack at first, only your eyes peeking through.
“boo,” jungkook says, his voice warm and playful.
you straighten immediately, caught off guard by his grin. “wow, mature,” you say, though your smile gives you away.
he laughs as you open the door fully, stepping aside to let him in. the sound of his boots against the floor feels almost too loud in the quiet house.
“always gonna open your door like that from now on?” he teases, glancing over his shoulder.
“you can never be too careful,” you reply, shutting the door behind him.
he hums, amused, and moves toward the air conditioner again. you stand back, watching as he crouches down to fit the new filter into place.
it’s a simple task, really. but your eyes keep drifting—to the way his shoulders shift under his shirt, to the way he brushes his hair back when it falls into his eyes.
the air in the room is heavy again, thick and warm, and he’s starting to feel it too. he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, the smallest sigh leaving his lips.
something in your chest tightens.
you suddenly realize how ridiculous it must look—you standing there like a statue while he works. you clear your throat, half to yourself, and head toward the kitchen.
the tap squeaks when you turn it on, cold water splashing into a glass. you hold it for a second, watching the light ripple through it, before you turn and walk back.
he doesn’t notice you approach at first. you hesitate, then extend the glass toward him.
“ah, thanks,” jungkook says, finally glancing up. his hand brushes yours as he takes the cup—a light, fleeting contact, but it sparks through you. you pull your hand back quickly, trying to hide it by crossing your arms.
he lifts the glass to his lips, taking a long drink. his throat moves as he swallows, slow and steady, and you don’t know why that’s so interesting. maybe it’s the way the sweat at his temple catches the light. maybe it’s the ease in the way he carries himself—like he never rushes, never fumbles.
a single drop of water slips down from the corner of his mouth to his chin. he wipes it away absently with the back of his hand, sets the empty glass down beside him, and goes back to work.
you watch him for another beat, then look away quickly, pretending to busy yourself with straightening the couch pillows. but your mind’s still humming, replaying every small movement, every sound—the clink of metal, the low hum of his breath, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath him.
when he finally speaks again, his voice is calm, unhurried. “almost done,” he says, glancing up with a faint smile.
you nod, your pulse still running faster than it should. “good,” you manage. “good.”
but somehow, the house feels even warmer than before.
the hum of the screwdriver quiets, replaced by the faint sound of cicadas from outside. jungkook leans forward, adjusting something inside the unit with easy precision. you’re standing a few feet behind him again, arms loosely folded, trying very hard to look anywhere else—but your eyes keep finding him anyway.
there’s something about the way he moves that feels too calm for this heat. even with sweat at his temple, he doesn’t rush; every motion is deliberate. he wipes his hand against his jeans, then glances at the circuit board inside the air conditioner.
you tilt your head slightly, watching the concentration in his expression, the small crease between his brows, the faint glint of light on his chain.
then, without looking up, he says, lightly, “you’re staring a whole lot.”
the words hit like a bucket of cold water.
your body stiffens. “i’m not!” you blurt, too fast, too defensive.
that earns a quiet laugh—the kind that starts low in his chest and stays there. “whatever you say.”
you feel your ears go warm. you look down at your feet, pretending to inspect the tile, wishing you could melt straight through it.
the silence that follows is thick, but not uncomfortable. it hums softly between you—the buzz of the evening outside, the faint click of metal as he works.
then he speaks again, voice softer this time. “you haven’t changed at all.”
you blink, caught off guard. “huh?”
he chuckles, almost to himself. “you were all over me when you were a kid.”
your eyes widen. “i was not!”
he turns just enough for you to see the grin tugging at his lips. “you so were.”
your mouth falls open, utterly scandalized. “not true! i was—i was just—” you start, but you can’t even find a defense that sounds halfway believable. the memory of being younger — tagging along when he came over, following him and your brother around—flashes through your mind, and you groan. “oh my god, don’t say that.”
he laughs again, full and genuine this time, shaking his head. “relax. i’m just saying—it’s kind of funny.”
you cross your arms tighter, half hiding behind them. “you’re so annoying.”
“sure.”
the room goes quiet again, and in that pause, something clicks inside the unit. then—
a low, steady hum fills the space. cool air rushes out, curling through the room like relief itself.
you both exhale at the same time.
“there you go,” he says with a small smile, wiping his hands on his jeans again. he turns toward you—then stills slightly, his eyes scanning your face.
his expression shifts—something softer, more curious.
“did you put on makeup?”
your breath catches. the question lands heavier than it should, mostly because of how he says it: not teasing right away, not accusing, just… noticing.
you blink fast. “no,” you say, too quickly.
his grin returns, teasing again now, lighter. “awww, for me?”
you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “i have to go lie down.”
he laughs, a warm, easy sound that fills the room—the kind that makes you want to smile even when you’re mortified.
“hey, i’m just saying,” he teases, stepping back to admire his work. “if i’d known i’d get the VIP treatment, i’d have come to fix this thing weeks ago.”
you lower your hands, cheeks burning, eyes rolling, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at your lips anyway.
“shut up,” you mumble, half laughing.
he glances over, grin still in place. “you’re welcome, by the way.”
“mhm?”
“for saving you from heatstroke.”
you nod toward the air conditioner, pretending to study it. “yeah, yeah. i owe you one.”
he hums, turning back to the vent, voice a little lower now. “i’ll remember that.”
the cool air sweeps through the room again, but somehow, the warmth between you lingers just the same.
the air conditioner hums softly now, sending a thread of cool air across the room. it should have broken the heat, should have made everything easier to breathe—but it doesn’t. the air feels different now; thin, sharp, alive.
jungkook straightens from his crouch beside the unit, rolling his shoulders a little. you think you should say something—thank him, joke about the heat, anything—but the words don’t come.
for a moment, the world narrows.
his eyes meet yours.
it’s not a quick glance this time; it lingers. the kind of look that finds you and holds you there. his gaze flickers over your face like he’s trying to place something. something familiar and new all at once.
your chest tightens. you draw in a slow breath, trying to steady it, but your heart doesn’t listen. each inhale feels louder than it should, shallow, careful. the sound of it fills the small space between you, mingling with the low hum of the air.
he doesn’t move at first, just stands there with his hands loose at his sides. then his fingers flex—barely, a subtle twitch, like he’s grounding himself. his jaw tightens for a second, and you can see the faint rhythm of his pulse at his neck.
the silence stretches on and on. it’s not awkward anymore; it’s electric. it feels like both of you are waiting for something invisible to happen, something you can’t name.
you forget what you were supposed to do next.
then jungkook blinks, as if waking from a trance, and clears his throat. “well,” he says quietly, his voice rougher now, “if that was all, i should probably—” he gestures toward the door, his hand halfway raised.
it takes you a second to understand what he means. then you nod, stepping back automatically. “right. yeah.”
he takes a few steps, passing by you. the air shifts when he moves—his cologne faint, clean, familiar. it brushes past you like static, and something in you protests before your brain even catches up.
“or not!”
the words tumble out before you can stop them. he pauses mid-step, half-turned toward the door.
you freeze, realizing how loud that came out. “i mean—” you stammer, cheeks warming, “i’m bored. you could… keep me company. if you want.”
for a second he doesn’t answer. he just looks back at you, brows lifting slightly, expression unreadable.
“i don’t think—” he starts, his voice careful.
“please.”
you reach out without thinking, fingers closing around his wrist.
everything stills.
the air conditioner hums softly behind you, but it sounds far away now. his skin is warm beneath your hand, his pulse steady under your fingertips. your grip isn’t tight, but it’s enough to make him look down at the connection—your hand on his.
he inhales once, slow. his breathing changes, more deliberate now, measured.
when he looks up again, his eyes are darker. there’s no smile, no teasing in them anymore—just something quiet and searching.
the distance between you feels paper-thin. you can feel your heartbeat in your throat, in your fingers, everywhere.
neither of you speak.
you don’t move, afraid to break whatever this is.
and in that tiny stretch of stillness—the hum of the air, the faint creak of the floor, the two of you standing too close—you realize the house doesn’t feel hot anymore, but your skin does.
he exhales, eyes flicking briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. his pupils catch the light; they’re wide, glinting like obsidian.
you feel your breath stutter. your chest rises once, twice, each one sharper than the last. the moment hangs there, fragile, endless. then, before thought can intervene, your body reacts to the pull in the air between you—
and the world seems to tip. you lunge forward.
his breath catches as your mouth meets his—a stunned half-second of stillness, like the universe had just held its breath too.
then his hands are on you.
one finds the curve of your waist, the other sliding up between your shoulder blades, anchoring you as he pulls you closer. it’s not gentle—not hesitant. it’s heat and tension breaking all at once, like a dam finally giving way. his mouth opens against yours, and the kiss deepens with dizzying urgency.
your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt—tight, needy—like you’re afraid he might vanish if you don’t hold on.
his tongue brushes yours, slow at first, coaxing. testing. then something changes—his grip tightens, and he exhales sharply against your mouth, like he’s been holding something back too long.
the robe shifts.
you barely register it—just the whisper of fabric sliding off one shoulder as he pulls you flush against him. his hand trails along the curve of your back, fingers dragging lightly against overheated skin, and your whole body shivers.
“shit,” he mutters into your mouth. “you have no idea…”
you gasp against his lips, the heat blooming between you like wildfire now, impossible to contain.
but he stills suddenly.
his mouth breaks from yours, just barely, his forehead pressed to yours. his breath is ragged, brushing across your cheek.
“wait,” he murmurs, voice rough, cracked at the edges. “are we… doing this?”
you blink, breathless, still caught somewhere between the now and whatever this is.
you could laugh. could joke, push him back, brush it all off with a smirk and some offhand comment about heatstroke making you both insane.
but instead, you nod—barely, but it’s enough.
his lips twitch. not quite a smile—something heavier. like relief. like resignation.
“you’re, fuck, you're his little sister,” he says under his breath, eyes locked to yours, like he’s reminding himself. warning himself.
but he doesn’t step away.
you arch slightly into him, eyes narrowing. “does it matter?”
his gaze flickers—heat sparking behind it again. “no,” he answers hoarsely. “not right now.”
his mouth finds yours again—harder this time, more desperate, like he’s already made his choice and there’s no going back now. his hands are everywhere—gripping, guiding, learning the lines of your body with slow reverence and rough hunger both.
the air conditioner hums on behind you, pumping cool air through the room.
but suddenly, something within him stills again. his eyes spark open, and he shoves you away. you gasp as you stumble backwards. his hand drags across his face, from down his nose to his lips, resting over his mouth. his eyes roam you, the robe that has slipped down one of your shoulders, revealing the strap of your bra. his breath slows.
“wait, fuck—it does—” he starts, words muffled by his palm. he removes it, his tongue flicking over the piercing in his lip. “he’ll actually kill me.”
“i won’t tell!” you blurt out, trying to persuade him into staying. your eyes go soft. you stare up at him with glistening, pleading eyes. “please…”
jungkook answers with a conflicted hum, his eyes narrowing as they pierce through you. roaming over your figure. taking it all in. his chest is heaving. fingers flexing by his side. you can tell he’s close to breaking. and suddenly—he does, “fuck.”
he lunges toward you, gripping onto your neck—forcing your lips to meet again. his body presses against yours as his feet start moving, leading the way. you don’t know how far you’re moving, but somewhere along the way he tilts slightly, turning the direction of his steps while still lavishing you with kisses. you stumble in your steps, until your back hits something sharp. the kitchen counter.
your gasp breaks between his lips as the cold marble biting into your overheated skin—but jungkook doesn’t pause.
his hands are everywhere—one on your waist, the other sliding up your back again, fingers fanning wide like he’s trying to memorize every inch. his grip is rougher, needier. no longer tentative, no longer holding back.
the robe slips again—completely this time—and bunches at your elbows. he pulls back just enough to look at you, to really look at you. at your flush chest, the pink lace bra covering you.
his chest rises and falls like he’s been sprinting. his lips are swollen, kiss-bruised. his eyes flicker—down your throat, to the slope of your shoulder, to the flushed skin peeking through sheer fabric—and then back up again, dark and wild.
“you’re making this really hard,” he growls, his voice guttural now, almost angry.
you swallow hard. “that’s kind of the idea.”
he huffs out a laugh, but it’s not amused—it’s exasperated. like he knows he should stop, knows he should’ve stopped ten minutes ago, but you’ve already pulled the brake handle off the train and thrown it into the sun.
and he’s still moving.
his hand slides under the robe, past your ribs, finding your waist again and pulling you in. his body presses tight to yours, his mouth finding the spot just below your jaw and dragging heat across your skin like fire trails. you gasp, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut—
then, low and breathless: “he’ll fucking murder me.”
“he’s not here,” you whisper, voice shaking, “and if you stop now—so help me god—i’ll kill you.”
that makes him laugh for real. it’s breathless, incredulous, but real. he leans back just a little, dragging his thumb along your bottom lip, his fingers firm under your chin.
“what’s gotten into you?” he asks, eyes glinting with something dangerous.
you smile—slow, unapologetic. devilish. “what?”
he groans like he’s in pain, muttering, “fuck, this is so wrong.”
and then he kisses you again—slams into the kiss like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. his hand moves—one gripping the counter behind you, the other braced at your thigh, fingers sliding up, hooking behind your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist.
you cling to him, lost in the overwhelming crush of sensation: the taste of him, the press of his hips, the low, rumbling sounds he makes when you bite his lip a little too hard.
somewhere behind you, a glass tips off the counter and shatters against the tile.
neither of you flinch.
you’re too far gone—drunk on him, on the heat, on the sound of your name rasping off his tongue like he’s never said it before and is already addicted to how it feels.
“tell me to stop,” he growls against your neck.
you look at him, flushed, eyes wide and unblinking. “no.”
he doesn’t ask again.
and somewhere, deep in the back of your mind—beneath the sound of his breath, your sighs, the hum of the air conditioner—you wonder if your brother will ever realize that sending jungkook over was the worst mistake of his life.
or the best. depends who you ask.
jungkook’s mouth crashes down on yours again before thought can catch up. the grip he has on your thigh tightens as he lifts, hoisting you up onto the counter like you weigh nothing at all. the cold marble kisses the backs of your thighs, but your focus is solely on him—his tongue tracing yours, the way he fits between your thighs like he’s meant to be there.
you gasp as he presses in closer, the heat between you spiking—the feel of his erection digging into you. his hands drag over your sides, thumbs sweeping beneath the loosened edge of your robe as if testing how far he can push.
jungkook’s mouth dips lower—over your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. your head falls back with a soft thud against the kitchen cabinet as he opens your robe wider, lips brushing over the strap of your bra, teeth grazing skin with reverence and restraint balanced on a knife’s edge.
everything is heat. salt. breath. skin.
the hum of the air conditioner is drowned beneath the pounding rhythm of your heart.
this is happening. this is real.
and the part of you that always dreamed about this—the version of him not meant to be yours—laughs quietly behind your ribs, triumphant.
his fingers slip under the edge of your robe again—slow this time, purposeful. as if the moment has slowed for him too. the hunger’s still there, raw and consuming, but now it’s laced with something heavier.
your skin burns under his touch.
jungkook draws back just enough to look at you. his eyes drag over your swollen lips, your flushed cheeks, the way your breath hitches when his hand rests against your bare thigh again. his thumb brushes slow circles into your skin, the silence stretched thin between you.
“you sure?” he asks, voice low. no teasing now. no performance. just that quiet, steady seriousness you’ve love so much.
you nod once. “mhm.”
a heartbeat of hesitation. then he leans in—pressing his forehead to yours. his breath ghosts across your lips as he exhales, slow and tight.
and then—he pulls your robe apart.
not all at once. not roughly. he eases it open with both hands, like he’s peeling back the last excuse, the final defense. the fabric slides from your arms and pools at your waist, before he tugs at it, slipping it completely off—baring you to the kitchen’s pale, open light.
his mouth parts. you catch the breath he forgets to take.
“fuck.”
you shift on the counter, the stone beneath you cool, but not enough to ground you. not when he’s standing between your knees, looking at you like that—eyes dark, lips parted, hands hovering just above your skin, as if even he doesn’t trust himself with what comes next.
then finally—finally—he touches you again.
his palm slides up your thigh, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch. his other hand trails up your side, slow, deliberate, until it reaches the thin strap of your bra. he runs his thumb beneath it, tracing the delicate curve of it along your shoulder.
your breath hitches.
his hands are bolder when they move next. They travel—learn—press. he pulls you closer until there’s no air left between you, until your chest meets his and you feel the frantic beat of his heart through his shirt.
then his lips are back on you. not your mouth this time—lower. across your jaw. down your throat. his mouth marks a path between collarbones, teeth grazing the top edge of your bra, a groan vibrating through his chest when he feels you arch beneath him.
you grow impatient, clawing at the fabric of his sleeveless shirt. he groans against your skin, “so impatient.”
“tit for tat,” you say, tugging on his shirt. he smirks against your collarbone, looking up at you. and with a sudden shift, he rips off his shirt—now standing shirtless between your legs.
your breath catches.
jungkook’s shirt hits the floor with a soft thud, and all you can do is stare.
the kitchen light—faint and golden—kisses every line of his chest, casting shadows in the grooves of his abs, highlighting the defined cut of muscle across his torso. his tattoo stretches as he flexes his arm slightly, hand settling back on your thigh like he never left. ink curls over his shoulder and wraps around his bicep, intricate and dark, and for a moment your mouth goes dry.
he watches you watch him, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling slowly—like he’s giving you time to drink it all in.
“happy now?” he asks, his voice low, rough, teasing—but barely.
you don’t answer right away. you just reach out.
your fingers skim the edge of the tattoo on his shoulder first, tracing it like you’re trying to memorize it by touch. his breath hitches—just once—but he doesn’t stop you. if anything, he leans into it, like your hands are the only thing anchoring him now.
before you’re able to speak, he’s kissing you again.
hard.
his hand cradles the back of your head now, guiding, possessive, almost desperate. his other palm spreads wide over your lower back, pulling you flush to him, skin to skin now.
you press your palms to his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. his skin is hot under your touch. real. too real. and when you drag your hands down—past his ribs, along his waist—he groans into your mouth, hips shifting instinctively.
“you keep doing that,” he warns against your lips, “and i’m not gonna stop.”
“don’t want you to.”
he stills.
just for a second.
and then his hands are on you again—bolder, surer. one slips beneath your thigh, lifting you higher onto the counter. the other drags down your spine, resting at the dip of your back, fingers splayed wide.
you feel like you’re burning.
not from the heat in the house, not from the summer swelter pressing against the windows—but from him. from the way he touches you like he’s trying to etch the memory into his bones.
your bra strap slides off your shoulder.
he watches it fall.
watches the way your chest rises with every shallow breath. watches as your nipples pierce before him.
he’s trembling. just barely—but it’s there. his eyes flick up to meet yours, heavy-lidded and unguarded, “you drive me nuts.”
you don’t speak. you just pull him in again.
because nothing you could say would match the way your mouth fits to his, the way your body fits to his. and when his hands finally reach the hem of your panties—you let them.
his fingers hook under the waistband—slow, testing, reverent—and for the first time tonight, you shiver.
his gaze doesn’t waver as he slides the fabric down your thighs, inch by inch, until it pools at your ankles like something surrendered. just until it falls onto the floor. your breath stutters as his knuckles trail along the inside of your knee, the touch maddeningly soft—nothing like the hard, hungry mouth that’s already wrecked your lips.
the air feels thinner, your chest tighter.
you brace your palms behind you on the counter, legs still parted around him, chest rising in shallow, unsteady breaths. you’re burning. completely. from his hands, his eyes, the unspoken weight of the moment.
then jungkook drops to his knees.
that steals your breath.
no warning. no words. just him lowering himself onto the cold tile floor between your thighs like it’s instinct. like he’s done before in a hundred your dreams. but now he’s here. now it’s real.
and he looks up at you like you’re both a blessing and a curse he’s finally giving in to.
“fuck,” he breathes, eyes roaming the length of you—from your flushed chest to the heat between your thighs. “you’re unreal.”
his hands slide up your calves, then your thighs, thumbs brushing the tender skin near your hipbones. every muscle in your body tenses, breath caught in your throat, but his mouth is already moving—kissing up the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate.
your fingers twist in the edge of the countertop.
one kiss. then another. each one closer.
the air is thick. heavy with heat and something electric.
and when he looks up at you from between your legs—face tilted, breath already uneven—your stomach drops. his eyes are dark, locked in, consuming. not playful, not teasing. there’s no smirk now. just hunger. bone-deep. like he’s starving.
you suck in a breath as he leans forward.
“fuck,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. you’re already soaked. blush forming in your cheeks as he drinks in the sight of your dripping heat. “haven’t even touched you properly.”
you open your mouth—maybe to tease him, maybe to challenge—but then his tongue flicks out, dragging a slow, deliberate stripe along the slick heat of you, and your entire body locks.
your breath catches like it’s snagged on something sharp. he doesn’t stop. doesn’t ask if it’s okay.
just keeps going—a second lick, slower this time, his tongue wide and flat, gathering every drop of wetness from you. his mouth is hot. skilled. unrelenting. and you feel it—not just where he licks, but in the way his hands tighten on your thighs, pulling them apart just a bit wider. like he needs more of you.
a sound escapes you—a whimper, high and raw—and you grab the edge of the counter behind you like it’s the only thing holding you upright.
he hums against you. you feel that, too. the vibration. the satisfaction.
he buries himself in deeper. tongue curling, dragging, dipping into you with obscene precision. it’s not hurried. its like he wants to savor every flick, every gasp, every shiver he pulls from you.
“fuck—kook—” your voice breaks apart, breathless and high-pitched.
he only answers with a groan and another slow lick, curling the tip of his tongue just right, then sucking gently on your clit—and your head tips backwards, almost enough for you to fall back.
he catches you, of course.
one arm wraps beneath your thigh, hooking it over his shoulder, lifting your leg to open you further to him. the other arm snakes around your hips, hand splaying across your lower back, cradling you—supporting you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.
that hand doesn’t grope or press. it just holds. warm and wide and steady against your spine as he devours you from below like a man on the brink of losing his mind.
you feel your body arch into his mouth without meaning to—your hips twitching with every slow, deep lick. every inhale you take comes out as a gasp, a whine, a half-formed word that doesn’t matter anymore.
jungkook works you open gently, then thoroughly. alternating between teasing flicks of his tongue to your clit and long, luxurious strokes. he sucks—then releases. circles—then flattens. sometimes soft, sometimes firm. and always, always watching your reactions. adjusting with every twitch, every moan, every time you grind forward into his mouth like you can’t get enough.
his nose nudges your clit. his tongue slides lower. he groans again—deeper this time—and the sound wrecks you.
you fist your hands in his hair. not hard—not to control him—just to anchor yourself to something.
“please,” you whisper, not even knowing what you’re begging for. just needing more. “please, kook, don’t stop—”
his only reply is a low growl against your core and a deeper suck of his lips, locking around your clit with delicious pressure, tongue flicking just fast enough to push you right to the edge.
the pleasure is sharp now—overwhelming—molten and impossible to outrun. you feel yourself about to break.
“i—” you choke on it. “i’m gonna—”
jungkook doesn’t stop. not for a second.
in fact, he holds you tighter. pulls you closer. slides his tongue down again, tasting all of you, then comes back up, flicking and circling your clit. and when he seals his mouth over you again, sucking on your bundle of nerves—
you shatter.
your orgasm hits hard—harder than you’re ready for—flooding you from the inside out. your thighs clamp around jungkook’s face, your back arches, your moan rips from your throat like a sob. your whole body goes rigid, then trembles in waves as he keeps going, working you through every peak, every flutter, every aftershock with soft, patient licks.
he doesn’t pull away until your legs start to tremble violently.
then, and only then, does he ease back.
his hands stay steady on your back, holding you like you’re fragile now, like something just barely pieced back together. he leans forward and presses a kiss—slow, warm—to the inside of your thigh before easing your leg back down.
he rises slowly—eyes hooded, lips glistening, face flushed—and you’re dizzy with it. the image of him looking like that after what he just did.
he moves in, close. one arm circles your waist again, pulling you into him. the other hand cradles your face—fingers brushing hair from your cheek, thumb ghosting your bottom lip.
“you okay?” jungkook murmurs.
you nod, weakly. “a bit dizzy.”
that earns a soft laugh from him, slightly smug.
“good,” he whispers, lips brushing your forehead.
then he kisses you—slow and deep—and you taste yourself on his tongue.
you reach for him again—low, slow—dragging your fingertips down his abs until they brush the waistband of his pants. you feel him twitch beneath the fabric, hot and swollen and aching, and your breath catches at the sheer size of him pressing against the jean fabric.
“you good?” you murmur, lips curling into a knowing smirk.
jungkook grits his teeth. “look at me.”
you do. and god—he looks wrecked. hair messy, eyes dark, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. his chest rises and falls with sharp, shallow breaths, like he’s barely keeping control.
like you’ve got him strung up on a thread.
“you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.
you drag your hand up his stomach again—then down—stopping just above his cock. teasing. threatening.
he growls, unbuckling his belt in a swift motion, throwing it to the side before he zips down his jeans. just enough to leave space for you. he grabs your wrist. not to stop you. but to guide your hand lower.
you let him. let him push your palm down, wrap your fingers around the heavy length of him beneath the his boxers. you squeeze—just a little—and he flinches, hips jerking forward into your touch like he needs it too much to be embarrassed.
his voice breaks. “fuck, just—don’t tease me, not now—”
you blink up at him through your lashes, innocent. “teasing?”
but you are. and he knows it.
still, he lets you.
you palm him slowly through his boxers, feeling every pulse, every twitch of restrained need. slowly, you slide your hand beneath the waistband, slipping inside, and your fingers wrap around bare skin this time—hot and hard and silky smooth. he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
“jesus—”
you pull him out. and he hisses.
his cock springs free, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening with precum. you wrap your hand around the base and give one long, deliberate stroke—from root to tip—and his eyes flutter shut.
but only for a second.
because when jungkook opens them again and sees you watching him—watching what your hand is doing to him—something inside him snaps.
his hand closes around your wrist again. firm. commanding. and then—he pulls.
pulls your hand off him. steps back. you blink in confusion for a heartbeat.
until he grabs ahold of the hem on his pants and tug. stepping out of his jeans, revealing his strong, defined thighs. and by raising his hand—he grips himself.
and starts stroking. slow. tight. aggressive.
your breath stutters.
“wanna tease so bad?” jungkook growls, hand moving up and down the thick length of him with smooth, practiced strokes. “fuck, you drive me crazy.”
you freeze where you are, seated naked on the counter, heat pooling between your thighs all over again, as he stands just in front of you—boxers down on his hip, sweat-slick, panting—jerking himself with a pace that’s already turning savage.
every vein in his forearm flexes with the motion. his abs tighten. his hips stutter forward with every twist of his wrist, and you see how sensitive he is—the way his teeth grit, his jaw clenched like he’s trying to hold something in.
“shit—” he breathes, eyes locked on your chest, your mouth, your parted thighs. “you don’t even know what you do to me.”
you lean back against the counter, legs trembling. and you try to sound a whole lot more confident then you feel. “show me.”
and he does.
his eyes burn as he works himself harder now—fast, slick strokes from base to tip, his thumb swiping over the slit, spreading the precum across the head until it glistens. his breath comes out in ragged gasps, every muscle in his body tensing, straining.
“you sitting there,” he pants, “all spread out like that… fuck, i could come just from looking at you.”
you shift against the counter, thighs pressing together, your own arousal making it impossible to breathe right.
“don’t,” you whisper.
his hand falters for a second. “don’t…?”
“not yet,” you say, eyes dark. “i want to watch you suffer a little more.”
his laugh is rough. shaky. wrecked.
“bitch.”
“mhm.”
jungkook groans and jerks himself faster, grip tightening, the muscles in his legs flexing beneath the weight of restraint. his thighs twitch, abs clench, and a drop of sweat slides down his chest.
he’s close.
his cock is flushed red, twitching with every stroke. his hips are thrusting into his hand now—desperate, needy, chasing the edge like he can’t stop even if he tried.
“make a mess,” you whisper. “wanna see it.”
that’s all it takes.
he chokes on a groan and his whole body locks. his hand flies up, wrapping tight around the head as the first pulse hits—hot and thick, spilling across his own fingers and knuckles. his breath shatters, and he jerks himself through it—a second spurt, then a third, cum dripping down his shaft as his thighs tremble with the intensity of it.
he curses under his breath, body arching slightly, trying to ride it out.
and you watch all of it. the way his abs tighten. the way his mouth falls open, panting your name. the way his knees almost buckle from the force of it.
then he exhales, low and broken. staring at you. spent. messy. destroyed.
“holy fuck,” jungkook mutters, voice hoarse.
you tilt your head. “feel better?”
he wipes his hand across his stomach, slow and lazy. “no. not even close.”
he stands there—still catching his breath, sweat glistening across his collarbones, abs slick and twitching—his cock half-hard and messy, still glistening with aftermath.
your eyes trail down—from the flush creeping up jungkook’s chest, to the cum streaked across his hand, his stomach, the heavy length of him still bobbing slightly with the beat of his pulse.
and you hop off the counter. gently. stepping forward.
he watches you carefully, eyes still dark, still blown wide, though there’s something different now—wary, like he’s bracing himself and knows exactly what’s about to happen but still can’t believe it.
you sink to your knees without a word.
that’s when his breath catches.
“shit,” jungkook whispers, voice low and wrecked. “you don’t have to—”
you look up at him as you wrap your fingers gently around the base of him again, and say, soft, “i want to.”
and then you lean in.
you start slow—dragging your tongue along the underside of his shaft. a single, hot stripe, beginning at the base and ending just beneath the swollen head. you feel jungkook twitch in your grip. hear the way he chokes on his own breath.
your tongue circles the tip, lapping up what’s left of his release, tasting him like something sweet and forbidden. your mouth parts just slightly as you close your lips around the crown, sucking lightly—and that breaks him.
“fuck—fuck,” he moans, head tipping back, hand flying to your hair like he doesn’t know whether to pull you back or push you deeper. “you’re gonna ruin me.”
you hum around him, the vibration sending another shudder up his spine.
you take your time. lick him clean.
slow, swirling drags of your tongue along his length, catching every drop, every trace. your mouth glides down the shaft, lips parted, saliva mixing with jungkook’s release as you go. you kiss along the veins, mouth trailing down to his base, then back up again—worshipful, unhurried, like he deserves to feel every second of it.
his legs tense.
he’s leaning against the counter now, breathing hard, muscles twitching with restraint as you devour him slowly, piece by piece.
when you take him back into your mouth—deeper this time—his hand tightens in your hair.
“holy shit,” he breathes. “you’re unreal.”
you glance up at him through your lashes, mouth full, cheeks hollowing as you suck harder, bobbing your head now in slow, deliberate strokes. jungkook watches, jaw slack, eyes locked on your lips wrapped around him like it’s the most sinful thing he’s ever seen.
and maybe it is.
because you look hungry. possessive. you swirl your tongue around the tip, then sink down again, a little further—letting him feel the heat, the slick drag, the suction. your hand pumps the rest of him in time with your movements, twisting just right at the top as you suck harder, deeper, sloppier.
jungkook groans—long and low—hips twitching. “fuck—i’m already getting hard again. feel that?”
you do. he’s swelling in your mouth, thickening, pulsing against your tongue as you take him deeper still. your throat tightens, your eyes sting, but you don’t stop. you push down until the tip brushes the back of your throat—and hold.
“oh my god,” he growls, breath catching in his chest. “you’re gonna make me cum again if you keep—”
you moan around him. deliberate. filthy.
his thighs shake. his grip in your hair tightens. “fuck, baby—”
you start moving faster now—bobbing your head, saliva dripping from your lips, smeared across your chin as you suck him wet and deep, hand stroking what you can’t take, twisting at the base. jungkook’s rock-hard now, full and flushed, precum smearing against your tongue.
and the sounds—the sounds coming from him. guttural. desperate.
“look at you,” jungkook pants. “fucking perfect. mouth made for this.”
you glance up again, and his gaze locks with yours. that’s what sends him reeling.
your mouth is full. lips are red and stretched and messy. your eyes are glassy, heat-blown, dark. and you’re looking up at him like you want him to fall apart again—and again—until there’s nothing left.
jungkook pulls you off suddenly—gasping, cock wet and glistening, resting heavy in your palm.
you blink up at him, confused. dazed.
his thumb drags across your lower lip, smearing spit and precum. “get back on the counter.”
your thighs clench.
he leans down—hard, breath hot—and whispers: “i’m gonna cum down your throat next time. but right now, i need to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.”
you barely have time to stand.
jungkook grabs you.
big hands on your waist, your thighs, your body already trembling—and he doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t say a word. just lifts you—effortless—and throws you back onto the counter with a thud.
your breath punches out of you as your ass hits cold marble, legs sprawling wide. and jungkook steps in between them like he owns you.
his hands grab under your knees, yanking you down so your ass slides to the edge, flush with his hips. the counter digs into your back, your thighs drape over his forearms.
“you want me to be gentle?” he growls.
you don’t even blink. “try it and i’ll bite.”
his eyes darken. you feel him fumble between your bodies. and just like that—he slams into you.
one brutal thrust—no teasing, no warning—just the full, thick length of him driving inside in a single, punishing stroke that splits you open and fills you deep. your gasp is sharp, high, wrecked—your fingers scrambling for the edge of the counter, grasping for anything solid as your whole body lurches forward with the force of it.
“fuck—” you choke, eyes fluttering. “jungkook—”
his only answer is another hard thrust—deeper, if that’s even possible—hips snapping forward, cock hitting your cervix with a pressure that makes your vision white out. he doesn’t pause. doesn’t let you adjust.
he just fucks you. over and over again—the slap of skin on skin echoing through the kitchen like the soundtrack to something unforgivable. your legs are high over his shoulders now, his grip brutal under your thighs as he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
“shit, you’re so fucking wet,” he snarls, hips slamming into yours. “still dripping from. from my mouth. from my fucking hand.”
you sob out a moan, brain fogged, chest arched. “kook—you’re. too—too deep—”
he leans in—chest crushing your knees to your body, body weight pinning you down to cold stone—and stares you down.
“say it again.”
“you’re too deep,” you gasp. “i can’t—fuck, i can’t think—”
“good.”
he fucks you harder. faster. the counter shakes violently beneath you now, the edge biting into your ass, your spine arched like a bow. the only thing anchoring you is his grip—one hand under your thigh, the other wrapping around your throat as he plunges into you again and again and again.
his cock slides in and out of your soaking heat, each thrust louder than the last, and his name spills from your mouth on a loop. you’re gone. overstimulated. eyes glassy, hands clawing at his shoulders now as he bends over you, sweat dripping from his hair onto your chest.
“look at me,” he pants.
you force your eyes open.
he slams in again, holding there, buried to the hilt.
“feel how deep i am?”
you nod. barely.
“get used to it.”
you moan, a choked cry, back arching violently beneath him. your whole body pulses around him, clenches tight.
he sees it, feels your walls contracting around his cock. and grins, “oh, you’re close again. you’re gonna come, aren’t you?”
you nod frantically, whimpering.
his hand slips between you—fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, tight circles—and your scream rips through the kitchen like a siren. you snap.
you come hard around him, legs spasming, body thrashing against the counter as the orgasm tears through you like an explosion. you don’t even hear yourself—not over the rush in your ears, the slap of his hips, the growl in his throat as he chases his own high.
“fuck, fuck—” jungkook snarls, cock twitching inside you as your walls spasm around him—sucking him dry. “i’m gonna—shit—gonna fill you up, baby, fuck—”
you cry out again, overstimulated and wrecked and aching.
jungkook breaks. spilling deep inside you with a broken groan, hips jerking, pulse pounding through his cock as he empties himself in thick, hot waves. his entire body tenses, still buried in you, breath caught in his throat like even he wasn’t ready for how hard it hit.
there’s a silence again. just breathing. heavy and shaking. he doesn’t pull out. not yet. still buried inside you, still pulsing with the last tremors of release, jungkook stays exactly where he is—his chest pressed to your back, his hand splayed over your stomach, breath steaming hot against your shoulder. there’s a heaviness to the silence, a weight, as if the air itself knows this moment has changed everything.
and then he moves again.
a slow roll of his hips.
you gasp, already oversensitive, body twitching as you grip the edge of the counter tighter. “kook—”
“i know,” he breathes, but he doesn’t stop. another slow thrust, just enough to feel you flutter around him. “fuck—i just—i can’t get enough of you.”
you bite your lip hard, whimpering when he moves again—slow, deep, purposeful now. less desperate. more controlled. a different kind of hunger.
he withdraws almost all the way, then pushes back in with a groan—hips flush to your ass, his fingers digging into your waist like he’s trying to imprint himself into your skin. each movement is smoother, almost languid, but no less intense.
“still so tight,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the way you take him. “fuck—you’re unreal.”
“you’re obsessed.”
“yeah,” he admits, voice low. “think i am.”
his hand trails up your spine, slow and reverent. the other settles on your hip, guiding your body back into him with each deep grind of his cock.
you’re soaked, swollen, overstimulated—and it feels insane. every inch of him inside you rubs just right now, and the pressure is building again, slow and molten and dangerous.
he leans down as if to kiss you—but he moves past your mouth, lips ghosting your ear.
“table,” he whispers.
you blink, dazed. “what?”
“i wanna fuck you on the table.”
your whole body shivers.
his hands move to your hips, lifting—guiding you away from the counter. your legs are shaky, but he’s there, steady, pulling you upright until your body is flush to his chest.
you’re still connected. still filled.
and when he reaches around to cup the back of your neck, tipping your head forward to meet his chest, you moan—soft, breathless. letting your arms wrap around his neck.
jungkook walks you forward, one slow step at a time, until your knees bump the side of the kitchen table. he doesn’t ask. he just turns you, then pushes—gently—until your hands are braced on the table’s edge.
he draws back again—only to slam back in, hard enough to rattle the legs beneath you.
you cry out. and now the rhythm builds again. fast. bruising.
your breasts bounce with each thrust, your body jerking forward only for him to pull you back, over and over like he’s using you to chase his own destruction. his palm slips from your throat to your chest, cupping you roughly, squeezing your firm breast as his strokes deepen.
he groans. “fuck, listen to you.”
you don’t even recognize your own voice when you moan. you’re soaked down your thighs, your skin sticky with sweat and sin, your hair a tangled mess, and he fucks you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
the sound is obscene. so is the way you clench every time he hits that spot—just right, just deep enough.
“come again,” he grits out, thrusts losing rhythm, sweat sliding down his temple.
you nod frantically, hands white-knuckled on the edge of the table. “so close—don’t stop, please—”
“say my name.”
“jungkook—fuck, jungkook—”
you come with a cry that shakes your whole body, collapsing onto the table as your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave. you’re shaking—legs trembling, body clenching around him in rhythmic spasms—and he groans so deep it sounds like pain.
he can’t hold back.
he slams into you once, twice more—then pulls out with a curse, wrapping his hand around his cock and finishing all over your lower back in hot, thick ropes. his breath is ragged, chest heaving behind you, his head falling forward as he rides the final waves of release.
the air is still thick with heat, but it no longer feels suffocating—more like a haze wrapping around you both. the fan clicks on somewhere in the background, like it finally gave up resisting. the cool breath of the air conditioner hums softly through the house, but neither of you moves to feel it.
jungkook’s breath is warm on your shoulder, heavy and ragged. he’s bent over you, arms braced on either side of your body, body trembling faintly from exertion and release. your cheek is pressed to the wood of the table, heart still pounding in your ears.
for a long time, neither of you speak.
then, slowly, you feel him shift—his fingers gentle on your waist now, as he steadies you. you exhale shakily, your body sore in ways that feel more satisfying than uncomfortable. he slides his hands up your arms, coaxing you to straighten.
“hey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and low.
you turn your head slightly, glancing back at him. his eyes are softer now, searching yours for something—guilt, maybe, or hesitation. he finds neither.
he leans in, brushes a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck. slower this time. not rushed. not hungry. just quiet.
you turn in his arms. your legs feel weak, but you wrap them around his hips anyway as he helps lift you off the table and carries you to the kitchen stool. he grabs a towel from the counter, wipes your back gently, then pulls one of your hands to his chest, “shit, listen.”
his heart is hammering against his ribs, “i went all out on you—you should thank me.”
you laugh—breathless, lightheaded. “mhm, thank you.” you tease.
he brushes a strand of damp hair behind your ear. his fingertips linger at your jaw. he studies your face. something cracks a little in his expression—uncertainty flashing behind his eyes. “i’m so dead.”
you still, eyebrows curling on your forehead, “we just had sex on the kitchen table… and you’re thinking about my brother.” you say, giving him a look.
“mhm, aren’t i sweet?” he says with a smirk, squinting, leaning forward just enough to plant a quick peck on your lips. when jungkook leans back again, he just looks at you. his eyes darting back and forth yours before he breathes in. then breathes out. he grabs ahold of your hand resting on his chest, and kisses the inside of your palm. “this was fun.”
you laugh, leaning back a bit to get a better look at him, “fun?”
“yeah,” he lets your hand drop, then moves his fingers to trace along your thigh, looking down at you as he traces his hands down to your knee. he cups it, giving it a quick shake before backing up. “you sort of got a two for one deal—aircon and a quicky.”
“don’t think that qualifies as a quicky.”
he hums out a laugh, “maybe not.”
a silence falls again. even though you’re both completely naked, it doesn’t seem to be an object of concern. it kinda just is that way, now. jungkook is still standing before you, only a few more steps back now—when his eyes dart down to his feet. you can tell he wants to speak, but that he somehow can’t manage. the calm confidence wearing off. so you break the silence for him.
“guessing it’ll be kinda awkward from now on.”
he keeps looking down at his feet. then, underneath his breath—he finally speaks.
“doesn’t have to.”
you don’t know how it won’t be. you’ve known each other for years. this is completely forbidden and taboo territory. which you’ve breached. broken. torn apart. now all your interactions will be stripped of innocence. your mouth hangs open as you’re about to answer, “it won’t be the same, though.”
“i don’t know,” he starts. still looking down at his feet. “i kinda like this new part.” his eyes dart up, meeting your gaze. they glisten. dark and wet—a pair of bunny-like eyes. and you drown in them. that’s before his words finally sink in. new part?
“what do you mean?” you answer, slightly confused.
“well—you said not to worry about your brother.”
your face goes soft as you start realizing where he’s going. you press your lips together, trying not to finish his sentence. and you succeed.
“what if we don’t…” he starts. his eyes beaming with anticipation. a complete different boy then the one who mercilessly broke you open just a few minutes ago.
“and just—see each other like this?”
