ONE SHOT | jjk
pairing: idol!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader
genre: smut, pwp
word count: 6.2k
summary: when jungkook comes home after a long day at work and, all horny and needy, finds you gaming, you gain something else other than a win at the game.
warnings: gamer!jungkook setting, jungkook wears glasses for a lil bit bc that live? yeah haven’t stopped thinking about that since, clit rubbing, brief female masturbation, nipple play, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, raw n rough sex, edging, the blur between love making and fucking, codependency, lack of self-love, confidence issues, loneliness, dom/sub dynamic, depressing view on life, jungkook has a degrading tone but he means well, praise kink!, jungkook being the best bf ever.
note: hello my babies, i missed u so much. i’m finally back with something. i hope u like it as much as i do. i had this in the drafts for a month and some bc all i do these days is play fortnite after work, but getting my period this week made me finish this. it’s a bit emotional and depressing, i hope you don’t mind. i love you all so much, happy reading. luna kisses u mwah. <3
“What game is that?”
His voice is a soft whirl in a steady chaos of gunshots. You heard him, but you focus so intensely on ridding the enemy player jumping up and down in an attempt to avoid your aim that you can’t reply to him. Not right now.
Your muscles tense up even more. The surrounding darkness of the room clings to the beads of perspiration of your skin as this guy, the very last one in the game of Blitz Royale, does simply everything to just piss you off. He pushes you, getting close enough to eliminate you with one shot to the head, but you’re quick enough to jump over him. And with one final reload of your pump, you do the thing he failed to do.
The headshot is so satisfying that you leap in the gaming chair, the fast beating of your heart mimicking the rhythm of the song of the battle.
Your character gains pellucid, pearl-purply wings as the other guy crumbles to debris, his loot falling over him like raindrops. You squeal, quick to press on the emote wheel and celebrate your hard-earned win with your boyfriend’s friend’s dance.
Mona Lisa sounds through the room, and in Jungkook’s chair—you begin to dance along.
He chuckles in pride, a fond noise you know well that intertwines with the lyrics flowing out of your lips. With just one hand, he swivels the chair around so you can face him, and the sudden dazzling look upon the glossy surface of his glasses-covered eyes steals the triumph thrumming over your body. That pride, that very thing you’re not used to seeing in your closest for your sake, that will always be something that latches onto your heart and dwells there for longer than is normal. No one has ever celebrated your wins, no one has ever acknowledged them, let alone seen them. But Jungkook is there. He always is.
He sees. He acknowledges. He praises.
Even if you use his coworker’s emote.
Jungkook leans down, one arm still over the top of the back of the chair, and he smiles down at you. No teeth, only that heart-stopping dimple upon his soft cheek, those tender lips stretching in absolute fondness. His other hand blindly, yet intimately finds yours in the dark, and it is at this moment that you acknowledge your win for yourself.
Because that is as important.
“I won.”
Jungkook nods, and you swear you can see the same kaleidoscope of colors of the game’s graphics reflecting off the screen and sinking into his cheeks, making a home there.
“Geureochi,” he whispers, firmly. That’s right. An effortless word that revs up your body for him, for his use. And what’s more, he peels the clear-rimmed glasses off of his face and folds them, putting them in his pocket. A different kind of heat begins to pool in your lower parts, and your thighs naturally part. Aware of the movement, Jungkook pries your controller away from your grip, not knowing he presses on ‘Play Again’, cutting off Mona Lisa and cutting to the loading screen of Cat Holloway being a diva. He sets the controller on the table and lifts you up like a baby, each hand beneath your armpit, and pulls you into a tight hug. “Good girl.”
Uh-oh.
Your panties dampen beneath the oversized sweats of his that you’re wearing. And Jungkook sets off the dam when he, in search of the butterflies he had awoken, begins to swarm his hands all over your body and put his face in your neck.
Your spine under his shirt, the bare sides of your tits, following the lines of your waist, his thumbs drifting down your stomach, tickling it before making their way down to your sweats. His sweats. All while his lips ambush the sweetest spots of your neck, making your knees wobble.
And his energy, his words of praise, his sudden need of touch, it all clicks into place in your head.
He wants to fuck.
He has been home for an hour. He worked all day in that fuckass Hybe building that steals him from you and will steal him from you for months this year. He got home to find you in his gaming chair playing The Sims, kissed you cutely on the mouth, asked you if you made a Sims version of him, and hit the shower. Then you heard the clacking of pans and the sizzling of oil and onions before it faded into the loud roars of gunshots as you switched to your most beloved shooting game.
And now he’s here, needy for intimacy. And your clit thrums so vibrantly that you shimmy out of his sweats because it is irresistible, the moment of his weakness.
But the bus of the game honks, the muted game sounds alert you, and it’s you who chuckles now. You pull his face out of your neck and shoot a compulsive glance at his reddened, swollen lips that makes your pussy cry out before you dig your eyes into his.
“You pressed play again, Oppa,” you say, playfulness lacing your tone, and you stifle your laughter at the horror filling his expression as you step out of the sweats and sit down in his gaming chair in just your granny tiger-printed cotton panties and his Stüssy shirt. Because as much as it is irresistible to give in, it is even more satisfying to… not.
And besides, it is his fault for having such a good PC that loads the game swiftly.
You grab the controller just as the bus throws you out at the end of the map. And just as you scooch forward to be closer to be monitor, Jungkook scooches you back just as fast, triggering your loud giggles. You expect him to lift you and flip you over his shoulder, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t.
He lifts you by grabbing the material of your shirt in his fist and takes your place in the chair. Manspreads, grabs your hips and sits you down on his hardened dick. You and him let out a disgruntled noise at the first contact and he has to pin you in place when you begin moving to make yourself comfortable on his lap. For a moment, you forget that you’re even supposed to be playing the game as you’re waiting for his hands to do something, anything, but no.
He just rests them on each of your thighs.
“Play the game,” he whispers into your ear, setting off a thick cluster of goosebumps to spread down your bare skin. Your panties stick to your pussy, your breath hitches in your throat, and the pink controller nearly slides off your hands from how sweaty they become. “You’re gonna get killed, and you won’t feel so good about yourself once I’m done with you.”
Oh.
You swallow thickly. Any smart remarks or sly intentions leave your premises as your mind goes blank and you just nod, dumbly and submissively. You blush, the heat fluid in your body, reaching your every nerve ending, and like the dom Jungkook is, your meek surrender causes his cock to twitch beneath your bum.
A circle of wetness forms in the center of your panties.
Your HP goes down as someone begins to shoot at you. You stir awake from the stupor of his arousal and dominance, getting to work. You turn around, glad for the automatic gun in your loot because you quickly switch to it, turn around and begin to go ham on the guy wearing a banana skin. Within a moment, he crumbles, the machine above him taking him back to the lobby, and you let out a satisfied breath, your heart pounding in your chest. Even your Sabrina Carpenter skin in her pink outfit and sparkly high-heeled boots seems to relax on her own.
Behind you, Jungkook hums in approval. And as you run to a blue chest to open it, his hand sneakily pulls panties to the side before returning back to your thigh.
Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be.
You pick up a mythic SMG, your favorite drum gun, and knowing it’s the one weapon that wins you every game, you smirk to yourself, not paying mind to your nerves that might make your aim a little wonky if anyone comes your way.
And one does. Just as you slide and run across the area of the map, you see a pair shooting at each other. You eliminate the first guy with a dazzling headshot that instantly makes you grin and Jungkook squeezes the flesh of your thigh, making you flex your tummy muscles, before he moves his fingers to your pussy. You suck in a sharp breath, your aim pointed and unmoving at the other guy who now turns to look at you, and Jungkook only brushes his digits up and down, collecting your essence, fondling her.
And it is when you kill the guy with just a few shots to the chest that Jungkook rewards you.
He places two of his fingers, the middle and the ring, against your clit and begins slow, torturous circles, digging his nose into your neck.
“Good,” he praises, breathily, and hums when you roll your body in reaction to the pleasure he gives you. “That’s three kills already. You’re doing so good.”
You whimper, and Jungkook latches his lips onto the skin of your neck, sucking on it, his tongue lapping over it. Your hips begin its alluring dance that you know he likes, moving up and down in the rhythm of a sea wave, and he matches the speed and the depth of his circles and his breath with it, putting more pressure onto your clit until you feel your orgasm beckoning you close.
An ache for his fingers to dip inside grasps you. And before your mind comprehends what it’s doing, you wrap your fist around his forearm, pushing him down.
But it was a misstep. Jungkook withdraws your pleasure, enlarging your ache.
“There’s one over there. Up on the roof.”
You groan softly, but the noise tightly vibrates with the great amount of need you’re experiencing. And because he seems to feel bad for you, he begins to plant deep, hard kisses over your jawline, the skin beneath it, before he returns to your cheek and just breathes rapidly against you. For mental support, perhaps, you don’t really know, but it helps. And it helps when his hands start to roam all over your body, going as far as tugging his shirt up to your neck and even pulling down your panties entirely.
And he didn’t realize it was a huge distraction for you.
The guy on the roof shoots at you while you do nothing, focusing on the pleasurable heaviness of Jungkook’s touch, laying yourself down in the river of the heartfelt touches you’re receiving. And noting all of this, your dom quickly rips the controller from your grip and…
Destroys the guy. Eliminates him with just one shot to the head.
Despite the fact he’s never played this game before, doesn’t even know the name of it.
“Oh, Jungkookie,” you let out, your hole clenching, your arousal dripping vividly from your tone. Your essence follows suit, making a mess on his lap. You feel hot all over, your cheeks on fire, and he makes it way worse when he inhales, intensely, against you, returns the controller and…
“What do you say?”
His role is on full show, dripping as ardently as your arousal caused from it. You leak so much of your essence that it slightly troubles you, but your brain is too numb to do anything about it. Yet it is soberly aware of what he wants you to say.
That gentle power of his, coursing in you like the dew of flowers.
“Thank you, Oppa,” you utter, confidently, straining your ear for that noise of approval that invariably rewards you, fills you with life, with everything positive and colorfully poetic that exists within this dark world.
And he doesn’t disappoint you. Never does.
That noise is coaxed out of him as if by the invisible pink string that connects you to him, strengthening it as it travels to your ear, then down your body. He rubs your forearms before he goes underneath them, squeezing your waist, inhaling against you, then breathing out—and having trouble doing so.
“And Oppa is sorry for distracting you,” he says, ruining you, and you clench so much that you can’t take it anymore. “Win this game and you get to come so ha—”
His romantic words are cut short when the game’s storm, as pink as the string of your relationship, shrouds you in its veil, and you die on the spot. All because you had three HP left, no shield, and no healing items to take.
There is a moment of silence before you break it with a loud swear that is soon influenced by the bubbling laughter rising in your chest. You laugh so hard that you shake, palming your face, and you laugh harder when Jungkook joins, wrapping his arms around you and pulling your hands away from your features.
“No, you did so good,” he promises, his words coated with that wonderful, deep laughter, and he seals his words with tender kisses on your cheeks, your nose, until he finds your mouth.
He tries to playfully silence you, but it doesn’t work. Your laughter dips into his mouth, flowing down his throat, and the kiss is messy, wet and absolutely far from how a kiss should look like, which ultimately adds to the laughter.
“I failed and it’s your fault,” you say, all teary-eyed and sputtering in giggles. You look over to the number on the screen and gasp. “I was third! I was fucking third and I died in the storm.”
Jungkook brushes his fingers through your hair, no longer laughing. His sudden seriousness closes over your high spirits and you grow quiet, wondering if you said or did something wrong.
But you didn’t. You could never in his presence.
“In my eyes you won,” he affirms, firmly, shooting flames out of his black irises into yours, meaning his statement. Your stomach does a somersault—prematurely because he adds: “And because of that, I’m gonna eat you out. Because you deserve it.”
Your body has no time to respond to his filthy, yet piquant words, for he lifts you up and sits you on top of his gaming desk without moving himself. Spreads your legs as much as he can; holds them in place. Glances at you shortly with lidded eyes before he dips down, tongue first, to your exposed, bedewed pussy.
And when the first contact comes, you mewl so loudly and throw your head back, touching the number of your pretend-win. And it’s him, who responds. Who responds with a knowing, deep hum as he sucks on your clit briefly before he comes up for air, sticks out his tongue and laps at that swollen pearl in circles while his eyes dig into yours. And it’s him, who’s flushed and breathing heavily, his lungs not handling the amount of sudden pleasure that not only you are receiving, but so is he. The painful stretch of your thighs, held down by his strong hands, the enticing look of his eyes, shrouded by the wavy softness of his hair, as he consumes your reactions—every ragged gasp of breath, every moan, every twist of your features, it all arouses you so much that you begin to push him away because your orgasm catches up onto you. The pressure inches closer and closer, the rope tightening, and you don’t want to come yet. Jungkook flicks his tongue from side to side as you fist his hair, a film of sweat portraying his good work decorating alluringly his forehead, and you start shaking, crumbling—
“Jungkook,” you utter with a loud moan, your hips rolling into his mouth, so close, so fucking close. “I’m gonna come, please, stop.”
But he shakes his head, makes a disapproving sound, and that is your undoing. You come so hard that you nearly slide off the table, but Jungkook holds you in place, his tongue still working against your clit, and he finishes your orgasm by enveloping his lips around it, sucking it so hard that another one rolls in. All while he whimpers, watches you and swallows everything you give him.
When he withdraws, your mind is spinning, your sight swimming. Lightness clings to you, and you feel as though you’re floating, that dopamine signed with his name filling your body so refreshingly. Through your own lidded eyes, you can see his wet chin and mouth dripping with your dew, which trickles down your stomach as he gets up from the gaming chair. Your gaze descends to his groin, and the sight of the large, wet tent in his gray sweatpants propels your hand to palm your pussy, your fingers aching to enter your hole.
And you do.
“You’re so hot,” you whisper, still high, still dizzy, your fingers pumping in and out of your entrance, coming out wetter and wetter as Jungkook licks his lips at your statement, stopping in his tracks. The tip of his tongue that gave you so much pleasure plays with his lip ring, and when his eyes plunge down to your hand playing with his pussy, he bites down into the pillow of his bottom lip.
And you go crazy. Crazy with the need to do the same. Crazy with the need to have him inside you.
“You’re such a good girl,” he praises, one fist leaning against the table next to you, the other wiping his chin as he leans over you. He sticks his fingers into his mouth, humming and humming again when you moan in response, your walls twitching around your fingers. “Do your fingers feel good, my love?”
Your mouth cracks into a humorless laugh. Your fingers feel like nothing, but the sensation of being full keeps you somehow sane at this moment. And for that reason, you shake your head, blinking slowly. Jungkook draws a breath at the image of your long eyelashes fluttering like that.
His weakness. Your own personal gun. One that got you in his bed the first time before you became so domestic and began dating.
But he furrows his brows at your answer. A man will never understand the concept of your own fingers feeling like nothing and his like everything. Blame the false image of pornography. And fuck it, fuck it hard.
“Will mine feel better?” he asks, his tone so gentle that you might cry from it alone, and your mouthends twitch in a genuine smile. You nod your head, pulling out your fingers, finding them wet and wrinkly as if they were underwater. Jungkook sees them, too, and his bottom lip is red from how much he bites down into it.
Imagining the pain, you want to soothe it. Wrapping your hand around the back of his neck, you begin to pull him toward your hungry lips, but first he wets his fingers, and accepting your yearning, he leans down to kiss you at the same time his two fingers enter you. And the kiss is too soft, too soft for you to be moaning into his mouth like that, too soft for you to be searching for his tongue with yours. Too soft for you to be fucking his fingers like that, rolling your hips, and none of you can handle it.
Jungkook pulls away with a smack.
“You just want to feel full, don’t you?” he murmurs against your mouth, nibbling at your own bottom lip as he busies his hands with his sweatpants. “I’ll give you something better, don’t you worry. Oppa knows what to do.”
And then his cock is freed from the restraints of his clothes, and his mouth is back on yours. And you can’t help but chase his lip ring, licking it over and sucking it as he groans, stroking his cock before he aligns it with your entrance. And knowing he’s about to give you what you desire, he takes over. Devours your mouth, tongue moving against yours as he pushes in. Moans when you let out that little gasp you do every time he connects his body with yours in this way.
Although this time, he’s hastier than ever before.
Jungkook doesn’t give you much time to get used to the stretch. And he’s hard, solid hard. The perception of it is new as you’ve always ever felt him grow inside you, new and intoxicating, scrambling your psyché to a drooling mess. And you can’t take your eyes off of him as he begins to move. Not going little by little, but giving you more inches until you feel him in your throat.
One that he’s magnetically pulled to.
His hand goes around it as he bottoms out, rolling his eyes back momentarily before he leans down to give you an open-mouthed kiss. And he squeezes at the first hard thrust, stopping before he does it again.
You can’t take a breath.
“How does that feel, baby, hm?”
You can’t speak.
“You feel how hard you made me?”
You can’t blink. You can only watch him dive himself into the delirium of your shared space of pleasure while the noises of your flowing juices fill each corner, dragging him down deeper and deeper. He gives you a merciful second, which gets you thinking about how you got here in the first place. by doing something he’s always loved and nearly winning—playing a shooting game and being really fucking good at it, enough to make him hot, desperate and entirely aroused. The pride you felt originally heightens, reaching your every nerve ending, giving you the kind of confidence that you only gain in this poetic moment of life.
During playful sex with him.
The second dwindles away. Jungkook pulls away before he fucks hard into you, just once. His eyes are still drunk with pride, with the fragrance of your essence, and he is such an image of beauty and goodness that your eyes well up with tears. That you push his head down to yours and consume his lips, his breath, his low moans, that you…
“Take me to bed.”
That you want to ride the fuck out of him.
And he listens, immediately. While still sunk inside your heat, he lifts you and, holding you by your bum, he makes his way out of his gaming room through the dark. And you secretly let him know of your plan by moving your hips in circles just at the tip.
“Oh fuck, baby, yeah.”
His words echo lowly in the depth of the darkness of his house, ricocheting off the walls that only ever heard your moans and your loud curses whenever you lost at the shooting game. His breathing quickens, and you tune in your ear so intensely that you nearly feel yourself fading into him, becoming one with his pleasure, which becomes, at once, your very own.
Your back hits the softness of his sheets, but your pussy suddenly feels terribly, devastatingly empty. He stands at the foot of the bed, staring, his pointed cock glistening and drooling in the low, orange lighting of his bedroom. His fingers are undoing the buttons of the navy shirt you just washed and ironed a week ago. With each passing second he exposes more and more of his skin for you until your body is fluttering with need, and he watches it all. And as if he couldn’t help himself after he takes it off and lets you see his glorious, toned, big, tattooed chest, as if he laments taking so long to undo the buttons and misses touching you, he bends down and his now free palm finds your tummy, feeling the valley of your lower pouch up to your ribs until he winds up at the hem of his shirt. And he fists it.
“Sit up.”
And you do, willingly.
He takes it off of you so rapidly as if he were angry you were wearing it at all, hiding your body from him. Or angry at himself that he hasn’t done it sooner. He throws it off the bed, planting his palm to your sternum and pinning you back down to the mattress. Then, his hand roams to the left, wrapping around your tit before focusing on your nipple.
Your own weakness.
You mewl loudly, your legs closing, clit pounding, an action he disapproves of. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head briefly, his hand roaming to the other one, and you would know to open them right away, but it seems he wants to embody his role entirely—
“Open them for Oppa, come on. I know it feels good, just take it.”
The lower pressure becomes unbearable at his words, and to get some kind of relief you squeeze your thighs before you open them for him. With his mouth parted, he watches you do so, his hands, suddenly, not leading them, but following them, following their movement of glorification for his leadership, and then he nods. Smirks. Bites his lip. Praises you for listening so well—so good for Oppa—and you’re so wet that you can feel it. And then, he follows the lines of your waist up to your tits, squeezing their round shape, jiggling them from side to side, before they lift and his thumbs and forefingers pinch your nipples.
Your chest twitches and arches into those soul-stirring electric shocks of the rhapsody in his touch, breathing uncontrollably as he doesn’t stop there but begins to flick at your buds over and over again until you squirm so hard and moan so loud that he, himself, can’t take it anymore.
Jungkook kneels at either side of you, seizes your mouth in a kiss that only deepens the praise he gave you scarcely a moment ago. Hungrily, he eats your mouth, tongues intertwining, before he swiftly moves over to your neck, staining you—staining you with your win, with his love, with his pride, his teeth scraping over that tender skin. And you’re grinding against his hardened dick, which slips and slides over your wet pussy, hot, needy and thumping. You’re whining into his ear, and he just won’t stop. Won’t stop. Won’t stop—
“Please, I wanna ride you,” you whimper, desperate, bubbling, floating in your senses, within this fever that won’t break.
His hot breath fans over your now reddened throat. “But you did all the work already,” he says, his tone falsely sing-song, pitched, and out of the norms of context absolutely degrading. “You deserve to get fucked so hard that you lose your mind after winning like that, and that’s what I’m gonna do to you. Is that what you want?”
He lifts his head, his breath, lips, teeth now closing over your jawline, waiting for your response, for your consent because that’s the type of man he is, that’s the type of man that caught your interest and, in the long run, your heart. One in a million, one in a million years.
You run your fingers through those wavy tufts of hair of his, a small tendril of tender solemnity coursing through your soul as you bore your eyes into his, narrowed in arousal but still big, still round. And all you can think about is how much you love him when once there’s been a time you didn’t love at all, a period of hateful loneliness towards your inner and the external world, of difficult circumstances that led you to meet him. In a bar full of unhappy individuals seeking a quick fix over one shot of Tullamore Dew.
And now he’s here, on top of you, asking for your consent—in a year-long relationship.
You want more than to get fucked hard by him, or to ride him to oblivion. You want to live inside his skin, see the world through his eyes, reach the same kind of healing that he did after meeting you. Be so intertwined with him that you never feel the emptiness, the loss that you do whenever you’re away from each other.
Fullfilment; fullness.
You want strength. The simplest of needs. And for him to not go on tour soon.
“I want you inside me,” you breathe out, playing with the soft hair on the back of his neck. At your words, he perks up, lifting himself to his elbow while his other hand grabs your face to kiss you, to encourage you, perhaps, to keep going. “I want you to fuck me like you want, Oppa.”
He hums, kissing you just once again. “Like you what?”
“Want,” you repeat softly onto his lips. Feel him shake his head and laugh in a way that alerts you, that you don’t really like.
“No.”
You open your eyes, your heart kicking against your chest violently. Jungkook lifts himself a little higher, kneeling before you. Spits on his hand, spreads his saliva on his tip without ripping his darkened gaze away from you. Ropes of nervousness curl and tangle in your stomach, and you need something, anything to hold onto for support.
Your hand wraps around his forearm by your side.
“This isn’t about me,” Jungkook says, at last, loosening the ropes in your tummy a bit, and you bite your lip to distract your mind from your nerves. “This is about you. I’m not gonna fuck you like I want. I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve. Say it back to me.”
Your mouth parts, foreign feelings of gratification and being spoiled flooding you like a spring storm. Jungkook dips his cock to your entrance, and you’re already feeling so full that your eyes do water with emotion after all. You love him so much, so terribly much. And you’re not repeating the words to him because he wants to hear them—you’re repeating them for yourself. Because he loves you back, because he cherishes you, and because he puts you above himself.
You’re loved; you’re lovable.
The pride from earlier enfolds around your heart, and it shrouds you in the sense that you’ll never be lonely again. His love will be with you, and so will your own for yourself—because he has shown you that you’re capable of being loved.
There’s so much to love about yourself; he is the evidence of that.
“I want you to fuck me like I deserve.”
And the word that placed you in this situation streams out of his mouth again, bathing you in a golden glow. “Geureochi.”
That’s right.
When he enters you, you believe the words you have voiced. When you gasp that little noise, when your gummy walls welcome him in and squeeze around him and that feeling of him explodes in your nerve endings, your confidence sprinkles down on you. And your arousal rises to a whole different dimension.
Jungkook feels it. He sees it because he can’t take his eyes off of you, because he can’t keep his hands off of you, off your neck. Wraps his hand around it, allows you to feel his dominance that is for you, that is for your good, allows you to feel that little pressure that makes you go crazy.
And you do.
He sets a quick pace, drilling in and out of you, while his stomach muscles flex and slowly become coated with his sweat. Your body moves rigorously in tandem with his as you’re taking it, your tits bouncing, but he doesn’t look at them, no. His eyes never leave yours as if he could see the blatant change happening on the inside of you. And when he smirks, your orgasm catches up to you, making you nearly fall over the edge, but he stops.
He stops.
“You’re so fucking pretty.”
You whine, and loudly so. All this edging, and you’re still alive? It’s a wonder, one you can’t quite understand. You wiggle your hips, claw at his bicep, but his smirk only deepens. He moves his hand up your throat slightly until he’s just below your chin and jawline and he parts your mouth open with his thumb, sticking it in.
“I know you want to come,” he mutters, pushing his own hips towards yours but atrociously, atrociously slowly. “You do, don’t you?” he asks, that degrading tone appearing again, scrambling your brain. He pulls back and thrusts again, installing this pace, and your eyes roll back. “Suck on it, baby. Focus on me.”
Your lips wrap around his thumb, your senses returning, and you swirl your tongue around it, finding it incredibly grounding. Especially to hear him take a sharp inhale of breath soon after, which he lets out with a deep growl. The half moon’s twinkling light spills in from the window, the spring air, the song of night birds breezing in so mercifully and serenely that your eyelids get heavier. And the poetry of it unravels.
Jungkook withdraws. Swivels you to your tummy with one diligent motion. Places a pillow underneath. Arches you back to him until you can see him, hand back on your throat, thumb overpassing each slope to find your mouth. And as he slips it back in, the thumb and his cock simultaneously, he gently plants a kiss on your forehead.
Real life ends here.
He pounds into you so hard from behind like this that your eyes go cross, getting lost in the way his features twist, his brows draw in, his teeth sink into his swollen bottom lip. Your pleasure from those unsparing backshots extend beyond the borders of it, devouring you whole until you’re nothing but.
And he doesn’t stop. Not anymore.
The stretch of you being folded backwards is so uncomfortable that it only adds to the pleasure. His mound hits your bum mercilessly, his drilling is so brutal that you can’t take any breath in and you only let out little hyperventilating, absolutely erotic, pitched whines and moans. He’s so deep that it hurts, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix every time, and he seems to know because his other hand tugs your chest higher and begins to fondle your tit.
You make a puddle on the pillow and the mattress, and Jungkook places his lips against your ear.
“You feel so good,” he whimpers, groans, squeezes your nipple to make you scream out. Your orgasm is so close, so fucking close. “So warm, so wet, so pretty.” You’re about to explode, you’re aware of it, and he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop. He returns his head to look down at you and softens his eyes while gazing into yours. “You like that I can fold you like this, don’t you?”
And just as words hit your senses, your orgasm crashes down upon you. You squeeze him in, your body uncontrollably twitching and writhing in his hold, but he’s got you. He holds you through it all, whispering his little that’s it’s and so good’s while you’re floating upon a rosy cloud perfumed by his pheromones, his dominant energy and his cock twitching inside of you until he spills his love into your heat. Colors of pastel hues fill your vision, stars dotting it, probably flung out of his tender eyes. And he stays like this, having let you plop down to the mattress, whilst he softens inside you—a process that helps you come down from the most intense orgasm of your life.
Lightness descends upon you. You might as well still be floating, and you are. Within your win, your pride, your self-love. And Jungkook sinks it in by scattering tiny kisses over the side plane of your face.
“You’re the best girl in this whole entire world,” he says, panting, and he parts, pulling himself out. You prepare yourself for the sensation of the great loss, but… it never comes.
His words, the multitude of them passing through the entire period of your wonderful shared sex, replace his intimate proximity. He lays down next to you, brushing your hair away from your back, and begins to draw shapes in his Jungkookie way. Over your shoulder blades, then there in the middle of them. Hearts, stars, circles. Constellations of his very own heaven, which he created for you to dwell in.
To live in. As a whole person.
The perception of it completes your coming down process. You turn over to your side to face him and realize that you’re looking at the tepid spring sun after a long season of winter. He blares in a soft kind of gold, covered in sweat and high spirits, and you erupt in your love for him, scooching closer to place your head on his shoulder. And before you can tell him how much you love him and how much he’s helped you beat your lack of independence, he speaks first.
“Can we play that game together? What was it called?”
You smile to yourself. You’ll tell him after you win a proper Fortnite battle as a duo, and you mustn’t forget to tell him to buy you matching skins for you both, so you can play for as long as possible until he has to leave.
Then you’ll play as him. Just like you did when you made a Sims version of him.
As whole.
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