#anon.eml

Still, you’d thought your beloved boyfriend would have some sort of reaction.  Maybe a quirk of his perfectly groomed brows, a certain tightness belying his displeasure in the softly peaked bow of his mouth.  You’d spied neither after extracting yourself from the hug and waving goodbye.  Jungkook had been sunshine and sweetness, opening your door for you and stamping a kiss to your cheek.  

That night, he’d loved you how he always had, with you crying his name and making a mess of his sheets.

Another time, you’d been at a work function.  One of those ridiculous galas you loved, full of women in their highest heels and men in their swankiest watches.  (You’d worn Aquazzura that night, Jungkook with an Audemars Piguet loose around his wrist.)  

He’d stuck close to your side, far more interested in the way your dress hugged your figure, cut intimidatingly high over your thigh and revealed the swell of your ass at juuuust the right angle.  Yejin had been the only one to tear him away, insisting on shots that you knew she couldn’t handle.  Anything went if free booze was involved.

Thirty minutes later - give or take, since you hadn’t had a watch of your own on - your boyfriend had returned, flushed and adorable.  There’d been a garden of colour creeping over the expanse of his chest, peeking around the collar of his shirt and disappearing into his neatly tousled strands.  He’d giggled his way back to you, somehow completely oblivious to the man that’d found you at your table and settled himself into the spot labelled Jeon Jungkook.

The imposter had been affronted, gaze narrowed at the younger man who was a little too loose, a little too smiley.  Wholly out of place at an event like this, where people spent too much time up their own asses, noses held aloft and business cards exchanged.  

(One of the reasons you loved Jungkook so much.  He was a breath of fresh air in a world you thrived in - found humour in, at the very least - carrying you high above the clouds with the sound of his laughter.)

“Hi, baby.”  Your darling boy smothered you in kisses, traced them up and over the exposed expanse of your shoulder, nosing against your skin, utterly unbothered by the man shooting him daggers, wishing him ill from the spot he’d wrongly claimed.  

Of course, he’d thought Jungkook was making a point - claiming what was his - but that was so far from the truth you’d almost laughed when he’d spoken, voice carrying above the slightly laboured breaths of your lover.  “I guess that’s my cue to leave, huh?”

You’d smiled, nodded with a hand threaded into cornsilk curling over Jungkook’s nape.  “Looks like it.”

(Then your idiot love - your big-hearted moron, your doe-eyed baby - had come up for air, cheek resting in the palm of his hand.  “Where’s your friend?”  He’d asked, eyes so wide you couldn’t doubt the sincerity of his question.)

Such was the kind of person Jungkook was, with an unwavering belief in the goodness of others, a silver thread outlining everyone’s silhouette.  You sometimes wondered what it would take to drive him to any sort of displeasure, any sort of emotion beyond quiet melancholy (seldom seen but heavily felt, when the rare occasions rose) or easygoing amicability (his default setting).  Not that you’d ever push to see that, of course.

You were happy.  Hopelessly in love.  You wouldn’t have traded him for the world - couldn’t even fathom doing anything to hurt him.  

And yet, you discover albeit by accident - it’s really not that hard.  All it takes is a pretty girl.

“This looks incredible,”  she says, standing close, long dark hair falling in a fluid curtain down the line of her back.  It’s the loveliest shade, cool-toned beneath the boutique lights, and reflects colour like a waterfall.  You’d complimented her on it when you’d stepped into the fitting area, a handful of hangers set across the rolling rack.

Fingers smooth over embroidery, revelling in the feeling of it over your skin.  It’s a beautiful thing, black tulle that hangs to your fingertips.  Not Jungkook’s preferred style - he much prefers harnesses and so many straps it might as well be a cat’s cradle - but you think he loves it nonetheless. 

(You’d confirm, but he’s been stoically silent, seated in the plush chair tucked beside the privacy partition, normally soft gaze hard and trained on his phone.  He doesn’t seem very much in the mood to talk, hardly reacting with each outfit change.  A nod here, a smile there.  Not even the most scandalous of the options - a black corset decorated in Leavers lace - had elicited his usual enthusiasm.)  

“You think so?”  You’re not insecure about your body - know what it looks best in, which assets to play up.  Still, it’s nice to hear from someone other than your doting boyfriend, the people caught in your orbit.  

The sales associate nods, beams at you in the multiple mirrors.  A hand of her own drifts over the thin strap of the slip - an innocent gesture that dislodges wayward strands of hair from beneath.  “Of course— and I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to sell it.” 

You nod, satisfied.  Even if Jungkook doesn’t seem ecstatic, your own joy makes up for it, buyer’s delight spilling over.  “I’ll take the satin robe, the blush silk set, and this in the violet.”  

“Great choices,”  she hums, pulling back the curtain to the adjoining change room to allow you privacy.  Silence follows as you slip the delicate number off, returning it to its hanger.  You don’t expect when the brunette continues speaking - presumably to your surprisingly surly boyfriend.  “Don’t you agree?” 

“Yep.”  He’s never been a man of few words, usually so full of excitement that he rambles when he doesn’t mean to.  

It’s a dead giveaway - a confirmation that something’s wrong.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have time to broach the subject, your purchases already paid for and a firm hand on the small of your back the moment you’ve stepped out of the dressing stall.  “Jungkookie?”  You mean it quietly, just for the two of you, but falter when he slots his fingers between yours and all but tugs you out of the boutique.  You hardly even have a chance to toss the helpful girl an apologetic smile, imposing glass swinging shut behind you.

“Men—men are fine.  I don’t have to worry about them.”  There’s a confidence you’re so proud to see, turning his words as solid as the weight that rests against your hip, sears burning heat into your bared skin.  “No other man is going to love you better than me.  But women?”  A shudder runs the length of his imposing frame, tugs his shoulders up to his ears and tingles the small of his back.  “Women are scary.”  (It’s a sentiment he’s echoed in the past.  In particular, months ago when you’d insisted he dive into the dating scene.)

Hands thread through his too-soft strands, twirl the ends around your fingers as he speaks, nearly muffled into the crook of your shoulder.  He’s being so tender, giving you all the love he has to offer as he writes his insecurities into your skin, offers them with the wet of his tongue.

“A woman might sweep you off your feet and steal you away.”

You laugh then - sound snapping past your teeth before you can tuck it away.  It filters loudly into the baies scented candle you’d lit when you’d gotten into his apartment.  

Jungkook whines in response - a terribly endearing sound that makes you roll your eyes but only with affection (always with that) - and buries his face into your tits, sucking your nipple into his mouth with complete disregard for the tulle that acts as a barrier.  Saliva stains the material, makes it stick to your hardened bud as he laves over it with his tongue - bites surprisingly gently - and tugs it just hard enough to have you keening.

“S-s’not funny,”  he huffs, palming your other breast in his broad tattooed palm.  When he continues, he bites into you like he’s got a personal vendetta against whatever lies beneath your flesh.  “She was flirting with you.”  

It’s less of a sigh of annoyance - more sensual, drowning in need.  “She was not.”

He nips at the delicate flesh again, spreads crimson marks all across the sensitive skin until it’s a mosaic beneath the fabric, his finest work painted by his second favourite brush.  “That’s what you think but she was.”  The hand previously kneading your skin drops, flat of his palm sliding easily over your bare pussy.  

There’s zero hesitation when he slots his fingers on either side of your clit, catches the delicate pearl against the webbing of his hand and applies pressure that has you bucking beneath him.  It’s not nearly as aggressive as he normally is but it’s just as good, paired with the sinful motions of his tongue and teeth. 

“She wants to be the one doing this,”  he continues, saliva pooling across your chest, slipping into the valley of your breasts only to be licked up by the flat of his tongue.  He continues even once you’re clean, skin sticky and a little gross but so erotic it makes you quiver.  Then he descends, pushes the hem of your new slip higher, and licks another stripe from the joint of your thigh up to your belly button.  Repeats it again, moving lower with each pass until he’s sucking your clit into his mouth.  “She wants to be the one tasting this pretty, pretty pussy.”

You reach for his hand - the one somewhere near your ribs, side of his wrist soothing against the ladder of bones - and tangle your fingers together as he drives you mad, tip of his tongue switching between sweet kitten licks and tantalising figure eights.

“Baby,”  you coax, reprimand almost.  Jungkook’s never this lenient, never this sweet on you (not inside the bedroom, at least).  It brings you to a different high, his love folded into lovely origami cranes you tuck into your pockets and the spot you’ve carved out for him within your chest.

“Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t mean literally - refers instead to the sound of your voice when it leaps three octaves, bounces between sultry and singed, burnt at the edges by the fire he brings to life. 

“Tell me you’ll never leave me.”  Despite how the words muffle, come broken between the glide of his tongue within your fluttering walls, you can hear the sincerity in them.  The earnestness that begs you to promise him this simple thing.  “Not for her.  Not for anyone.”  

“B-Bunny—”  You’re sobbing, wailing, begging for what he won’t give you, what he’s been holding back for the last who knows how long.  It tingles in your fingers, skips every notch of your spine and has you jerking beneath him, desperate.  You clench around him, whine loudly when a particular snap forward has you seeing stars, and tug at the roots of his hair.

Close, close, close.

“Don’t call me that,”  he snaps, so abrupt it surprises you - tears you from the precipice just as you’re about to tumble over it.

He’s glaring down at you, chest pressed to the backs of your knees, hips still.  There’s animosity in his stare, a simmering anger that bleeds into the usual softness of his eyes.  It threads between his brows and forms a knot you can’t unravel, ties his mouth into something spiteful and angry.  All the gentle caresses in the world couldn’t unbind the unkindness. 

You try again, just as needy, just as wanting.  “Kook, p-please.”

The laugh he offers you is hardly that, too full of teeth and petulance.  It stirs butterflies in your stomach, has your heart stuttering in your chest.  “Please what, huh?”  

You’re suddenly empty - so empty you cry out and lurch after him, scrabbling for a cliff in the form of his shoulders.  He moves away, leaves you to fall back against the rumpled sheets with tears streaking your cheeks.  

It’s gone on all evening, just like this.  He pushes you down and fucks you, marks every inch of your body up with the intensity of his love, the earnestness of his adoration.  And right when you’re about to unravel, he takes it all back, shuts it tightly behind lock and key while he berates you.

(Somewhere deep down, you know this isn’t how he is.  He’s just had a bad day, further exacerbated by whatever jealousy had wormed its way into his thoughts, settled like a weed where you couldn’t reach.)

“Kook.”  

You’re reaching for him, framing your hands on either side of his face, cradling his chin as the muscle jumps in his jaw.  How he manages to look so handsome even while so angry, you’re not sure.  You love him, though.  Love him, despite the big black hole he’s currently tearing in your chest. 

Thumbs stroke across his skin, soothe the tension that turns him to brass beneath your touch.  “I love you.”  He softens, the wobble of his mouth giving away some emotion he’s keeping caged behind his teeth, curled back behind his molars.  “I love you.  I love you.”

Still, he doesn’t say it back.  Simply stays locked above you, chest heaving, breath shallow.  

Maybe that’s why this feels so awful.  He’s not just aggressive, not just teasing and selfish with his actions.  He’s actively holding himself back, barricading you from the home you’d built in his heart.

Before you know it, you’re crying again, tears spilling hot over your cheeks.

“Please say it back,”  you plead, too wound up to hold back the torrential downpour.  It spills past the cracks of your composure, utterly surprising you with the force of it.    

It’s not just a spring shower - it’s a thunderstorm.

All at once, as if he can’t possibly stand to see you so sad - as if he isn’t the one who’s brought this entire storm - he crashes his mouth to yours.  Drags your bottom lip through his teeth and tugs, slamming himself into your cunt as he sobs out something that sounds like I’m sorry.  It’s not what you want, though.  (And not what you need - not the words that’ll soothe the ache in your chest.)

“Tell me.  Tell me you love me,”  you whimper into his mouth, moan when he pulls away and thrusts back in, setting a punishing pace that has the head of his cock grazing your most sensitive spot.  It should leave you ecstatic how wholly he consumes you now, grinding down with every upstroke, giving you everything you’d been begging for earlier.

(It doesn’t.  You’re greedy.  You’re just as greedy as him - but in different ways.  Two sides of the same stupid coin.)

The girl - Kiko, was it? - stares at you for the longest moment, as if she’s trying to figure out where she recognises you from.  You can practically hear the Windows shutting down noise as the seconds stretch on.

Then, without another word, she’s got her focus back on Jungkook.  Sweet darling Jungkook who simply remains silent, bottom lip caught and worried between enamel.  

“Who is that, Kookie?”

God, you want to throw up.  Fight her, maybe too.  

“This is—”  You’re glaring daggers at him, daring him to give the wrong answer.  “This is my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend?”  She laughs as if it’s a joke, flutters her obnoxiously long eyelashes. 

You’ve had enough, seizing Jungkook’s much larger hand in your own, practically yanking his arm from its socket as you stalk toward the elevator.  Irritation skips up your spine, settles like a weighted chain necklace around your throat.  You mash your knuckle against the call button.  (If you’d used your nail, you’d have surely snapped it.)

You don’t miss the expression in the mirrored wall, Barbie still standing where you’d left her.  Your smile is simpering, wholly artificial.  And then she’s gone from view and it fades, slips into something even worse.

“What was that?”  It comes in a whisper, gritted past your teeth that turn to ash.

“What was what?”  Your boyfriend has the audacity to look surprised, peering down at you as if you’ve just asked the weather or the time.  There’s not even an ounce of guilt - nothing to be found in those big round eyes of his.

It’s times like these that you resent the person Jungkook is, too soft and kind to tell people to fuck off.  

You can’t blame him, though.  This is how he’s always been, even if it’s gotten better over the months.  At his core, he’s just marshmallows and Lucky Charms, milk and cookies on Christmas morning.  (You love these things about him, even when they drive you absolutely insane.)

“Are you mad?”  He asks when you barrel out of the lift, push into his apartment with the key that sits alongside your own.  You don’t answer - know you’ll say something (deservedly) petty - and instead focus on hanging your coat, setting your stilettos into your side of his hallway closet.  “Baby?”

You make it halfway down the hall before he’s scampering after you, threading his arms around your waist and burying his face into your hair.  It’s such a sweet gesture that you almost soften, almost let him get away with murder.  

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?”  The idiot - your beloved idiot - seems terribly proud of this fact, smile pressed against your neck.  

“I’m not,”  you seeth, shoving his hand off you. 

He knows you’re lying.

“Tell me, baby,”  he purrs, eyes so wide and innocent you curse him internally.  

Would do so verbally, if there weren’t a gag blocking the way, rubber slick with saliva and tears that’ve mingled into an absolute mess.  It’s snug around your head, buckled into place and kept from hurting by the goose down pillow keeping you semi-upright. 

(Even when he punishes you, takes you over his knee or cuffs you to the bed, he’s considerate.  Thoughtful beyond all comprehension.)

Jungkook rocks back on his heels, half-seated on the bed between your spread knees.  He’s picturesque, beaming brightly, devastatingly handsome in his comfy pants (a material that feels like heaven any time it brushes your heated skin).  His chest is delightfully bare, the only blemish across the supple expanse being the glint of his silver chain, hanging over you and tickling your sternum when he graces you with the occasional chaste peck.

The hand holding the unassuming black and gold device between your legs shifts, presses it just that much deeper within your walls, and he grins.  “You were jealous, weren’t you?”

It’s shameful, how wet you are, how slick pools down the crack of your ass, how your entire body trembles, heart rattling around in your ribcage.  It’s unbelievable how weak you are for him, completely at his mercy as he rains pleasure upon you.

You nod, grimacing when the bob of your head has spit transferring from your chin to the valley between your breasts.  

A hand tracks through the drool and lube (chocolate delight, because Jungkook has a sweet tooth), rubbing the mixture lewdly over your aching nipple.  It strains beneath his touch, perks and pebbles with each pass of his tattooed fingers.  

When he tweaks it - yanks so hard your back arches off the bed - he soothes the other, laving over the peak with the flat of his tongue.  Between your legs, the vibrator goes and goes, pressed lightly against your most sensitive spots.  Stimulated inside and out, it feels like every nerve ending is shot, burnt to hell by the match he strikes and pours gasoline over. 

Fireworks spark before your eyes with each passing moment, growing in intensity the longer the device runs, the more time he spends sucking your tits into his mouth. 

It’s too much - feels like heaven and hell all at once.  

But it’s not what sends you over the edge - isn’t what has you coming apart all over his hand, soaking through the delicate material of his pants.  It’s his voice, crystal clear past the haze of lust, whispering sweet nothings.

It’s your unbelievable, incredible boy telling you all the things you ache to hear. 

“Nothing to be jealous about, ____.  You’re the only one for me.”  He offers his heart just as readily as he does bliss, granting you an earth-shattering orgasm that starts at the base of your spine and threads heat to every limb.  He sucks his affection into the swell of your breasts,  fucks the silicon toy into your dripping heat, makes you come apart even as he holds you together. 

It’s nirvana with him, a place you only find in his arms, his bed, wrapped up in his warmth.  

You wonder whether he notices the attention or if it’s just another part of his life.  (You think he must know.  These college students don’t really hide it well, too handsy for their own good, years of growing up in semi-close proximity instilling a certain confidence in their motions.  That, and because Jungkook is quite possibly the least intimidating person you’ve ever met.)

“Thank you for coming!”  It’s Jisoo, flushed and excitable, round eyes as bright as her brother’s as she crosses to you.  This had been her moment - her time to shine - but you appreciate the effort she makes to include you, finding you within the crowd.  “I was a little nervous but…”  A shrug rolls her narrow shoulders, shakes her dark hair from its loose coil.  

You’d seen her practice before this - watched the long videos she’d regularly send to Jungkook - but seeing her in real life motion was an entire league of its own.  Dancing was her calling, every bit of her made for it.  There was just something lyrical about the way she moved, how her hips rolled, limbs seemingly guided by the rhythm of the music.  A grace you’ve never had, even on your best day.

“You shouldn’t have been.”  You’re beaming right back at her, sisterly reassurance on your tongue.  “You were amazing.” 

Whether she believes you or not - you think she does by how her cheeks grow ten sizes and her eyes are all but swallowed whole by the expression - she’s gracious, accepting the compliment with her blinding smile.  (She really was like Jungkook like that.)  

“You guys should come to a class one day.”  By that, she means a class she helps teach every once in a while.  You’ve heard about it on more than one occasion, seen the choreography posted on Instagram and YouTube.  

Still, you don’t expect that, brows shooting high.  Laughter filters past your teeth, springing off your tongue.  “I am not a dancer and I doubt your brother—”

Now it’s Jisoo’s turn to wear surprise like a neon sign, expression splitting with giggles of her own.  “Wait— have you not seen Kook dance?”  The way she says it is incredulous, Bambi eyes sparkling with what looks like mischief.

“No?”

“Your sister told me something.”

You’ve never seen this particular brand of worry on his face, eyes even more comically wide than usual, whatever words he’d originally meant to speak dying on his tongue.  He looks like a literal deer caught in the headlights, one of his nicknames suddenly very apt.

“What did she say?  She likes to embarrass me.”  True.  Jisoo and Jungkook had a textbook sibling relationship, full of teasing and mockery and copious amounts of love.  “Whatever she said, don’t believe—”

“She said you used to dance.”

“Oh.”  Oh?  You hadn’t expected Jungkook to deflate so easily, relief flooding his features.  “Yeah, I did.  In university.”  He’s utterly unbothered by this knowledge, attention back on the soondubu jjigae he’d been shovelling into his mouth.  “I had some friends who were dancers, so it was good exercise.”

“I want to see.”  

His answer is immediate, despite the heaping bite of rice and stew in his mouth.  “No.”

You whack him across the shoulder, startling him into clattering his spoon on the countertop.  It leaves a messy red streak across marble but you’re dragging his attention back to you with a firm glare, fingers cradled under his jaw.  “I want to see.”

Talent apparently runs in the family, you realise halfway through the third video.  Jungkook moves with the same assured movements his sister does, with power and grace and a confidence that frankly baffles you.  He treats the practice room like a stage, running through the motions so fluidly you almost have trouble believing it’s your man on the screen.  (Not that he’s particularly ungraceful.  It’s just surprising, like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.)

“So, what happened?”  You say it so conversationally, innocently, with eyes that mimic his own.  From the corner of your periphery, your boyfriend shifts, hand flexing over your knee.  There’s the furrow between his brows, the subtle tension in his jaw.  Worry.

“What do you mean?”  

Your own hand waves toward the screen, where the image of Jungkook from over half a decade ago sits paused.  “You were so…”  You’re not sure what you mean.  There are just so many options to describe the literal baby boy on the television.  Young?  Confident?  Round?  (You can’t get over his haircut, though you suppose you can’t hold it against him.) 

Jungkook simply stares at you, waiting for you to find whatever words you want to use.  Despite the uncertainty that swims somewhere in the depths of his eyes, he’s endlessly patient.  Always so soft when it comes to you.

“You had a coconut head.”

Laughter explodes off his tongue, entire face screwing up with amusement.  “Are you serious?”

“You did!”  Admittedly, the cut had somehow worked on him but it’s so reminiscent of grade school haircuts you can’t help but focus on it, too distracted by the glossy sheen to offer much else.  “I guess I get it, though.”

“What do you mean?  Everyone had that haircut—”

“In first grade, maybe.”  He sticks his tongue out at you then;  you scowl in response. 

“What do you get?”  As always, he’s perceptive, immediately aware of your carefully knit brow, the thoughtfulness that fits itself around your teeth like gleaming white veneers and holds his attention hostage.  He’s grown used to it over the months you’ve been together - knows you cling tight to things with an iron grip, turn them over and over until you’ve made sense of it in that brain of yours. 

“The crushes.”  You look affronted, almost appalled at the realisation.  He bursts out laughing, broad palm coming down upon your bare leg in a smack.  (He apologises profusely when you complain.)

“What’re you talking about?”

Your nose is wrinkled, velvet strands dislodged by the shake of your head.  “All your sister’s friends.  They’re in love with you.”  Jisoo had even agreed, laughed about it when you’d commented on it at the recital.  Something about them having grown up with Jungkook, obsessed with the image they’d retained of him since university.  “But you were a coconut.  You wore Timberlands and drop-crotch pants.  You weren’t even that cute.”  An exaggerated shudder slips over your shoulders.  

“I was nineteen.”  As if that makes it better.  Your judgment doesn’t lessen, the lines running the bridge of your nose only deepening.  

“Still.  Embarrassing.”

Your boyfriend truly is the best sport, rolling his eyes at you in the same instance he reaches for you, tugs you closer with broad palms, affection searing into your skin.  “Well, luckily, no more Timbs.  No more bowl cut.”  He nuzzles into the warmth of your neck, spreads your knees wide over his hips.  The sound of his laughter melts into your throat, dresses it in heat deposited by your breath.  “Are you jealous again?”

He doesn’t even get a verbal response to that.  Just a heavy glare and two hands squishing his cheeks.  “Absolutely not.” 

It comes up again in bed, your head on his chest, his hands on your hips.  He asks it quietly, conversationally, with a twinkle in his eye that makes you want to smother him with one of his many pillows. 

“You’re sure you’re not jealous?”

“I’m not,”  you grit, paired with a roll of your eyes and a little snort from your nose.  You really aren’t.  Those girls are inconsequential, irrelevant.  They’ll never amount to what you are to him and that’s just a simple fact.  He’s yours - something he reminds you of day in and day out, both verbally and in action. 

(You love him for it, appreciate it more than you can possibly begin to explain.  There’s a certain bliss to be found in the knowledge that you’re loved.  A warmth that rivals even that of the sun on the summer’s hottest day.) 

“Then why’re you pouting?”  What he really means is why aren’t you smiling.  You don’t pout often - at least not in the same ways he does.  

“I’m not,”  you repeat for what feels like the sixth time. 

“Smile for me.”

You do the opposite - throwing your eyes in an exaggerated circle.  It earns you a pinch to the side, a tender sting blooming beneath ink-strewn fingers. 

“Really—“  When he looks this earnest, it’s hard to deny him,  “you’re sure everything’s okay?”

At most, you can sigh perhaps overdramatically.  Fold your awkward limbs upon his and bury your face into the crook of his neck.  You’re not jealous of those girls, no.   

You’re envious of his talent - the simple fact that Jeon Jungkook is, by all definitions, a golden boy.  God’s favourite, with his heart wrenching smile and easygoing charm and grace that seems almost surreal.  There’s not a single thing wrong with him - okay, except for his bad habit of never answering his phone and always messing up the top sheet and the fact that he absolutely never ever puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube - and it’s absurd.  Utterly, absolutely unfair. 

But you can’t say that.

“Baby,”  he hums, threading the sound of his voice among your hair, tucking the soft syllables behind your ears.  “Talk to me.”

You relent - a little.  “You’re too good.”

“Too good?”  The depth of his laughter rumbles your bones, tickling your insides when it vibrates out of his chest.  “At what?”

A hand gesticulates wildly.  You’re not sure what it looks like, how close it is to hitting Jungkook in the face.  You’ve still got your face pressed to the warmth of his skin, greedily siphoning his sunny radiance with your cheek.   “Everything.”

Despite how he laughs - cackles, really, so adorable and high pitched it’s breathy - you know he knows what you’re talking about.  You’ve given him a hard time about it before.  

“I’m not good at everything, ____.”

He’s somehow even good at making you believe you’re wrong.  That’s a feat in and of itself. 

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Whatever!”  Whether he acknowledges it or not, he’s stupidly gifted.  Everyone and their - even his - mom knows it.  “Don’t believe me then.  I don’t care.”

“Then why’re you making that face?”  It’s almost comical that he’s calling you out for your expressions when he’s the king of funny faces, throwing his features into exaggerated (and adorable) masks.  (Maybe he’d just rubbed off on you?)

“I’m not,”  you huff, exasperated but not quite.  Still soft over his skin, velvet on silk. 

“You’re so cute.”  Sometimes, you think he really is just a child - too happy with putting you on a pedestal and praying at your altar.  Devoting himself to you when you’re nothing but a bag of flesh and bone, dressed in designer fashion and wrapped up with a satin ribbon made from sarcasm and candor.  (Not that you mind.  Who would argue if they were offered such love?)  “I still think something’s wrong but…”

It’s a smart tactic.  He doesn’t press you for an answer, opting to let it linger between you.  Settle like bothersome lint until you offer it yourself.  

When you relent - because you always do, unable to shut out the sunshine that practically pours out of him - you’re quieter.  Not shy, but bashful.  Uncertain in a way you very rarely are.  “I’ve always wanted to dance.”  So much so, you’d begged your parents to enroll you when you were younger.  Demanded lessons upon lessons - only to fail at all of them.  Rhythm simply didn’t exist anywhere in your body. 

“Really?”

You’re pulled from your safe haven, shifted until your entire point of view is filled with Jungkook, his starry eyes and his fluffy fluffy hair.  There’s that look he sometimes gets - full of wonder and adoration - when he learns something new about you.  As if just the smallest tidbit of knowledge opens up a whole new world.  

“Yes?”  You’re half regretting the admission.  He looks like he’s up to something, all the cogs in his head turning in perfect tandem. 

“I’ll teach you.”  

“Hard pass.”

Like a hot air balloon, he deflates, mouth rounding sweetly.  (If you didn’t know better, you’d assume the man was made of cotton candy, semi-sweet chocolate heart where the real organ should be.)  “Why not?”

“I do not dance.”  It’s nothing but a statement of fact, firm and unyielding. 

The pout evolves, swings down into a frown that drags his eyebrows with it.  “You could dance.”

“No, baby—“  So you’re a little frustrated, all your childhood memories pricking beneath your skin.  “I do not dance.”

“Why?”  He’s upright now, tugging you with him as if you weigh nothing.  His way of turning the conversation serious, pulling you from the warmth and comfort of the bedsheets to this.  (He’s still holding you, hooking his big broad hands over your hips, so you don’t mind.) 

“No rhythm.”  Unable to keep a beat.  Two left feet.  The list could go on and on, according to your ballet instructor. 

“Not true.”

Your brow quirks, mirrored by his as if in challenge.  You almost swat at him - so close your hand twitches on his shoulder.  “Very true.”

(Why does this conversation feel so familiar?  It’s déjà vu.) 

“Is not.”  Your boyfriend seems insistent, as if he knows better than you.  (He doesn’t.)  Stares up at you with those pretty eyes and has the audacity to grin when you roll your own, ready to rebuff him. 

Because you’re in bed, the one place where you defer to him whether you like it or not. 

(You do like it, though.  Love it, in fact.  Just like you love him.)

“You’re graceful,”  he hums, bridging the gap between you with a forward roll of his shoulders.  “You’ve got rhythm.”  The hand on your hip grows firm, guides your knees to spread wide on either side of him.  With each brush of his lips - tender little brushes, endlessly sweet and reassuring - he pushes and pulls, dragging you across his lap.  “You can do anything you want.”

You’ve almost forgotten the topic of conversation, preoccupied by how he guides you in languid circles.  How the cotton of his boxer briefs feels against the sensitive inside of your thighs.  The weight that grows between your legs and nudges indelicately against the soft fabric of your thong.

All part of his plan, of course.

“Your body’s the most beautiful thing in the world, ____.”  

When he looks at you like this, you think he might be right.  You’d believe it if he kept saying it, sparking desire through your limbs until they’re jellied and loose.  

(How he sees right through you - cuts straight to the core of your insecurity - you’re not sure.  It feels almost like a superpower, something unquantifiable, unbelievable.  He’s too good for you, always.  So kind and loving, pressing his belief in the form of his mouth, the tender edge of his teeth when he kisses you slow slow slow.)

“I want you to play.”  The way you enunciate, throw heavy meaning into your words has him curious, chin canting when you round the chair, step to the side and brush a delicate hand through his crown of curls.  You push velvet away from his face, tuck it neatly behind his ear and smile so prettily he swears his heart might leap out of his chest.  The same hand falls over his with meaning, your own eyes the size of saucers.  Were you trying to communicate as if you were psychic?  He thinks you must be when you stare for longer than you need to, mouth pulling and pursing adorably, a wavering wall against whatever you want to offer but won’t.

When he relents, it’s with his hand curled around your wrist and a gentle tug of you closer.  (Because he always wants you closer.)  “Let’s play then.”

It takes you no time at all to settle into his lap, legs dangling around the back of his gaming chair, arms locked around his neck.  He imagines it isn’t the most comfortable position in the world but, well, Jungkook’s not going to complain that his girlfriend wants to cuddle.  Can’t even fathom the thought when you’re so warm and your weight feels like some sort of top-tier blanket.

“Good?”  

You simply nod into the small of his neck, cheek cold against his shoulder.  Maybe you’re just tired.  You haven’t been sleeping well the last few nights, if you could even call it that.  They were more midday cat naps, laid up in his arms on his free days.   

(Don’t worry, you’d said.  He did, anyway.)

When he wins his next three games, he thinks you might be a lucky charm - his own personal blessing, all his good karma offered in the form of victory.  The headshots are clean, the flashbang-right-click combos flawless.  Gold damage is his the entire time;  he’s racking up gold medals left and right with you there with him.

(It’s almost as good as when you play together, your damage boost enabling him to obliterate the enemy without worry.  Granted, the Mercy on his team isn’t bad either - but she’s no you.  Not the girl that makes his heart pitter patter in his chest, play some silly crescendo that feels like a sugar high.)

But then he begins losing, missing shots that should be easy, sends them into the dark, strangely distracted.  He doesn’t realise by what until it’s too late and the next roll of your hips makes him whine, the sound tripping off his tongue in a whimper.  

“Angel.”  The word is practically choked out, broken despite being only two syllables.  You’re still snuggled into his chest, seemingly innocent, unaware of the tension that grows, turning bone to brimstone.  He’s half-worried he’s getting riled up over nothing - turned on by only your closeness - when he feels the damp of your teeth, the sharp edge tickling over muscle.  For what it is, it shouldn’t flood his stomach with heat, have electricity tracking up his spine as if struck by lightning.  “What’re you doing?”

“Play with me.”  You repeat the words into his hair, thread them between the midnight strands as you stamp a sweet, chaste kiss right below his ear.  He thinks he might be able to resist you - until you’re tugging lightly at one of the silver hoops that line his ear, laving your tongue over the sensitive spot that has him seeing stars.

He parrots the words back to you but it isn’t a question this time.  More a promise, tenderness turning his smile soft, needy, utterly in love.

“Let’s go to bed.”  Not because it’s late - though it is, half past two in the morning now - but because he wants to feel you wholly, watch you fall apart in the comfort of your bed.  No more distractions, just the two of you.  Just how he likes it. 

“No.”  That surprises him, throwing him off his axis.  He’s halfway to a pout when you press a kiss, steal his brattiness away with one sweep of your lemon-lined mouth.  “You keep playing.”

Oh.

The time you take to slide his sweats down - taking his boxers with them, fingers hooked into the black band that hugs his hips - should be criminal.  It’s as if you’re doing it on purpose, tugging the material down carefully, balanced above him by his hands on your waist.  

(He steals the softest touches while you’re there, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts, fingers laying themselves into the rungs of your ribs.)

When they’re halfway down his legs, he kicks them off, lets them gather in a pile somewhere by his feet.  Forgotten - because he’s got much more important matters to attend to.  “Your turn,”  he hums - almost begs - when you settle back against him, straddling him as you had before, still dressed in his favourite grey shirt and your plain black thong. 

“Nope.”  You’re smiling down at him, more devil than angel, smile so sinful he feels his cock twitch against his stomach, hard and leaking pre-cum from the tip.

“But—”

The turn of your head further dislodges strands, has shadow throwing your features into muted light.  That’s not what has his attention, though.  

It’s your hand dipping between you, curling light around his length.  Pad of your thumb massaging over his head, slicking arousal until the glide is easy.  With a gun to his head, Jungkook couldn’t help himself from moaning, a keening sound that tickles your cheek and has heat flooding his own.  (You’ll be the death of him, he swears.)  “Baby, please—”

“Play,”  you repeat. 

He does, rolling himself forward, finding his mouse and keyboard with trembling hands.  

It’s cruel, what you’re doing.  (It’s also everything he could ask for, offered by the hand of the girl he loves most.  Even through the haze of desire, there’s affection that paints him pink, lights him up like a Christmas tree.)

(All he wants to do is fill you, fuck you full until you’re coming apart, crying his name out in that breathy way that drives him wild.  Playing his favourite song again again again.)

But he’s a good boy for you - always is - so he says nothing as he queues once more, tries his damnedest not to make a sound when he feels the press of his cock against your cunt, the heat that engulfs him when you take him in one fluid motion.

It’s as if his brain short circuits, as if you’ve rewritten all the code that makes him who he is.  He chokes a sound - a whine, a laugh, a cry - when you sink fully into him, curl those arms back around his neck.  You’re absolutely perfect, wet and warm.  Split wide open by how deep he is, clit flush against his pelvis, velvet walls yielding to the fullness.  

Whether he wins or loses his next games, Jungkook doesn’t care.  He’s already got everything he could ask for. 

“I’m not.”

“You are.”  It’s two voices at once, Hoseok chiming in with his girlfriend.  

You resent Jung Hoseok too.  He’s the whole reason you’re stuck here on this Friday night, seated in the kitchen of the frat house.  He’s the one who’d tangled everything together, turning your group of girlfriends into literal girlfriends.  (You’re happy for them, you swear.  Joon is a sweetheart and Yoongi might always seem like he’s bothered but he’s nice too.  Even Hoseok is actually okay.)

“He’s being an attention whore,”  you retort, probably more petulantly than you need to, with needles sticking out of syllables, two year’s worth of history slipping alongside vowels. 

“He’s literally just sitting there.”

Mina’s not wrong - but he’s also flirting.  Shamelessly.  With one of the girls that seem to always be at these things, all chiming laughter and brilliantly white teeth.  You’ve seen her a handful of times, almost always at Jungkook’s side for at least some portion of the evening.  

“Give it a break, ____.”  

You wish you could.  In fact, you’d like nothing more than to not care about Jeon Jungkook and his infuriating antics.  It’d save you a lot of frustrations, make it so much easier to exist on the same campus as him.  

Because as it stands, it’s next to impossible not to be reminded of him, to go a single day without hearing about how great he is with his stupid boopable nose and sparkly eyes.  Every day, from friends or strangers, it’s simp central. 

You hate it.

Jeon Jungkook is good at many things:  passing classes he barely attends (which isn’t that many, because he is actually pretty studious all things considered), making jungle juice that could knock out an elephant, dying his hair pink.  

He’s also apparently really good at pissing people off when he doesn’t mean to.  Call it a skill of his.

One he’d honed with you, nearly three years ago now.  Back when he’d been young and stupid and uncertain, when he hadn’t quite grown into well, much of anything, when he’d had his priorities all messed up.

Maybe he shouldn’t have broken up with you within two months - citing needing to focus on school - and then dated someone shortly thereafter.  Maybe he shouldn’t have seemed to find himself in every class of yours, sitting across the lecture hall listening to the professor drone on and on about statics.  Maybe he shouldn’t have introduced one of his fraternity brothers to someone he knew you knew.

(He says maybe but he knows they were all bad choices made by an underveloped brain, too addled by Thursday night pub crawls and a grass is always greener on the other side mentality.)

Sometimes, he feels bad.  He doesn’t miss the way you pointedly ignore him when he’s around, how your expression seems to be stuck in a permanent scowl any time you catch sight of him.

(He’d have to be dumb to not notice all of that and while Jungkook is many things, dumb isn’t necesarily one of them.  Immature maybe.  Impulsive definitely.)

“Where’d ____ go?”  

Someone else asks the question he wants to but keeps caged behind his teeth, hidden past his molars.  

Mina sighs dramatically, pats her boyfriend’s cheek, and shrugs.  “Who knows.” 

But Jungkook knows.  Thinks he knows, anyway.  You’ve left, because you always leave when he does things you hate.  (And you hate everything he does.)  

One day he’ll get the courage to apologise to you, to explain that he still misses you.  He knows it won’t be well-received (why would it be?) but he’ll offer it anyway, awkward and stilted and not nearly as apologetic as it should be.