high end | jjk
→ summary: jungkook is a best-selling erotica novelist living in a lavish neighborhood. He spends his days cruising on yachts, tasting the world’s most expensive wines, and fucking bar-staff. But, as soon as you move in next door with your fruity cocktails, tight bikinis, and odd philosophies, his hobbies shift. To put it plainly; you're sex on legs and he wants to write about you in his upcoming novel. But first, he has to get to know you inside and out.
→ genre: smut, fluff, angst (erotica-novelist!jk, architect!reader)
→ words: 13,050
→ warnings: unprotected sex, orgy, semi-public sex, semi-public petting, semi-public fingering, ice play, nipple play, bondage, licking, biting, fingering, drooling, spanking, finger sucking, hair pulling, masturbation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, use of sex toys, multiple orgasms, pussy eating, dick sucking, throat fucking, crying, gagging, high drug use, drinking, swearing
masterlist || request
Let's get one thing straightened out; rich people love to do rich people shit. Whether it be deep-throating oysters in the coastal towns of France, raiding designer stores, or pretending to relate to the lower class, they do it and they do it often.
Jeon Jungkook is guilty of most of the above. At 25 years of age, he lives in a multi million-dollar house situated in the privacy and luxury of the Hills. His neighbors live just as lavishly; some actors, some dentists, and some wealthy by marriage. Their problems seem bizarre to the average person, but respectfully, problems are problems. If you're feeling off about something — even if you're standing in your ten-acre garden and can't seem to decide where to build your own personal water park — you still have a problem.
Jungkook has a problem of his own, but we'll get to that in a moment.
How the fuck did he get so rich and where do I sign up? You might be thinking to yourself. He writes about the intimate and explicit details of sex. Each of his novels revolve around a successful individual dealing with life’s obstacles and ultimately leaving their imprint on the world. The sex scenes are a by-product of the power play. There's a lot of power in sex, there's a lot of love in his heart for life and its obstacles, and there's a lot of money in publishing well-written (debatable), fantasy-driven erotica novels.
To say he was born with a silver spoon sticking out of both of his ears would be a bit of an overstatement, but not too far from the truth. His parents are the masterminds behind a multi billion-dollar tech company that develops security software. From day one, they drove the tech-fantasy into their sons head, and even though they persuaded him to graduate college with a Bachelor of Advanced Computer Science, things took a different turn once he stepped foot into the real world; he grew a little too cocky with his qualifications, social status, and good looks, and so spent his time entertaining a rowdy bunch of people, partying, having insane amounts of sex, drinking whatever was handed to him, snorting blow off bars, and everything else the champagne life entails.
And then, like most young people, he was inspired by a short-lived summer romance. She was an aspiring solicitor, beautiful, confident, and determined, but her determination made her use people like dental floss. She bat her eyelashes a thousand times, said anything to grow her network, and lied like it was a 9-5 job. But, as much as it hurt him, he never grew to hate her. There was something about her — maybe it was the way she could tame every doubt in his mind, or the way she built herself from the ground up — that made it clear that she knew the world was hers. She was the inspiration behind his first novel. Similar to how musicians write an array of emotional lyrics and dedicate music videos to ex-lovers, he too found a way to tell stories. The difference is that he never writes out of spite. No matter how many chapters of heartbreak he could write, he believes it to be wholly unproductive. He sees the good and the fun in others or he doesn’t see at all.
He knew many fine publishers through his parents, so it wasn’t long before he was an official published author with a new network of literate friends. His novel was a quick success thanks to his advertising team. They worked their ass to the bone to gain a cult following for him. Posters were on bus-stops, library walls, retirement home notice boards, and even on the ‘Do Not Feed the Ducks’ signs at parks. If the ducks and the elderly weren’t already into sexy, but also kind of odd novels, they sure as hell are now.
He was crowned the king of erotica just a week after his first publication.
The average Joe appreciates a little sex every now and then, but this isn't a story about average Joe’s. It's about filthy rich savages who can't get enough of it; in every position, at every time of the day, at every setting. They put rabbits to shame. For all intents and purposes, Jungkook is one of these rabbit-shaming savages. He loves dubious, sweat-inducing, vulgar sex with loose women; MILFS, teachers, models, lawyers, doctors, bartenders, and even the neighbor living in the colonial mansion opposite from him. She's forty-three years old, freshly divorced, and had been a fan of his writing since the very first publication, so she thought 'what the hell? I'll just knock on his door, crack open a bottle of wine, and gush about how much I love his work. Maybe I can work on my game, too.' She came for conversation, but never thought that he'd be spelling it out with his tongue between her thighs.
When it comes to conversing with him, there's often tension, whether sexual or just plain enlightening, and a tipping point. He always says the right things to aid out unlikely confidence within people; a type of confidence that makes a person say what they truly mean and want. He likes to ask unlikely questions and do unlikely things, sex aside.
Back to his problem, though; writers block. He’s lacking very specific inspiration, but this is where you come into play. He was curious about you from the very moment he saw you chatting with the driver of the movers truck. You'd been standing outside your new house with your summer dress and broad-rimmed hat, and he'd been curiously scoping out his new neighbor from his window. It's not uncommon for him to feel such curiosity toward a successful person, nor is it rare for him to adapt and characterize them for his novels. Only the devil knows what kind of woman you are. Maybe you’re a teacher of fine arts, a model, a marine, a police officer, maybe you married into wealth, or even a decoy sent by the FBI. He learned many years ago to not judge a person by their cover.
It was only yesterday that he saw you standing on your driveway with a shadow cast over half of your face, and if he hadn’t been preoccupied with avoiding various voicemails and bickering with his lawyer over the phone, he would’ve introduced himself. Today, though, he plans on doing just that. In fact, he’s already half-way down the stairs with a free schedule and the brighter side of your face clear in his mind.
The staircase banisters are glass panes adorned with silver hand-railings, and each step is a thick, hand-cut slab of grey marble. The steps cascade from the second floor to the kitchen, where contemporary wine racks have been built underneath. Stocked on the racks are hundreds of bottles of imported red wine, white wine, and limited edition champagne taken from events and given to him as gifts. Most, if not all, are purely decorative. He prefers whiskey.
Bright, white spotlights are tucked underneath floating wall dividers to brighten up the home and most, if not all, of the walls have been coated in a light grey paint. A theme of dark wood runs true to his home; dark counter tops, coffee tables, and sculptures. His home is very much an open plan, quite like himself.
Money has never been an issue for him, but it’d be foolish to say that wealth is what got him here in the first place. He has always been smart, has always known the right people, and has always been ambitious to the core. You could give him nothing but an empty bottle, and he’d soon be the best-selling bottle maker in the country.
Jungkook takes a few moments to pick out an expensive bottle of wine — a house-warming gift, if you will — before heading outside. The sky is a pretty shade of blue and almost void of clouds, except for a single cloud spread across the sky like a stroke of white paint. He knocks on your door three times and checks his Rolex after waiting an excess of fifteen seconds. Almost a minute passes before the front door swings open to reveal your shadow-free face. You have light, complementary makeup and a small smile adorning it. If he were younger and a little more naive, he’d drop to his knees.
It’s 4:48PM on a Sunday, yet you have a half-empty, strawberry cocktail in your hand. It’s 4:48PM, yet he has an expensive bottle of wine in his. He already likes you.
“Hello.” You say with those strawberry stained lips. Something about you suggests that you’re a little bit introverted, but it’s definitely not the cloud-white bikini and black, sheer cover-up wrapped around your figure. “I don’t suppose you’re the pool man?”
“No, but I can take a look if you’d like.” He smiles a true Hollywood smile. “Your neighbor. To the right.”
His home is the biggest in the neighborhood. Many of the other homes are half the size, but just as lavish, including your own.
“Y/N.” You offer out your hand for him to shake and he does so without hesitation. “Architecture is my forte, but that’s not usually the first thing people guess.”
He tells you his name and you repeat it back in a way that makes him raise his eyebrows ever so slightly. And, as you invite him inside, you size him up; from his broad shoulders, slim waist, to his surprisingly perky ass. What is it with men and winning the genetic jackpot for good asses and eyelashes?
You’re not the only one, though. He’s already taken note of your half-naked body, ring-less fingers, and the dimples in your lower back. Your house smells like clean laundry and fresh paint, and an array of gin, brandy, vodka, and whiskey bottles sit on a silver platter on your marbled kitchen counter, right next to a bouquet of deep pink Dahlias. He places the wine bottle nearby, slightly defeated by the wrong choice of drink.
You’re not a wine-drinker, he notes. Cocktails are your best friend.
"Thank you.” You say, genuinely, as you inspect the brand and age of the wine. It looks expensive and by the looks of him, it has to be. “You really didn’t have to bring me anything.”
“I would’ve brought you a pie, but I can’t bake to save a life.” He humors. “You’ll get one, though, just not from me.”
The sun is far too warm to keep the conversation strictly inside. Summer has always been your favorite time of the year.
“What do you do, by the way? I don’t think I asked.” You inquire as you step past the large, glass sliding doors and wander around the great length of your swimming pool. Sundays are the only days where you have the time to lounge around in a bikini and drink cocktails before 5PM, so you make the most of it.
“I’m an author.” Even for someone like him, he’s never seen such a huge personal pool. Are you coaching the Olympic swimming team or something? He can just about picture you lounging on an inflatable pool float, skin wet and glistening in the light.
"What kind of stuff do you write?" You ask with your drink in one hand and his full-attention in the other. "Let me guess.. Science fiction? Business advice?"
His tan skin, wavy hair, and aura yells — practically screams — ‘leisure’, so he could easily be mistaken for a businessman with a habit of visiting the Bahamas every weekend. That’s not far from the truth, to be fair. He isn’t one to shy away from self-indulgence.
"Erotica." There’s no hidden shame behind his confession, nor is their a flicker of embarrassment. He owns it, just like he owns that white, button-up shirt and that dark, ruffled hair. He’s physically fit, too, thanks to his interest in recreational boxing and high intensity training.
"Erotica?" You repeat, way-off, but entirely captivated by this strange man. “So, you’re addicted to sex?”
Cheeky, he notes.
You tap your finger against your glass and drink in everything about him. The longer you look, the shyer you feel. What’s that about? You’ve never been one to shy away from a hot, single neighbor; that is if he’s actually single and not just a cocky husband of a woman who deserves a whole lot better. There’s something very intimidating about him. He carries himself like nothing in this world could bother him or make him stutter over his words.
He likes that you asked that. It gives him incentive to ask you the same thing. “Aren’t you?”
“We’re living in the hills, Mr. Author.” Your laugh strokes his ears like soft velvet. “I’m sure everybody around here is in some sort of sex ring.”
He touches the bottom of his chin and your eyes linger there for a few moments. His face is perfectly symmetrical; sharp jaw, deep brown eyes, pretty pink lips. A small mole sits directly under his bottom lip, too. “You free Thursday evening, Y/N?”
“Could be.” He repeats, amused. “A friend of mine opened up a bar down on boulevard. Real fancy shit. They serve $1,000 diamond cocktails and everything else pretentious. I’d like to take you.”
“Sounds fun.” You agree without much hesitation. “I get home from work at 7.”
And that’s how Jeon Jungkook meets you for the first time. He doesn’t stay for too long, though, because he prefers to pace himself. Too much of a good thing isn’t good for anybody. You’ve only spoken to him for twenty-five minutes, but he’s already so intrigued. You’re two years his senior, graduated college twice; first with a Bachelor’s Degree in Architecture, and the second time with a Master’s in Architecture. You love what you do, but you hate where you work, even though it’s one of the best studios in the city. Interior and spacial designs interest you the most, but your boss compresses what you’re allowed to do out of fear that you might be better than he is. Jungkook can already tell that you’re better than a lot of people, especially your boss.
“I won’t be mad if you pour that wine down the sink, honestly.” He wanders past your front door and eyes the way you ever so slightly lean your hip against the door frame. “I mean it.”
You laugh, knowing damn well that that very thought crossed your mind just moments before. “See you Thursday, Mr. Author.”
He heads back home, but catches you again from the same window he’d seen you from yesterday. He observes, slightly hypnotized, as you bend over to place a cocktail glass on the concrete nearby the pool. The sheer fabric of your beach kimono rides up your lower back, revealing the curve of your ass and the white bikini thong clinging to your skin. And then he notices his own novel in your hands. The coloring of the front cover suggests that it’s one of his older novels. He then wonders if you already knew who he was and are just a really convincing actress. You didn’t, really, but his novel was stuffed into a box of books that you had just started to unpack. You recall a friend gifting you the erotica novel for your 25th birthday, but you never even read the blurb. It’s been gathering dust at the back of shelves for two years, but now you just have to know what it’s all about.
Not expecting much, you flick through a few chapters until you land on a random sex scene. You drink in every word like it’s a new cocktail flavor, tasting the incredibly lewd descriptions of wall sex shifting to wet, shower sex. The way he describes each scene has your imagination firing up like an old truck. You can picture each water droplet sliding down the two bodies, the hand print left on the main character’s thigh, and the thick, misty air in the bathroom. A little warm in the face, you flip the novel and peer at the image of Jungkook printed just above the blurb. He’s wearing that same Hollywood smile.
What have you gotten yourself into?
Monday rolls around far too quickly. You bid farewell to your bikinis and cocktails until next Sunday, and head to work with armfuls of files.
Your boss, David Woods; a man with a passion for development and architecture; ushers you to his large office before you can even make it to your desk. He’s tall and lean; at-least 6′1; with a short quiff that he feels the need to gel back. His hands are abnormally large and disproportionate to his body. Pressed suits, solid-colored ties, shiny shoes, and white button-ups are all that he wears in fear that he could be mistaken for anything other than a rich man.
A dark oak desk sits toward the further end of the room, closest to a blue-grey wall and a painting of something dark and abstract. There are countless awards for god-knows-what lined up on his bookshelves, and a prayer plant is sat on the left side of his desk in a tall, gold vase. If it weren’t for that plant doing regular plant things, the air in here would reek of death.
He takes a seat at his black leather chair and places his big hands on the desk, grinning wickedly at you. The gold light fixtures match the thin, gold necklace that’s half-tucked beneath his button-up.
“A little birdie told me that you’re planning to open up your own studio.” He interrogates. Woods has never been one to mind his business, let alone speak to another human being without a condescending tone. “When was that? Sometime this year?”
“A little birdie?” You’re not afraid to call him out on his blatant dishonesty. “You look through my laptop when I’m at lunch.”
“The company’s laptop.” He corrects. He’s amused by your boldness, but if you squint, you can see the irritation behind his pale blue eyes. “You know how I feel about my people taking clients from The Woods. It’s not good for business.”
No, he’s not talking about literal tree-dominated land, although he does a good job at making people feel as if they’re lost in such a place. The Woods is quite literally him and anything he owns. Once you step foot into the building, you’re in The Woods territory. There’s a difference between being proud of what you’ve made for yourself and being an overbearing asshole who thinks he has a say in everyone and everything.
“I’m just trying to help you out, Y/N. You know that’s all I’ve ever done for you.” He says as condescending as ever. “I just don’t think you’re ready to be your own boss.”
“I’ve been ready for a while.” There’s no reason for you to say this out loud, because, well, both of you are already aware of it. You’re his best. You draw in clients like no other, have a network exceeding 500 professionals, and are a complete realist. You could run five successful studios, but with the right investors, you could run one of the best in the country. “If it’s clients that you’re worried about, don’t. I won’t steal from you.”
“Oh, but you’ve been stealing from me since I let you in these doors.”
Loyalty is a big thing for Woods, but he holds it against people to an extreme extent. He interferes with personal lives, often ordering people to cut ties with others he holds a grudge against or because they don’t ‘fit his vibe.’ If you have an ugly pet, he’ll refer you to the nearest pet sanctuary. If your wife or husband is an under-performer, has one too many blemishes on their skin, or can’t bear a child, he’ll introduce you to somebody he deems worthy.
You leave his office with a plunging feeling in the pit of your stomach and a need for fresh air.
The receptionist greets you as you walk past and toward the revolving doors. She’s a woman in her mid twenties with a noticeable French accent. Light highlights run through her shoulder-length, brown hair. She’s fond of wearing sneakers to work as it makes the train commute a lot more comfortable for her feet, she likes ice-cream scented candles, cats — that’s evident by the few cat hairs stuck to the sleeve of her blouse —, and keeping up with local gossip. She’s good at her job, reliable, and always greets people with a warm smile, even Woods. She’s no-doubt the glue that holds this place together and prevents people from strangling each-other to death.
“Long day?” Mylène, the French receptionist, asks even though lunchtime has yet to hit.
“You could say that.”
“11:11AM.” She says like it means anything to you. “That’s an angel number. I’ll make a wish for you.”
“Thanks.” You step outside for a breath of fresh air. The summers breeze greets you like an old friend.
From Monday to Thursday, you work and you work and you work. You have countless meetings with new and old clients, draw up elaborate designs, revise old designs, and visit various construction sites. Your desk grows littered with pens, pencils, cuts of fabric and woods, and random slithers of wallpaper prints. During your lunch breaks, you often grab a coffee with old college friends and colleagues, making the effort to really nourish relationships.
Jungkook works, too, but in the most unique way. He meets new characters at various events, leaves an impression on everyone he speaks to, and has sex with three bartenders all in the same night. He gets unconventionally drunk, smokes weed with his cousin on his dad’s side (it’s their thing), wakes up with nothing but a suspicion of what happened the night before, and then sits down at his computer with a throbbing head and very little clothing on. Funnily enough, he thinks up the majority of his novel plots in less than sober states. He writes about a character very similar to you, focusing on her work ethic, her devil of a boss, her love for cocktails, and her sex appeal. He has no coherent plot for this novel, but he knows that ideas are likely to come to mind the more time he spends with you. None of this chaos is new to him. I told you he does very unlikely things.
Thursday rolls around faster than usual and you find yourself sitting at a bar with Jeon Jungkook at 8:48PM. He’s wearing a black button-up shirt with a slight satin finish, rolled at the sleeves, black dress pants and shoes, and a Rolex around his wrist. His well built chest strains slightly against his shirt, as do his biceps. You’ve come straight from work in a deep blue pencil dress. There’s not a single casual tee or distressed jean in sight, only high heels, neutral colored ties, gorgeous dresses, and styled hair.
Soft, white down-lights shine from the ceiling above the bar table, illuminating whatever vibrant drink the bartender has served to a customer. Pleasant jazz hums from cleverly hidden speakers. The atmosphere couldn’t get any more intimate. You often find yourself at bars like these after a shit day at work with a drink in both hands. There are specific things that make a shit day, but your boss is always the garlic and onions behind recipes like those.
Jungkook orders a scotch on the rocks and takes the first gulp like a parched man. You order yourself a strawberry-mint gin and tonic.
“What got you into writing?” Is your first question of the night. “I’ve heard that the industry is hard to get into. A friend of mine was rejected dozens of times and told that her plots were all wrong.”
He ponders carefully before settling on an answer. “Life and its shit. I’ve been rejected before, but that’s just how it is out there. Wouldn't it be boring to be right all the time?”
You chuckle at the notion. “My boss begs to differ.”
Writing — putting your thoughts out into the world for crass feedback — isn’t an easy thing to do. It’s often praised as brave; to open yourself up to such interactions with people who should have zero impact on your self-worth because, they’re, well, complete strangers with a different set of values, literary interests, interpretation skills, and are often just doing their job as a well-paid shit-stirrer.
A handful of people get a kick out of sharing anonymous, hateful comments. Jungkook deals with those kind of comments every day of his life, but if there’s one thing that he’s learned by being in the public eye, it’s that opinions aren’t facts. It’s important to take them and then let them go. Hell, you even have the power to build your own foundation with the bricks people throw at you. His life is his. Your life is yours. It’d be a very big mistake to see your life in eyes that aren’t yours.
People are always going to be cunts with zero regard for other people’s feelings. The difference is that you and him know the difference between being a decent human being and being that. That’s something to take pride in.
“Sure, but how do you deal with criticism?” You ask, intrigued by his extraordinary life. He’s so young for the empire he’s amassed. Sure, he’s two years your junior, but he could teach you a thing or two. “Do you rewrite or try somewhere else?”
He swirls the whiskey in his glass and watches as it glisten beneath the lights. Amusement is written all over his face, but there’s something foreign wavering in his eyes. “I deal with it by sitting in my mansion and not changing a fucking thing about myself.”
“Touché, but wealth isn’t everything.” You challenge. “A lot of people learn to love the money, but hate themselves.”
“I don’t hate myself.” He says and you believe him. “Not always. I try to hate the choices I make instead of hating myself for making them.”
"Smart. You’re your own best friend.”
“I’m never going to know somebody as well as I know myself, so why not? I am my own mind. I know what I’m thinking at most times of the day.”
He makes an interesting point, but you can’t help but challenge it further. “Then again.. you see yourself, but you also don’t see yourself. There are some things that I know about you that you don’t know about yourself. For instance..”
He holds his glass with a limp wrist, listening attentively. “Enlighten me.”
“Well.. I’m sitting in front of you and I can observe the expressions that your face makes during our conversation. You don’t always realize that you’re making them, but you can’t carry a little mirror with you and check what your face is doing all the time. Wouldn’t that be weird?”
“I’ve never thought about that before.” He says with a smile. “You’re a bit strange, aren’t you?”
His answer disappoints you slightly, but you don’t bother verbalizing it. He can tell you feel this way by the slight lowering of your eyebrows. Only, you don’t realize yourself that you've taken on this expression. Funny, he thinks to himself. Ignorance was bliss.
You both discuss your the past few riveting days that you’ve had; you speak about your boss in the kindest way possible, and he speaks about the people he recently met in only good tones and smiles. He doesn’t ever poke fun at another persons flaw, or their dress choice, or their intellect. He could sell anyone any product, no matter how shit it actually is, with that talent. You find yourself laughing and cringing like he’s an old school friend. It’s a nice feeling.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve done?” You dare to ask with your straw poking at your bottom lip. You’re on your third gin and tonic.
“The worst thing?” He repeats, amused by your formidable question. He could list a few things that’d shift the mood, but he isn’t ready for you to meet the skeletons in his closet, to evaluate the bad decisions he’s made, or to sympathize with the people he’s hurt.
“Yeah, you know-” You take a sip from your drink before returning it to the bar. You’re in a prying mood. There’s something about him, maybe it’s the way he looks at you with those big brown eyes, that makes you want to try your luck. “The naughtiest.”
The naughtiest? He thinks to himself. Maybe it was when he bent his lawyer over her desk and showed her what 'taking it from the back' really meant, or when he fucked a prestigious critic for a better review on his novel. He's been everywhere, done a little bit of everything, and a little bit of everyone. To choose just one naughty thing would take a weeks worth of contemplation, but then, something of value comes to mind and he leans closer to whisper it into your ear; something so filthy that it makes your breath catch in your throat and your posture improve.
As he speaks lowly, his breath tickles your neck, sending goosebumps down the length of your arms. If you were slightly more sober, and some may argue — smart —, you’d recognize them as warning signs.
“And then..” His voice is intoxicating and has you hooked on every syllable that falls from his lips. He smells like a delicious mix of whiskey, vanilla, and pine. And, during the most telling part of his confession, he runs his palm from your knee to your upper thigh, taking the fabric of your dress with him.
You definitely took him as the promiscuous type, but this is far beyond anything you’ve ever heard before. When he pulls away, your skin is engulfed in an arousing heat. A warm flush had been crawling it's way up your neck, but has well and truly settled between your thighs. "That's pretty naughty."
“Think so?” His confident tone arouses you more. You’re wet. That’s clear to the both of you. “I like the way you’re looking at me.”
You’re way too lost in his eyes and consumed by the feeling of his fingers tracing small circles against your thigh. Your eyes are probably begging for something, a portion of your bottom lip is probably caught between your teeth, and your chest is probably rising and falling quite quickly. “What way?”
“That way.” His eyes flick to your mouth, and then, just like that, his lips are on yours. He kisses you slowly at first, gently sliding his tongue against your own and relishing in the warmth and wetness of your mouth. He craves you; from your bashful smile to every inch of your body that always seems to be wrapped tightly in designer. He wonders what sounds you’ll make when he fucks you, whether or not you prefer to go slow and make love, how wet you’ll get you with just his fingers, and if your panties are thin and lacy and riding up your ass.
He hates wondering, so he takes you home. You unzip your dress and let it fall to the hardwood floor, and he pours himself a whiskey on the rocks. His curious eyes roam all over your skin, from your hardened nipples to your bare thighs, as he guides your lower back against the kitchen counter. Every touch against your skin makes you shudder, whether it be the pads of his fingers or the grey marble of the countertop.
“Look at you. Fuck..” He says, mostly to himself, as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. Your eyes flutter shut at his touch.
He runs his palm up the curve of your ass and hooks his fingers underneath the band of your panties, tugging it tight against your pussy. The feeling of your skin burns into his memory, and as he looks at your face, really looks at it, he knows he hit the jackpot; your face is as beautiful as your voice, your voice is as beautiful as your mind, and your mind is as beautiful as your body. To him, you’re fucking faultless. He knows he’ll be on his knees for you before the night is over.
The ice sitting in his glass glistens beneath the kitchen light and it gives him an intriguing idea. He wants to see you come undone, to make you so stimulated that you can’t pinpoint where the feeling is coming from. He takes an ice cube between his lips and presses it against the side of your neck. You gasp at the feeling of the ice running against your skin; so cold that it almost stings. Your fingers grasp at the fabric of his button-up as he drags the ice past your collarbone and down to your nipple, pressing it firm against the bud until your back arches away from the counter. A thin sheen of water maps out exactly where his lips have been.
Just like he knew he would, he sinks to his knees and tugs your panties down your thighs and off at the feet. The ice melts in his mouth. His lips are still cold and wet as he presses a hard kiss against your pussy, and the feeling draws a startled gasp from your chest. He spreads your folds with his fingers and teasingly drags his tongue against your pussy hole. His nose digs against your clit as he licks into you. His own saliva coats his chin, and at one point, drools from your pussy to the hardwood flooring.
“Right there.. Like that. Fuck!” You sigh as he alternates between sucking and licking your clit, and curling two fingers inside of you. He touches you right, really making the effort to listen to the sounds you make and taking note of the way you squirm against his mouth.
He licks your pussy and digs his fingers into your ass until your moans double in volume and your breathing turns rapid, and then he stands to steal your breath again with a deep kiss. You fumble with the buttons of his button-up as he fervently kisses you. The pace of the kiss is erratic and you find it difficult to keep up. He bites and sucks on your tongue until your lips are swollen.
His body is dreamy and something you’ve been curious about ever since he turned up in that tight, black button-up; wide shoulders, slim waist, defined abdomen and pecs, and small nipples that harden slightly as you run your hands over his skin. You tug on the zipper of his pants and reach beneath for his cock. It’s stiff and warm in your hand.
He lifts your leg and wraps your thigh snug around his bare waist, eager to feel you. A relieved sigh falls from both of your mouths as he sinks into you. He pulls your hips flush against his own, delving deeper and filling you up until he can’t any more. You feel so warm and wet wrapped around him. It couldn’t be any better.
“You feel so good.” He praises and he means every word. “So fucking good..”
Similarly to the first kiss you shared, he starts off gentle and slow, but is quick to lose himself in the moment and set a quick pace. His pecs and abdomen flex as he bucks his hips against yours over and over again. The sex has you in a trance. Moans drool from your lips, your nails rake across the back of his neck, and your head grows increasingly dizzy. Your lower back digs firmly into the counter top as he fucks you against it, and profanities fall from his tongue in arousing moans. You can’t imagine your night getting any better.
The sex migrates from the kitchen counter, to the doors of the pantry, and finally to the nearby couch. He sinks onto, almost into, the couch as you straddle his lap. Nothing else is running through his mind aside from you; the feeling of your wrapped tightly around him, the sight of your parted lips and low eyes, the sound of your pretty whines and stuttering breath, and the bounce in your tits as you sit on his cock over and over again.
“Oh my.. god. Oh my-” You chant in desperate whispers. “Fuck..”
He reaches for your tits, squeezing the flesh and pinching your nipples between his fingers. Your skin is delicate beneath his touch; he almost feels like he could break you at any moment, but you’re proving to be a bigger girl than he made you out to be.
You come twice that night; once on his cock and the other on his tongue. You’re breathless when it ends and it takes you many, many more moments spent in his arms before you can gather your thoughts and clothing.
Jungkook has had enough sex in his life to understand that sex is never perfect and that’s a very normal and human thing. Sometimes it takes a few different touches and manoeuvres to turn somebody on, and other times it’s a walk in the (water) park. Sometimes he’ll laugh while he’s balls deep in somebody because one of them made a funny noise. He might miss their mouth and accidentally kiss their chin. He might come too early or too late, lose his erection halfway through because a bizarre thought crossed his mind, or even fall asleep before he can take his pants off because he’s had a little too much to drink. Sometimes sex is boring, or silent, or just an itch that needs to be scratched. But he saw no fault in the sex he just had with you. His mind didn’t wander, but his hands definitely did. He liked everything about it; from the sounds you made to the way you slipped your tongue into his mouth. He still sees zero faults in you.
You head home with a slight wobble in your step. The sex was something that you never knew you’d been craving. It relieved a good handful of your pent-up stress and gave back some confidence that you’d been missing. Your sex life wasn’t dead before tonight, it was just put on hold for a few weeks while you get your shit together at work. Woods has been hinting at letting you work with a really huge client for some time now and you feel the need to give him a very compelling reason to. Sex with no strings attached is easy to find, but good sex with no strings attached isn’t. You know you’ve hit the jackpot with this one.
Woods hands you the client on Friday morning. Just like that. He strides to your desk and slaps down a file full of various sketches, building plans, and contact details. You flip through the pages with an abundance of enthusiasm as he glares down at you. He wants you to stay at the studio and he’s hoping that this will buy your confidence. That’s what this is.
“Don’t disappoint me.” Is all that he says.
You meet with those clients on the very same day, introducing yourself and chatting about various design ideas over coffee at a nearby cafe. They’re a married couple in their late fifties and as rich as ever. They carry themselves well and decide on a budget in the millions. They want to build a retirement home for themselves; somewhere secluded and surrounded by gorgeous scenery, open plan, modern, lots of light, white and elegant decor.
“Plants.” The man adds as you’re taking notes on an iPad. He’s handsome; short, dark hair, well-built figure, pretty brown eyes, and a soothing voice. “Lots of house plants. They make the air better.”
“Actually..” The woman adds as the meeting comes to an end. She’s as attractive as her husband; pretty eyes, shiny black hair, and delicate fingers. “We’re heading to a literature event tonight and the venue is exactly in the style we’re looking for. Why not come? It’s a nice excuse to get you out of the office, isn’t it?”
You accept with a smile. Who are you to turn down free champagne during a weekday? You’re not much of a reader, not because you don’t like to read, but because you rarely have the time. Regardless, you put on your nicest dress and your nicest heels, and adorn your face with pretty makeup.
The venue is stunning; high ceilings with expensive chandeliers, white Victorian walls, indoor ivory hanging from aged wooden beams, huge windows that allow the sunlight to pass through. It really is beautiful here. The other guests are dressed to the nines; shawls, glistening dresses, designer ties and suits, and priceless shoes. As you’re looking around and sipping on a glass of complementary champagne, somebody all too familiar catches your eye. He notices you just moments after and comes bounding over with a handsome smile on his face.
“Fancy seeing you here.” Jeon Jungkook, your neighbor and the man you had literal sex with the other day, joins you by the table of champagne glasses. A huge chocolate fountain and a few vases full of white flowers are sat on the table, too.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, a bit taken aback by how good he looks; black blazer over a tight high-neck sweater, black dress pants, and shiny shoes. His hair is styled neatly and pushed off to one side.
“I was invited-” He quirks an eyebrow. “-to the author’s events because, believe it or not, I’m an author. Why are you here?”
“Right.” You breathe out all of your tense energy in one, long sigh. With little conviction, you gesture toward the middle-aged couple who are enjoying champagne with a slightly younger woman. “Those are my clients. They want a home in a similar style to this. They didn’t have to invite me, but it’s nice that they did. Could’ve just googled this place or visited later in the week..”
“My parents?” He asks, unaffected.
He points two limp fingers in the direction of the same couple and you can’t help but remember the feeling of them between your thighs. “The pretentious looking couple, yeah, my parents. I was so sure you were the type to read through my Wikipedia page and draw up my family tree.”
Small world, you think to yourself. It seems like every rich person knows all the other rich people in this world. They all meet at some point, buying and selling parts of themselves in the good name of business. The world makes the strangest connections sometimes.
“If you ever feel nervous, just remember this.” He says. “Their son writes sex novels, so nothing can really disappoint them any more than that. You’ll give them what they want, though. I’ve seen some of your work.”
“They don’t support you?”
“They do. My mom tells people that I write about science and the order of the universe, though. She’s still holding out hope that I’ll suddenly want to work at their company. My dad doesn’t really care.. as long as I don’t overdose on some yacht in Cancun.”
Jungkook’s eyes drag from your exposed neck and arms, to the curve of your ass. Your glittery dress is as amazing as everyone else's, maybe even better. The soft skin of your back is exposed and a delicate string of jewels runs down your spine. “You look nice, by the way. Really nice.”
The opportunity for mingling comes to a close once a young man — about the same age as Jungkook — steps up to the mic that’s been set up at the front and center of the venue. He’s wearing round glasses and a black, fitted suit. The guests take their seats at their allocated tables. It comes as no surprise to you that Jungkook is seated at the same table as parents. You sit at the table behind with a few other rich women draped in designer. The eldest woman sat around the table taps your shoulder and compliments your dress.
“Stunning.” She says and you smile.
“Thanks for coming everyone. I’d like to start us off with a passage from my latest self-help book.” The young man with the glasses begins after tapping the mic with two fingers. He’s not nervous, just eager to change at least one person’s outlook. “If somebody doesn’t bring anything positive into your life, let them go. You’ll feel bad and question whether you’ve done the right thing, but just give it some time. Don’t check up on somebody who doesn’t check up on you. Don’t try to keep in contact. Stop associating things, music, and people with that person.”
“Maybe they said something mean and you said something back or vice versa, but in reality, it just doesn’t matter. You were both upset. You’re not defined by a petty argument. People in this world kill each-other, steal, abuse power, and assault the most vulnerable. You’re not a bad person for being upset and saying something hurtful, and that rings true if you feel any ounce of regret. It happened and you can’t change it. Sure, you might’ve had some awesome times and genuinely have love for that person, but if they continuously make you doubt your worth, intellect, choices, values, invade your privacy, and lash out at you for being somebody other than who they want you to be, let them go. You don’t even owe them an explanation or a goodbye. Don’t apologize when it isn’t your fault. Don’t apologize for mistakes that you didn’t make. Don’t waste time reflecting on shit that just isn’t worth it. This world is full of people who you will love and who will love you. Don’t settle. You lose part of yourself when you do.”
And then he nods to the crowd and returns to his seat. An older woman takes his place and introduces a passage from her own novel.
“Lessons in love hurt.” She says. “If there was a class for love, nobody would turn up. We’re not lab rats and we’d all prefer to learn without pain. I don’t ever remember feeling like I’d spend life alone after a math class, do you?”
Despite Jungkook being the most famous author here, he doesn’t get up to speak at all during the night. All he does is listen to the others and clap once they finish reciting their bit. When the event ends and all the rich people have shaken all the other rich people’s hands, he offers to take you somewhere where they serve a lot more than champagne, and you accept without a hesitating thought.
He drives a black camaro and it smells exactly like his aftershave. You don’t bother to ask him where he’s taking you because you trust that he’ll show you a good time. He drives for fifteen minutes down a busy road before turning a corner and continuing down a narrow driveway toward a federal colonial house. The driveway widens five times it’s previous size, making room for at-least twenty decent sized vehicles. He parks among nine other cars and walks toward the large front door with your hand in his; just in case you trip in the dark with those heels on.
Dim, alternating colors of light emit from each of the windows; floor to ceiling on the first floor, and half the size on the second. A huge lawn surrounds the property and is dimly illuminated by outdoor solar lights that are impaled into the soil. Loud, electropop music booms from the walls of the building. You can practically see them shaking in tune with the bass.
“Where is this?” You ask over the volume. Bunches of balloons are fastened around an assortment of topiary bay trees.
“A happy house.” He lets himself in like he’s been here one hundred times before. He has. This is the one place that he won’t ever outgrow. People do every type of drug here, party for three days in a row, and have boatloads of sex. The police don’t bother intervening because too many celebrities are fond of this place and come often. If offered enough money, even the law can turn a blind eye. “You get very happy here, if you know what I mean.”
The air is thicker inside the building and more difficult to breathe in. It doesn’t feel like a home at all. You can smell weed, sweat, sex, and alcohol. The flickering lights illuminate parts of people’s faces and bodies. They’re chatting quietly, touching each-other through and beneath their clothing, smoking cigarettes, and exchanging saliva in the hallway. Some have multicolored hair, streaks of neon paint smeared on their face, missing shirts, cocaine melted into their upper lip, and a light sheen of sweat adorning their skin.
Jungkook takes no notice. He guides you past the bodies in the hallway and toward what looks like a pumped-up, party-haven living room. Two couches sit opposite from one another and in-between a table that’s littered with empty glasses and glow sticks. It’s hard to see much else.
“I was wondering when I’d see you again.” An older woman comes out of nowhere and engulfs Jungkook in a tight hug. She’s wearing a turquoise jumpsuit, lots of jewellery on her wrists and fingers, and bright pink lipstick. The flickering lights make it difficult to make out the true dimensions of her face, but you can tell that she’s very beautiful. She has yellow neon paint smeared down her neck and arms.
“Huifang, Y/N.” Jungkook takes the joint that she offers him and lights it between his lips. The smoke rises to the ceiling and changes color in tune with the lights. “She’s designing my parent’s old people home.”
The woman steps forward and you expect her reach for a hug, but she cups your face and presses a hard kiss against your lips instead. You’re wide eyed when she pulls away, but her smile doesn’t falter. This is definitely a happy house.
“She’s very friendly.. Ever since the divorce.” Jungkook’s eyes sparkle in the light as he laughs. It’s a playful gesture that Huifang returns by nudging his arm.
“Wow.. Yeah.” You pat your lips and check your fingers for her bright pink lipstick.
Somewhere along the flashing lines, Jungkook vanishes beneath the lights and Huifang pulls you down on the the nearest couch. You’ve never been so bewildered in your life. There’s so much going on that you don’t understand, but the three glasses of champagne that you had previously are doing their bit at calming your nerves.
“You’re free here.” She says. “You can do anything around these people; take every kind of drug, have sex on the tables, commit fraud in the hallway. Nobody fucking cares here and I love living this way.”
She points a manicured finger toward two people sat on a dining table chair. Balloons are tied to the legs of the nearby table and confetti litters the floor. A woman, about the same age as Huifang, has the straps of her dress at her hips. She’s hungrily kissing a man whose lap she’s occupied. The flickering lights make what their doing seem slightly more private, but they’re still definitely having sex. There are other people slumped against the wall, some are on the couch, some are cutting up cocaine on the table, some are walking past the couch and into the back garden, where sex is also definitely being had. It all seems very normal here. It’s like a frat party on steroids and Viagra.
“You and I are from the same spaceship. I can tell.” Huifang says, but doesn’t elaborate until she lights a cigarette between her lips and takes a long drag. “Ambitious as hell when shown a little faith.”
“I wasn’t always like this.” She gestures to her styled hair and the expensive rings on her fingers. “I was dirt poor when I had my son and couldn’t even afford to send him to school with lunch like all the other kids. Selfish, right? I got pregnant when I knew I couldn’t take of my own kid. And then it got even harder; I couldn’t afford to pay for his bus tickets when the school fees starting increasing. Something to do with expensive development in the area. That’s when I knew I was in real shit. I thought about pulling him out and teaching him a thing or two around the dinner table, but what the hell do I know? I dropped out of high school to raise him. I couldn’t teach him half the things a decent school could. All I could do was work unstable jobs.”
In the time it takes her to preface her story, her cigarette burns out completely. She takes a new cigarette from the pocket of her turquoise jumpsuit and lights it between her small, pink lips. “Anyways..” She says with a cloud of smoke chasing each syllable. The lights make her dark eyes look like they’re shifting colors.
“I met him during my shift at a bar when I was thirty-two and he was twenty-one. I couldn’t believe how smart and handsome he was. He spoke like he knew the answers to everything.” She doesn’t point to any man, but you know for certain that she’s referring to Jungkook. “He was interested in my life, so I told him everything. I told him how my parents would frown at me for living how I lived. They were rich, but I didn’t want to live off money I didn’t earn. They didn’t understand and scolded me for being selfish. My son wasn’t ever a depressed or spoiled child and he knew the value of money from a very early age. I guess that’s one thing I could teach him.”
“He wrote about me, you know?” She admits. “It’s a complete autobiography, really. He’s a talented writer, always describing things that others wouldn’t have thought to. And he gave me 100% of the profits he made from it. I refused at first, but he insisted that I deserved it.”
You’re so engulfed in her story that you don’t notice when Jungkook takes a seat next to you until his fingers push your hair away from your neck. His hand is smeared in pink neon paint, which is now glowing in a section of your hair. In his other hand is a clear drink. He offers it to you and you smell it; vodka and lemonade. Classy.
“Having fun?” He leans close to your neck so you can hear him over the booming music. “She’s funny, isn’t she?”
“You could say that.”
He watches as you take a leisurely sip of your drink. Your lips are slightly wet and glisten beneath the flashing lights. “Can I ask you something?”
You give him a playful look, the same one you’ve been giving him most of the night, and he responds by placing a hand on your thigh. The silk is smooth against his palm, but so is your skin as he reaches underneath the skirt of your dress. Huifang isn’t sitting next to you when you look for her.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve done?” Jungkook coos against your neck as his fingers dance against your skin. They inch higher and higher as each second passes. The music grows louder.
You’ve had plenty of sex with ex-boyfriends at questionable places, but you haven’t been touched so publicly before, nor have you been so aroused that you’d even allow somebody’s hand to reach any further than your knee.
Your heart slams against your rib cage and you swallow hard. You can’t find the strength to recite your response in anything other than a quiet whisper. You’re no stranger to sex, but you feel like a virgin again. “The worst?”
He can’t hear you. His hand vanishes beneath your dress, now delving beneath the fabric of your panties and running against your wet skin. You sigh at his touch.
The music and chatter has dimmed around you and the only thing your ears listen for is his voice. “The naughtiest.”
Completely void of shame, he eases two fingers into your pussy until his palm is flush against your clit. You instinctively reach for his inner thigh and dig your nails into the fabric of his pants. He moves, slowly pumping his fingers and rubbing his palm firmly against your clit. You’re hazy and light-headed, completely drunk on his touch.
He takes your earlobe between his teeth before pressing a gentle kiss against the sore skin. “I think I can guess.”
You bite back a moan into a whimper that only he hears. Your pussy aches around his fingers and you instinctively push your hips closer toward his touch. He presses a hard kiss against your neck and drags his paint-covered hand from your neck down to your breasts. A trail of neon pink paint vanishes beneath your bra, where he has your nipple between his fingers.
Arousal drools down his skin as he increases the speed of his fingers. Your hips move on their own, circling and following the rhythm of his fingers. A fire grows between your thighs and you have to really, really focus to not drop your drink on the floor and smash the glass.
“That’s pretty naughty.” You can hear the amusement in his voice.
That’s the worst thing you’ve ever done.
On Saturday, you work yourself to the bone. Jungkook crosses your mind when you’re alone in your bedroom, but you fall asleep before you can do anything about it. On Sunday, though, you just can’t fall asleep. The thought of his touch and the insanely perverted thing you did in that house full of people lingers in your mind. Things like that would usually repulse you, but you can’t help but ache for it again.
Shamelessly, you touch yourself. You run the tip of your vibrator up and down your pussy, spreading your lips and slicking up the toy. You picture the shower scene you had read in his novel; the hand-print on the woman’s thigh, the slapping sounds of wet sex, and the heavy water flowing from the faucet. You picture his fingers rubbing hard against your clit and easing deep into you, just how he had done on Friday night. You picture the dimples in his lower back as he dips in-between your thighs, his wide shoulders, toned abdomen, his voice in your ear.
A whine falls from your mouth as you delve deeper into your imagination. His sex, his moans, the furrow in his eyebrows when he concentrates on fucking you well, the kisses that he likes to press against your neck. Your back arches off the bed as you draw yourself closer to your climax. You can barely contain yourself. Moans and gasps fill your bedroom. You grasp at the sheets and think of him when you come.
Jungkook sleeps with two women and writes more of his novel; the one inspired by you. His writers block is well and truly being replaced with something far more productive.
From Monday to Friday, David Woods invites you into his office before you reach your desk in the morning and before you step outside at the end of each day, demanding updates on the rich couple you’re working for. They may be Jungkook’s parents, but they’re your clients. You’re smart enough to know that it’s always best to leave personal-life far, far away from work-life.
“Well?” Woods always begins with.
“Well what?” You always finish with. “They’re happy with how things are progressing.”
Every second of every day, you feel Woods’ ghost looming over your shoulder and yelling ‘don’t fuck this up! make me look good and make me lots of money! more, more, more money!’
Sunday is supposed to be the day that you can dedicate to yourself and to your peace of mind, but you find it increasingly hard to wind down. No matter how delicious your cocktail is, how warm the summers night is, or how pretty the pool looks as the water glistens beneath the moonlight, you just can’t seem to settle your thoughts.
“Rough day?” A familiar voice calls from his second story home. You don’t need to lift your head to know that Jungkook is hanging out of his window with a glass of whiskey in hand and a handsome smile on his face.
“You have no idea.” You call back, making no effort to meet his gaze. You’re wearing a short summery dress and he likes the look of it.
“Well.” He lifts his glass like he’s making a toast to God himself. “I’d like to have an idea.”
He invites you over and you hesitantly accept the glass of red wine he pours for you. A gin and tonic would’ve been nice, but he’s keen on you tasting this exclusive bottle of wine. You take a tiny sip and are pleasantly surprised. It’s not vinegary like all the other wines you’ve tasted. It’s floral and soft on your throat.
You tell him everything about your ordeals at work; from the first time you met your boss, to the time he told you not to wear a particular color because it ‘washes you out’, and now to his constant breathing down your neck. You want to leave and create your own business as soon as you can, but you can’t leave a client before construction work begins. You’ll look like a fucking idiot.
It feels good to vent and it feels even better to vent to someone who holds zero judgement toward you. The conversation shifts and you ask about Huifang. He tells you that her son recently received a scholarship for university.
“What’s your favorite color?” Jungkook asks as he refills your wine glass for the third time that night.
“Why do you ask?”
He’s amused at your sudden defensiveness. Is it that bad? “Trying to get to know you.”
“I don’t have one.” You say without giving it a single thought. It’s such a simple question, but you don’t want to answer it. There’s something much more intimate about telling somebody your favorite color than, for example, drawing them a labelled diagram of your vagina and asshole. You don’t want to be that kind of intimate. Not now.
“Fine.” He says, smile not faltering. “Mine’s blue.”
You decide to ask him a question of your own; one that you’ve been meaning to ask since that night at the bar. “Nothing in this world bothers you, does it?”
“Things bother me.” He admits. “But I see no point in hanging onto things that I can’t change.”
When midnight strikes, you announce your departure. You pick up the bottle of red wine and make a rightful request. “Mind if I take this? It’s better than I thought.”
You leave and he rolls himself a tight joint. His personal phone rings from the kitchen counter and he picks up after five rings.
“Yes?” He asks, wholly uninterested.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” A pretty female voice murmurs through the receiver. “I’m a few hours behind, so I’m sorry for calling you so late at night.”
His joint hangs loosely from the side of his mouth, the filter growing slightly damp. It crosses his mind that this woman behind the phone may be his first love, but that thought leaves his mind as quickly as it comes. He changed his phone number multiple times to avoid a handful of others, so how could it be? “Who is this?”
“You forgot me already?” Her laugh rings in his ears like a high school bell. It is her. Only she has that laugh. It’s beautiful, but also sort of villainous. “How long has it been? three years?”
“I don’t keep track of time anymore.”
“Because you’re so rich, right? Nothing really matters to you anymore. You can do whatever you want.” He can picture her rolling her eyes so clearly in his mind. That was something she often did when she disapproved. “Money is a nice feeling.”
He doesn’t say anything, too taken aback by the exact same person who used him up like a favorite lipstick three years back. He doesn’t understand why she called him.
“I read your novel, by the way. The one about me.” She cuts the silence with a softer tone. “You made me look a lot better than I’ve been. Why?”
He lights the tip of the joint with an old, silver lighter and inhales the smoke deeply into his lungs. The smoke chases his response and then vanishes into the air. “No hard feelings, right? We agreed on that.”
“Did you mean it?” She switches the topic at the very moment he notices the lights to your bedroom flick on. “When you said you’d always love me? Wait for me?”
“I meant it then.” He admits, his vision and mind softening. He checked out of the conversation just moments before. “But that was then.”
And then he hangs up, eyes on the gentle light emitting from your home. Unbeknownst to him, his heart isn’t stuck in the radio waves that momentarily connected him to his past, it’s in that bottle of wine you took, in your hands, in his future.
You work like you always do. Jungkook crosses your mind, but it’s far too often for your liking. It concerns you how he easily he can creep into your mind while you’re sitting at your desk, waiting in line for a coffee, or driving home. You always look at his house before pulling up to your own. This isn’t seeming like a no-strings-attached arrangement anymore and that bothers you.
Jungkook is presented with countless opportunities, but he doesn’t sleep with anyone during the time spent away from you. He touches himself to the thought of you a few times; a clear picture of your face in his mind as he runs his fingers over his skin. He can’t help it, but he doesn’t quite know why. He wonders what you get up to at work and if your boss has backed off yet. He hates wondering.
You don’t speak for almost three weeks and that irks him. He writes a lot of his novel in that time, but it’s not enough to ease his mind. He wants to see you, to listen to you ramble about your life, to see that bashful smile. He calls you on a Tuesday night, but you don’t answer. He calls you on a Friday night and you answer after six rings.
“Where have you been?”
“Working.” You hate the effect that his voice has on you. “Where have you been?”
“Working. Wanna hang out?” He asks because he wants to touch you and you agree because you want to touch him, too.
For a change, he knocks on your door and you have sex in your house. The sex is just as good and dirty as it had been the last time, maybe even better; he pulls your hair, pushes his fingers in your mouth, and slaps your ass as he fucks you from behind. He makes you come twice, makes you say his name, and ties your wrists with your own panties. You lick his cock from the base to the tip and coat his skin with your saliva. You hollow your cheeks, swirl your tongue, and run your tongue along his slit, and he fucks your throat until tears prick at the corner of your eyes. The both of you let completely loose and crumble beneath each-other’s touch, but when all is said and done, you immediately start searching for your clothes.
“Are you avoiding me?” He asks as he watches you step back into your panties. He’s laying back on your bed, naked, with a hand resting under his head.
This is where he had his heart broken for the first time; not with his dick out, although, that does come to mind whenever he reminisces, but after being avoided for a period of time. He remembers what his ex said to him; ‘I’m moving away. Away from this fucking city. I’ll call you.’ And then he let her. He let her glance at him only once, get on that flight, and leave his heart on the runway. But he’s not a total idiot. He picked it up and shoved it back into his chest where it should’ve stayed and where healing only comes with time. Even after publishing his first novel, he still felt alone. Money, fame, and sex isn’t everything. He was missing a kind of company where he was allowed to be flawed. And then he met you. You let him say the wrong things, drink too much on a night out, have messy and imperfect sex, and express dissatisfaction even toward his wealthy lifestyle.
You hesitate before answering. Have you been avoiding him? You couldn’t say. You’ve definitely been running from thoughts of him. “No, why?”
“Don’t know. Maybe you’re not.” He doesn’t pull his eyes away from your frantic movements. “I like spending time with you, so it sucks that I can’t see you more often.”
To you, he’s just another contact in your phone book. To him, you’re just company that he’s very fond of. That’s what you’ve convinced yourselves, at-least. Maybe you were both raised the same way; taught to not put yourself in risky situations unless they’ll bring you success and fortune. Emotions are messy and complicated, and feelings of heartbreak aren’t worth the trouble. Sex is fun, but falling in-love isn’t. You go from occasionally thinking about a person, to becoming a vessel for their entire existence. You’ll no longer put yourself first and that can be a dangerous thing. After sex, you can just get up and leave. But, when you’re in-love, it stays with you no matter how far you run.
“I’ve just been busy.” You say. It’s not a lie. “You know how it gets.”
“Yeah, I do.” He grins at you and you feel a huge wave of guilt wash over you. Why is he such a nice fucking guy? Why do you never want to see that smile leave his face?
You can’t hold it in much longer, so you just let it all out. You need to make sense of this. “This is just a friendship, right? We’re clearly friends, but then there’s all of this sex. Really good sex, don’t get me wrong..”
Jungkook knows that he has love for you, but he’s not in-love with you. He could be, though, and that’s something that intrigues him. If you would just look into his eyes a little differently and let him see past the shades of your iris’, he knows that he could fall in-love. Seeing you stand in front of him, now, with nothing on but panties and his shirt makes him wonder. He’s seen what’s beneath, but he hasn’t seen much of what’s even deeper. You don’t talk when you don’t want to. You don’t let yourself be wholly vulnerable around him.
“Why wouldn’t we be friends?” He realizes how that sounds as soon as he says it. You’re just trying to draw the lines and he’s really fucking awful at coloring within them.
“Okay. Let’s agree on friends.. Just to be clear.” You hold out your hand like you’re offering him a life-changing deal. It may not be life-changing, but it’s definitely a one-way deal. How can he refuse? If he does, he’ll lose you completely. If he agrees, he’ll lose you in the way he wants you, but you’ll still be around.
This has happened before, something similar at-least. He should’ve seen it coming, but he gets so lost in your eyes and lost in the way your voice envelopes all of his senses. This is how his life will continue to be; others will do great things and he will be the messenger. Willingly, of course. There’s something quite intriguing about being the pawn in another person’s self-discovery plan. Besides, he’s not leaving empty handed; he gets another plot for his next novel. He gets to feel whatever pain he feels and he’ll make millions out of it. People will do just about anything to succeed in this world, whether it be playing the devil or the fool. Both warrant profit and a status of some kind.
He wants to ask if you’re sure, but who is he to question your choices? He doesn’t know what goes on in your head, what’s best for you, or how you truly feel about him. Some may say that he deserves to know, but he doesn’t. Nobody in this world is entitled to your thoughts, your body, or your time, no matter what they’ve done for you.
His expression shifts to one of amusement — like he’s saying ‘well played’ — as he takes your hand and shakes on it. You’re one hell of a woman, the most intriguing one he’s even met. There are layers to you that are never-ending, depths that are too dark for him to see in. And, until you hand him a torch bright enough, he’ll appreciate the things that you do decide to show him. “Friends, whatever you want.”
No matter how much it hurts, nobody can force what isn’t meant to be. Maybe time will change the story, but for now, everything is how it’s supposed to be. He won’t force any of his feelings onto you and that’s what will make him a good friend. You’ll just look at each-other, exactly how you’re doing right now, with tight lips. You’ll share the warmth of each-other’s palms and bathe in the silence until somebody picks up their pride and makes the easier decision.
Just because two people love each-other, even in the most platonic way, it doesn’t mean that they’re meant to be together. For some, pain is pleasure. For others, pain is pain, and they have a habit of letting it go along with the person who sparked the feeling. Life is a cycle of giving and receiving pain, but it’s also a cycle of giving and receiving love. Without pain, nobody would know love, and vice versa.
But, before he can pull his eyes away from yours and be the one to leave, to make that easy decision, you give him that very look; the look that makes him fall in-love with you.
“Purple.” You say, holding onto his hand like it’s keeping you afloat. You feel like you might lose him forever if you let go, like you might drown in the most painful way. You don’t want him to leave. “That’s my favorite color.”
He doesn’t say a word, far too afraid of missing one of yours.
“Not a hickey-colored purple, more like a lilac.” Your eyes are wide and desperate. To be friends isn’t what you want, even if it’s what you said. You know that you’ll never feel what he makes you feel with any other person. Maybe he’ll break your heart into a million pieces, or maybe you’ll break his, but you wouldn’t want anyone else to do it. You’ll never trust somebody like you trust him and that’s important to you. “I didn’t like wine until you poured me some, daises spark up my allergies, my parents have been separated for nine years, but can’t be bothered to divide their assets, so, technically, they’re still married. My friends and I have a Sex and the City marathon every Christmas..”
What happens that same night is unlike anything either of you have ever experienced before. Shut off from others and believing that you are the only two people awake in this big, messy world right now, you allow yourselves to fall completely, deeply, and unconditionally in-love with each-other. There’s nowhere else that you’d rather be than in his arms, sharing what seems like pointless things about yourself; your experience in college, what you were like when you were a kid, your favorite foods, your favorite music, your worst habits. You laugh, you cry, you run your fingers through his hair and kiss him tenderly. You tell him that you love him because you know that you do, and he tells you that he loves you because it’s impossible for him not to.
You succeed in your own studio because that’s what you put your mind, body, and soul towards. You rarely question your identity, femininity, and self-worth, but when you do, you take a step back and take a long look at the empire you’ve amassed for yourself. You cry when you need to, you scream at the ocean when things bottle up, you have the filthiest sex with Jungkook and let him kiss every inch of your skin when you want to be touched, and you allow yourself to be wholly vulnerable with the people that love you. You take a look at the kind friends you’ve made, the supportive clients, investors, and even those who despise you in silence.
And, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, you take a good look at a newspaper article displayed behind the window of a news agency: David Woods, former CEO of Woods Architecture Studio, is under fire for subjecting his employees to bizarre company policies, underpaying, and failing to provide adequate training and feedback opportunities to female employees.
The article displayed on the following newspaper makes you smile just as wide: Jeon Jungkook, author and new-found owner of a whiskey distillery, sold more than one million copies of his new novel in the first seven days, and has achieved the title of Best Selling Author for the third year in a row.
You might be thinking to yourself: did he ever write that odd, sex-filled erotica novel about me? The answer is yes. You just read it.
Thanks for reading!
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