He doesn't ask.

He never asks anymore. Not after the first time, when you'd whispered yes into his mouth and he'd taken you apart on his leather couch. Now he just takes. And you let him. God, you let him.

Jungkook stands in front of you, his dark eyes fixed on your chest like he's starving and you're the only meal that's ever mattered. His lip ring catches the low light—a silver hoop that you know from experience is cold against your skin, then warm, then biting.

"Sit," he says.

You're already on his bed, your back against the headboard, your legs tucked beneath you. You're wearing a white blouse, the kind with small buttons that run all the way up to your throat. You'd worn it knowing he'd be the one to open it.

He crawls onto the bed, his massive frame making the mattress dip beneath his weight. His hands—those hands, so large that his fingers span your entire ribcage—come up to the first button.