hoseoksluna

[hoseoksluna]

shibal this life 🙂‍↕️✋🏻

CRUEL | jjk

pairing: idol!boyfriend!jeongguk x f. reader 

genre: smut, pwp

word count: 9k

summary: when jeongguk finds out you were touching yourself without his permission while he’s gone in seoul, he’s not hesitant to remind you how cruel he can be.

warnings: heavy daddy issues (ofc), dom/sub dynamics, punishment, spanking, edging, food used during intercourse, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), nipple play, deep-throat, degradation kink, squirting, the horniness is too much, bratty behavior, smoking and vaping, dirty talk, no condom, multiple rounds, multiple positions, miscommunication trope, jungkook is delicious and cruel.

note: i jinja can’t believe this is real. jungkook came live on hoseoksluna’s comeback and i still haven’t recovered. i can’t believe that i finally wrote something that i’m proud of and that i’m finally showing it to you. while he was live, i was making the same matcha that is mentioned in the fic and it just feels like a dream come true, a story coming full circle. you’ll see what i mean by the time you finish reading this fic. please, don’t forget to give me a warm welcome and give me ALL of your thoughts. i missed you all sooooo much, and i’m already thinking about what to write about next. I LOVE YOU ALL, ENJOY READING. MWAH.

The days were cruel. 

In an unimaginable way that made you cranky. The days were blistering hot; the sun grazed its round face against your skin too feverishly. The bees foolishly thought you were a flower, put together on this earth to refresh them and fill their backs with pollen, sending you into a spiral of fear of such great weight that the whole town heard you yelp and scream. And your boyfriend was out and about in the faraway city of Seoul, bulky and masculine, but still the same Jeonggguk, making his name bigger in the world by crafting an album with his closest brothers. 

You were alone with the bees. And you were alone with your… loneliness, which had many shades. 

Blue for when you missed the quintessence of his presence. His softness, and the gentleness that was the true core of his openness, his warmth and his lovingness. All of which was palpably manifested through his most prominent love language: acts of service. Making you breakfast, fixing you a quick lunch, making you dinner with snacks and desserts in between. Washing your fruits, then watching you eat them with the kind of joy only a person like him could radiate. Making you matcha. Filling up your water bottle without you ever asking. Tying the shoelaces of your favorite sneakers or helping you with the clip of your most-beloved heels. Washing your hair, lathering your body in your colorfully scented body butters and creams… massaging you. 

The very gesture interlaced with the second shade. 

Burgundy was for when you missed the physicality only a man like him could offer you. The big muscles he worked when he jackhammered his fingers in and out your heat just to see how many times you could squirt for him in two minutes. The rawness of his competitive nature that would come up to the surface more vehemently than ever, more eagerly and more yearningly than the world had even seen. For you, he would unload your burdens, your bad days and your moods with his mouth and his cock, fucking it out of you until your mind was blank, praising you for taking it so wonderfully, for letting him empty you out of the lousy and filling you up with something else he very much enjoyed watching leak out of you. 

You missed him. You fucking missed him. And counting the days wasn’t helping when your body flushed with this burgundy shade. Has been flushing for weeks. Your own fingers weren’t much of a help, cramping when trying to mimic his speed and his technique, and cumming on your own was as dissatisfactory as not cumming at all. 

You were coming home on your own. Getting the groceries on your own. Matcha, skincare. Even the cleaning was bland and dull without the melodious sound of his singing voice, the warmth of his humming, the depth of his conversational skills. 

He isn’t supposed to be returning to the stillness of the town for another couple of days, but you can’t spend another minute delving any further into the realm of your memories with him. Living there, instead of the reality—of your life with him, the life he changed forever. You’re not the type to bother your partner while he is at work, but he has been gone for such a long time and the messages and phone calls haven’t been so frequent, and the liquid heat that pools beneath your panties just isn’t so bearable at the moment. 

And you’re hot. Dying of heat. And you want some ice cream. 

Before your mind is registering what your body is doing out of its own fervent will, you're listening to the ringing on the other side of the phone. A bee buzzes to the left side of you as you make yourself more comfortable on the plushy chair Jeongguk got for you on his balcony, the noise mingling with the repetitive other one. And when he picks up, you don’t even realize it—because the bee flies towards you. 

You scream. Flit your hands. Shriek at it to go away, and the slender yellow creature quickly flaps its wings in the other direction. Away from you, frightened by your reaction, expecting a much different one. 

Your heart thuds heavily in your chest and you take a minute to calm down. It isn’t until you hear Jeongguk calling your name that you snap back to the present moment, and the flesh relaxes at the sound of his voice. 

“What happened?” he asks, a hint of amusement lacing his deep, raspy voice, which divulges to you that he might have a fraction of an idea of what just went down. 

A pout naturally forms, the heavy feeling of his absence expanding in your soul. “A bee attacked me.” 

He chuckles, but the sound is so soft and amiable that it doesn’t scar your heart. On the opposite, his sympathy reloads the void within your sternum, and you suddenly feel the need to grab onto something in order to ground yourself.

“No,” he coos, prolonging the vowel, and you squeeze the suppleness of your bare thigh as you feel his voice reaching the very middle of your lap. It doesn’t really make the situation better. “Are the bees bothering you?” 

“Yes, they are,” you bite just as soon as he asks the question, as if it were his fault that they kept stumbling into his balcony. Perhaps, they miss him, too. “Because they’re looking for you.” 

Jeongguk hums, thinking about what you just said. Clicks his tongue and sighs. “Are they?” 

You hum just the same, in agreement. Don’t expect his following question. 

“What about you?” 

Your breath hitches in your lungs, and your heart skips almost immediately. The thought of what he would do if he were here skyrockets into the canvas of your mind, and the burgundy hue lengthens. You need him. You need him to protect you from the bees, fuck you on this balcony and then take you inside for a continuation of the pleasure, deepening it on the bed. 

“Yes,” you admit, shamelessly, sinking your teeth into the pillow of your bottom lip. “Way more than they are.” 

He chuckles, his raspy adoration spreading in the sound, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together. And you squeeze them harder when he says, “oh yeah?” 

You nearly whimper. Or perhaps the noise does come out, you don’t know because you’re so overwhelmed with your need for him that everything feels stifling and tight and he has the right pair of hands to undo the knots and the damage. And soon, you do know—because Jeongguk does the thing you didn’t have the guts to ask for.

“Princess, put on a pretty dress and wait for me outside. I’ll be there in fifteen,” he murmurs into the phone, zapping you with an amalgamation of shock and pure joy. You gasp, springing up to your feet, and it takes a minute or two before reality descends over your mind, and you engulf him with your words of worries and are you sure’s, which you don’t really hear. Not over the drum of your heartbeat. 

But the one who instigated it also stills it with the smooth, homely melody of his voice. 

“Oppa will manage, don’t you worry about it,” he reassures you, smacking his mouth as he licks his lips. Momentarily, you think about the kind of noises it would make somewhere down below between your thighs until he continues his sentence. “You worry about that dress. The prettier it is, the harder I fuck you in it.” 

You let him hear your sharp intake of breath. Let him hear the influence of his dirty words as they course down your body with the whimpery sigh that leaves your parted lips. And a bud of embarrassment opens and flourishes in your cheeks when he laughs. 

At you. 

And you’re reminded of how truly mean he can be in bed, even though he doesn’t look the part. For a blink of an eye, you fold yourself into the earliest memory you can find in your mind. Of him edging you with his fingers massaging your swollen clit until your tears lined your vision and you had to beg him to make you cum. You feel the center of your panties dampen at that, but you can’t go any further into that recollection. The teasing snarks of his band members and harmonizing voices in the background snap you out of it, and you feel so empty that your mouth corners downturn. Empty with the kind of void only Jeongguk can fill. 

You’re horny, sweltering, and you miss his body. Miss him. 

“Alright then. Can you get me some ice cream on the way?” you ask, tracing invisible patterns on your thigh, your sweat creating a heavy layer on your skin, one of utmost discomfort. The throbbing in your sensitive bundle of nerves only adds to that, despite your phony nonchalance. 

And Jeongguk makes it so much worse. 

“It depends,” he says, ever so seriously, and your bottom lip juts out in a bratty way. “Have you been good while I’ve been away?” 

If being good meant you stroked your pussy while your face was buried in his pillow during those two long weeks of him sleeping in a cold, foreign bed somewhere in Seoul, then yes. You were good. 

Exceptionally good. 

And you tell him. 

“Very good.” Your voice springs to an octave higher, playfulness lacing it sweetly, enough to coax out a soft grunt out of your boyfriend, only for your ears to hear. You surely do hope that none of his band members are around and that his phone is fixed to his own ear because you murmur: “I’ve played with my clit so much that it hurts now.” 

Well, it was half truth, half lie. You did go hard enough last night that you couldn’t do another round, whatever number you were at—you can’t really remember. The muscle became so sensitive and so sore that a sting shot up your sternum when you tried to touch it again, so you let it be. And this morning, in the shower, there was no pain to speak of. You merely said it just to pull his attention to this very pressing matter: your fingers weren’t enough to satisfy your need for him, and you yearned for his own, for his tongue, and for the manhood between his legs that tore up your old life and construed a brand new one. 

Jeongguk growls into the phone, and you can hear the loud, indignant thud of his car door closing. A smirk is drawn on your lips, that very easily. The promise of being redeemed by his ruthless strokes hangs in the air and sweat, excitement and a dark layer of a sensual craze coats you tighter, drives you mad, pushes you into that little role you found your home in the moment you met Jeon Jeongguk. 

The sub space welcomes you, and your boyfriend locks you inside with his following words. 

“That doesn’t sound like you were very good,” he disagrees, and you can almost see him flexing his jaw and gritting his teeth, the action causing that delicious dimple to make a dent in his chewy cheeks, the one you like cumming on so wetly. Because if there’s anything that he’s fundamentally against, it’s you touching yourself without him being present. He regards it unethical when he reminds you every now and then that he owns those dewy little princess parts. And whenever he leaves, whether it be for a tour or promotional events, he very sternly orders you to be good and to not touch your little clit. 

You’ve never had the guts to disobey. You were always eager for his praise and validation whenever he came back to find you dripping wet and swollen, two, three weeks without an ounce of orgasm dopamine. This time, you gathered the courage to rock the boat—but not because you had the craving to be bad, but because there was something different about his absence. 

Be it the aftereffect of the military, you simply couldn’t go any longer without this key part in your life—because truth be told, the sex was everything to you. Intimacy with Jeongguk was the tree of your spine that held your body upwards, its lengthy roots the pathways of your veins. His pheromones, sweat, the mint of his breath, the milkiness of his body wash clinging to his body—that was your oxygen. His grunts, moans, growls and whimpers were the music you needed for your soul’s and mind’s refreshments. And his cum…

You moan his name, brazenly and crazedly, at the thought of his cum. And you perceive what you’ve done when Jeongguk austerely calls you by your own, and you dumbly make a confused noise in response. 

And he’s seemingly had enough.

“That’s it. I’ll deal with you when I get home,” he grumbles, and ends the call. The beeping noise signaling what you’re about to face takes its time getting through the mashed potato your brain has become, and it is the clamorous fluttering of another pair of a bee’s wings that propels your body to awaken and jump to action. 

You grab your green glass of matcha and your phone, and you run back inside. Though the lack of solidness to your brain remains. 

Your thighs are slick with your yearning, your mouth dry and ashy. You feel as though you’ve done something very wrong, and that a punishment awaits you. A great punishment that might elevate your relationship or utterly diminish its wonderful spell. The bee tries to get inside through the transparency of the window, and it reminds you of all the times you got in trouble on purpose for your father to notice you. You realize that you’re nearly doing the same thing now, though not with your father, but another equally important male figure in your life—bumping your head against the glass again and again, despite the fact you know and you’ve seen that the way doesn’t lead there. 

Asking for his time, for his attention… not with your words, but with the rosy wickedness of your actions. Lies, pretense, challenge. 

You’re ashamed of your actions, and it is an ice-cold, prickling sensation beneath your skin. And because of it, your matcha tastes bitter when you slurp it all in one go, no matter how much you sweetened it with the honey Jeongguk bought. The same honey he told you to eat a spoonful of everyday for good health and your throat, made scratchy with the persistent cough caused by your constant smoking. 

How he cares for you, and how little you appreciate it. 

A certain inkling to fix yourself inflames your heart, and because of that—you listen to what Jeongguk told you to do, and you pick out the prettiest dress you own. The one you can’t really wear outside, but only inside due to the sheerness of the fabric. Black and short, ending barely beneath the suppleness of your butt, with an additional slit to accentuate your thighs. Teeny tiny straps, easy for his teeth to tug down your shoulders. And the stretched, long tiger stripes that adorn the fabric, and that do absolutely nothing to cover your nakedness. 

You don’t feel sexy in the dress. Not even when you fluff up your hair. Not even when Jeongguk takes his time and you smoke two cigarettes on the balcony, waiting for his matching black car to appear on the driveway. Not when you’re trembling with the weight that you got yourself in some serious, irredeemable trouble, which results in him not wanting to come home to you at all. 

But the beeping of the lock does find your ears. The quiet shuffling of his feet, the rustling of a plastic bag, the jingling of the plush animal hung over the strap of his bag. You’re not smoking anymore, so you let the balcony door open, and you don’t look back when the shuffling of his socked feet draws closer and closer— 

His warm, large, calloused palm touches the crown of your head. 

No hello’s are spoken aloud, but shared intimately and silently between the interlocking of even warmer, plumper lips. You didn’t even get to get a good glance at him, and he’s deepening the kiss, as if compensating for all those weeks he didn’t get to kiss you at all. His body heat is soaring, dipping into your skin, melting down the severity of your guilt and shame, and if he didn’t pull away and almost fix everything with the intensity of his stare, you would break into liquid, sorrowful emotions. 

Dark, doe eyes, twinkling. The extreme, bottomless outer space of utter blackness, which holds everything. The eyes of a wounded animal, having lost his mother and his home, belonging to a man, capable of making his own home. And that’s the essence of Jeongguk, this split persona that you will never cease to love. 

Hardness and softness, meeting somewhere in the middle. 

Silky hair, falling into that gentle creek of his eyes, damp with the summer air. He glints in the sun—in fact, the entirety of the star reflects off of him as he soaks it, and you soak him, too. Enough that you split into two sides, in which you’re happy to see him and at the same time, you feel as though you don’t deserve to see him at all. 

But Jeongguk sinks his fingers deeper into your hair, bends at the waist again and sinks a tender kiss into the arch of your forehead, lingering there, inhaling you. Spreads the sun into your body until light catches you, takes a hold of the heaviness you carry inside. Doesn’t take it away, not at all. Merely holds it with you, for it’s his job to make it disappear. 

And he does when he withdraws his hand to rummage in the white plastic bag in his other one, and pulls out your favorite strawberry popsicle. 

The sun rays burst in your eyes. Push at the back of them, inviting your tears. 

But they don’t come. Jeongguk stops them with his words. 

“Do you deserve it?” 

The intensity of the moment thumps between you and him, and your guilt threatens to seize your emotions, but Jeongguk crouches in front of you and unwraps the sweet treat you hankered for all day. Holds it up before you, seemingly waiting for your answer, but he doesn’t. 

He speaks again. 

“Did you miss me that much?” 

Now he waits, now he wants to consume your answer with the way he narrows his round eyes, with the way the corner of his puffy mouth twitches upwards and stays there. The amusement fans off from him, and he’s not doing anything to hide it. As a matter of fact, he gladly allows you to see it, bask in it, settle in it. 

That’s the core of his meanness. As small as it is, as shrouded and imperceivable as it has been all this time, its influence is boundless. It straps you down, renders you boneless. But something in its heart requests the presence of your former naughtiness. 

And he proves it to you by his sudden impatience. 

Jeongguk stands up. Your impassioned eyes travel far up with how tall he is, and you can’t help but regard how pretty he is against the gradient of blue and ochre upon the canvas of the sky. A momentary observation that steals the breath out of your lungs before the nerve center of your inner challenge is incited. 

He lifts the hem of his oversized dark gray T-shirt and shows you his groin. 

Not even the excessive bagginess of his jeans can conceal the hard-on he’s sporting. 

His girth, pumped full and thick, creates an outline in his pelvis that causes you to salivate. It reaches his left hip, being fastened to the side like that by the tightness of his ivory Calvins, which peek out from the waistband. His fist also reveals a little bit of his tummy as he holds up his shirt, and there’s so much drool collecting in your mouth that you have a difficult time swallowing it all. 

Your eyes flick back to his manhood, and you think about how easily your lips could glide along its side after you’d slobber all over him. That familiar heat brushes across your mound, your folds moistening, and your mind is wiped clean. 

Jeongguk appears to be intently watchful of your return to your sub space, and you adore the feeling of it. Adore the feeling of him stepping into his own role as your dom. The dynamic is unspoken, always has been, and something tells you that this fact is about to change. 

“You see what you’ve done to me?” he rasps, his arousal clawing at his voice, clawing at you, stimulating your body to want more, yet giving it the sense and the focus it needs to hear what he’s trying to tell you. The popsicle melts and drips at his side, making a mess on the balcony floor. “I had to drive so slow I had the cars honk at me and cuss me out because all I could hear and see in my mind is you moaning and touching yourself to the thought of me.” He grunts, and your muscles jerk in response, calling out for him. The sun is scorching hot inside you, swallowing every bit of your being. And you’re not ignorant to the pang of disappointment that collides with it, when he lets the hem of his shirt drop. “And when I get home, I see you in this dress. Tell me, why are you making it so difficult for me?” He lets his shoulders droop, can’t stand the distance, parts your legs with his, meets your forehead, one hand on the back of your chair, the other—the busy one—in front of you. “I need to fuck you,” he breathes out, fumes, bites his lip. “I need to spank that ass raw for making me rethink everything I’ve ever done or felt.” He pauses, tilts his head, and when that icy dollop of the popsicle plummets to the inner of your thigh, you mewl so devastatingly that he growls and sinks his nails into the plush of the back of the chair. Sucks in heavy breaths through his teeth, inches closer and closer to your lips. He can’t see what the popsicle has done to you, not just yet, because—“I need to watch you play with your little clit for me. I need you to misbehave. It’s just so—” 

And he doesn’t finish his sentence because he kisses you senseless. 

Promptly, he parts your mouth open and slips his tongue inside, groaning at the taste of redemption because he was wrong for forbidding you from being intimate with yourself. The movement of his lips closing is harsh, bruising, but you take it all, take in this newness, this change to the dynamic of the relationship, and you submit so easily that it feels freeing. 

He’s in charge, but he’s given you freedom. 

“I’m gonna make it nice and wet for you.” 

And it is now that, as he kisses you for the last time—more tenderly than before, as if the indication of your pussy softened him, that he notices the ichorous pea of the pink popsicle that has dropped onto your thigh. His hand is tinged with the runny mass, creating veins of white and the same pink, which cascade down his wrist. One of the sun beams, the richest of them all, shimmers in his eyes, and the heaven’s canopy darkens when he swears and dips to your smeared thigh, without averting his gaze, and collects the pea with his wet tongue. 

The moan that comes out of you in response instigates him to grip both of your thighs and push your hips forward, nearly over the edge of the chair. And he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time, and nosedives into your scorched dewiness, seizing your pussy with his whole mouth. And the sensation of his flat tongue against your lips, your outer folds and finally your clit… you let your head drop back and flutter your eyes shut, your moans a continuous stream, which supports his tongue’s potency in licking that already swollen pearl over and over.

But Jeongguk doesn’t like that you’ve closed your eyes. His dominance manifests in full glory, and he withdraws, much to your disappointment. It takes some time for you to fully emerge out of that stupor he’s caused you with his prowess, but he hastens the process. Skillfully so. 

“Look at me while I eat your pussy or I won’t,” he slurs, stupefied just the same, as if he craved your pussy just as you have craved him, and he’s drunk on the sentiment of it all. 

Your eyes flung open, barely, drooping within this overbearing energy. 

Jeongguk’s mouth cracks into a soft smile. “That’s it,” he praises from between your thighs, which he pushes further back into your chest and spreads as far as they can go. Then, he faintly kitten licks your clit. Makes your body zap with the delicate, yet strong surge of pleasure he gives you. Your moan is breathy, but he wants more. You can see it on him long before he voices it out. “Are you not speaking to me?” 

Then, he shocks you with his following action. 

He runs the tip of the popsicle over the top of your bare mound, stopping right at the sensitive spot before your clit. Your chest shudders, the stimulation so cruel but so good, evoking the memory of the first and the last time he edged you, the last time he was mean. You don’t even remember the reason, only the fervent moment was dug deeply in the soil of your mind. And you don’t even know why you’re not speaking—you’re overwhelmed, overfilled with yearning, which is dotted with the last bits of guilt and shame you have. 

But the awareness of what you need dawns upon you. 

You need a conversation. 

“I thought I was in trouble,” you admit quietly, your lips forming that natural pout of sadness. Jeongguk’s eyes soften at the sound of your voice and at the meaning of your words, and time beats twice as he comprehends the information you’ve given him, his irises fixed on your own before they slope down to your pout. 

He licks his lips. Meets your eyes again. Dominant, sharp, ready to resolve. 

“You were,” he adds his own admission, keeping the eye contact intact as he slides the popsicle further down. Its iciness on your clit releases a vulgar moan out of your mouth, the pleasure so vivid and so loud within your body, unlike anything you ever felt in your life. Your thighs shake in his hold and he presses them harder against your chest, his fingers making dents in their thickness. He lets the popsicle dwell there, moving it up and down ever so slowly but firmly, and you feel your dewiness drip down your skin. You rock against it, your eyes flitting as they roll back, and Jeongguk laughs, bitterly. “Until I realized how much I liked it.”

You whimper. The coldness, his words—it’s too much. You furrow your brows and push his hand away, sticking your knees together in overstimulation. Jeongguk obliges, getting the message, replaces the popsicle with his mouth, warming up your pussy. He sucks your clit, watching as your long lashes fan over your eyes, but before you could focus on the pleasure and on your eventual orgasm, he’s gone. 

Ponders his thought before he releases it. “I never thought you would do that,” he continues with his admission, kissing your clit, your fold, your pelvic bone. Your heart jumps, the subtle pleasure enabling your brain to think. “Rub your pussy to the thought of me, I mean,” he explains, brushing his lips over the skin of your inner thigh. Your hand extends out and rakes through the soft ebony of his hair above his ear, encouraging him to carry on. “I always thought you would do it while watching someone else, and I wouldn’t survive that.” A graceful patch of rosiness forms on his cheeks and he shies away, into your thigh, having shown his emotions and the apparent, deeply-set insecurity strung throughout your relationship. 

And it clicks. 

The reason why he doesn’t let you touch yourself is because he’s possessive. And his self-esteem is so insubstantial that he thought you’d rather watch other guys than envelop your self-pleasure around him and the memories he perfumed your life with. 

Your heart sinks, heavy and laden with his burden. It wrecks you, the fact he thinks so low of himself, that he thinks he isn’t worth your alone time while he’s away, and you sit up. Surprise him as you do so. Grab his face, hug him to your chest and hold him like that. 

Hold him as you affirm him of reality. 

“I spent these past two weeks with my nose buried in your pillow because it made my memories of the way you fucked me seem more real,” you say into his hair, the scent of milkiness, honey and cotton filling up your nostrils, intoxicating your brain. Jeongguk listens with his mouth parted and cheeks flaring, his breath heavy against your bosom, and when he kneels and drags you down with him to sit you on his lap, you let him. Gaze into the darkened, dreamy creek of his eyes. Take a dip inside. Try not to grind against his hard manhood, but his wandering hands already begin to do the job. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, tilting his head to go for your neck, peppering the column with the softest kisses and the graze of his teeth as his hands control the back-and-forth motion of your pussy against his denim-clad length by gripping your ass. The popsicle has been discarded forever ago, you guess, and his smeared, cold hands get warmed up easily by your scorching skin, which he fondles, squeezes, all while still maintaining the control. 

But you haven’t finished. Not quite yet. 

You run your fingers through his hair and sigh in all the world’s delight. “Why would I look at different guys in porn when I have the hottest man in the world? Just your selca would make me cum in a minute.” 

He groans, and his hot breath is the last thing you feel before the sinking of his teeth overcomes your senses. 

Jeongguk bites your neck. And you definitely need a cigarette or two after this. 

The drumming in your clit heightens. You can almost hear its music in your head when he soothes the bite with the lap of his tongue, sucking the skin right after and… you’ve nearly forgotten what you two were talking about, had he not backtracked—right there, upon the column of your abused neck. 

“I still want to punish you, just for the fun of it,” he says, and you take two seconds to remember what you did to deserve the play-pretend punishment he speaks of. That much he emptied out your brain with that one singular gesture. “Can I?” 

Oh, and he asks. 

“Please.” 

He begs. 

You whimper his name, his delicious, pretty name, and force him to look at you. Teary eyes, more rounder than ever, tender and lenient, so terribly weak and horny. And those cheeks, so cutely stained with his carmine meekness. You could eat him, you could chew him—and you wouldn’t have enough. 

Such a lamblike man, begging to punish you. 

“Punish me,” you purr, puckering your lips through the unfolding of your seductiveness. “I’ve been so bad, doing something you told me not to do.” 

The game begins, and Jeongguk is a man of his time. Leads your legs to wrap around his torso. Raises himself to his feet with you clinging to him like this without huffing a breath of exhaustion, and you squeal in surprise—reckoning soon after that he probably lifts more than you weight. You’re not ignorant to the tingle it brings to your bundle of nerves, and you grind against his stomach, pepper the same kisses to his neck that he gave you, but when he shifts his hands and holds you with just one, you pause and see that he’s fetching the abandoned popsicle and incorporating it into the game.

Your stomach jumps.

In a minute, you’re thrown on the bed. The gossamery, white canopy, hung over it, rustles with the incoming summer wind rushing through. And with your legs spread, sticky and and half-soppy with your essence, you watch him watch you. Watch him suck on the popsicle and swallow the sweet delight, his Adam’s apple bobbing in that very way you find so appealing. The strawberry scent clasps to him, and you’re so hungry for him that merely the treat retracing its pathway down his ashy-pink wrist makes you drool. Your breathing accelerates, and you wonder why he’s not doing anything—just to soon realize that this is a part of the punishment. 

And he confirms it with his following words. 

“You’re not getting the ice cream,” he decides, sternly, coaxing out your slick. It’s bare and raw for his eyes to see, but he doesn’t look there. He intently studies your reaction, reveling in the way his power over you affects you, and all you can think about is how his meanness has finally come to take its rightful place. He smacks his mouth, hums, makes this so much worse for you, makes you crave something that only he can decide if you can have or not. 

And he smirks. 

“Besides,” he continues, sticking out his tongue to catch a large dollop, flattening it on the side as he drags it back up, pulling a pathetic moan out of you. Your body vibrates, your muscles tense up and your hands fist the covers. “I haven’t heard you apologize to me, have I?” 

The two words collect in your mouth, but you swallow them. Just for the fun of it. 

The hefty silence wafts between the pair of you, charged with the intensity of the moment. You narrow your eyes at him, playfully, and like him, you drag the tip of your tongue over the arch of your upper lip. His brows twitch, and you’re sure something else you’re severely hungry for twitches, too. The notion of it brings your hands to wander over your stomach, nearing dangerously close to your breasts and perked nipples, poking through the black, pellucid fabric. 

“I have nothing to apologize for,” you say, your voice a low vibrato. Jeongguk chuckles, finishing the popsicle, his stained, tattooed hand glistening in the dimmed light. The yellows and blues outside have darkened to the fullest, too, resembling the coat of the bees you fear so much. 

His smirks deepens and slightly widens, that dimple exceeding yet again in rearranging your guts. “Bratty fucking mouth.” 

Your breath hitches, stopping your panting, and the dynamic impacts him just as well because abruptly, with his clean hand, he pulls out his pink vape and takes a hit. And you’ve never witnessed anything hotter. 

And you were wrong. Prematurely wrong. Because as he puffs out the ivory, strawberry-scented smoke, he straddles you and kisses you, madly. Bites your lower lip when he pulls away. And then, then, he uses your open mouth to stick the middle two of his popsicle-coated fingers inside. 

He hits your gag reflex, and he moans when he hears it, unbuckling his pants. Doesn’t let you clean his fingers in all entirety because as soon as he pulls out his drooling cock, reddened and swollen, he stains it pink with the residue of the sweet treat. Holds it for you at the base, grabs the back of your neck, and pushes your head to take him. 

“Here’s your popsicle, baby.” 

That is the hottest thing you ever witnessed. 

The heavy feeling of him, the warmth, the veins all across your tongue when he swiftly fucks your mouth. It was all worth the turmoil, the waiting. Your eyes are fixed upwards, unblinking, boring into his as he grits his teeth, trying his hardest to last. And you can’t really believe it, having him in your mouth like this, finally. You feel as though you’re merely soaring on a cloud of dreams, and you need something to ground yourself with. 

You grab his fingers. The dirty, tattooed ones. 

Jeongguk slows down. Pulls out of your mouth. Bends to your level. Your heart skips a beat, regarding his sweaty, aroused countenance. “Did it taste good?” 

You nod, without hesitation. “I want more.” 

Your throat is raw. You missed this, missed being changed so visibly by something so vulgar. And you want to be devastated to smithereens, only to be put back together with the same healing hands and kisses. 

But Jeongguk shakes his head. “No.” 

But he fondles the knuckles of your fingers before he lets go, a fond reminder that this is just a game. Grabs a fistful of your hair to give you a nasty, wet kiss before he continues them down your neck and collarbone, only to hastily turn you around to your stomach. Your short dress has ridden up so much that he doesn’t need to do anything to see your full bareness. And he fleetly observes his favorite part on your body before the rough palm of his hand smacks down on it. Hard. 

The burning sensation makes you yelp into the covers, but he wants to hear it. Comes over to the side and grabs your face. 

“On your knees.” 

You comply, sticking your ass up in the air, drawing out a pleased hum out of his chest. He follows the arched curve of your spine, landing another spank to the other cheek. Harder than the last one. 

“Apologize,” Jeongguk orders again, inches closer to your lips until they’re almost touching, brushing up and down, ever so slowly and torturously. “I know you can do it,” he whispers, encouraging you, the words sending a thrill of shivers down your back. “I know you wanna be a good little princess for me.” 

Goosebumps dot your flesh, and Jeongguk chases them. There, over the small of your back, connecting them as if they were sparkly beads of constellations, created for his slender fingers. He permits your heart to beat two times as you purposefully keep your mouth shut and, snickering to himself, he squeezes your ass harshly before he spanks both cheeks. 

Shifting your mind from the acute pain, he straightens your body, letting you kneel on the bed as he tugs you flush to his body, one arm wrapped around your back. You’re so small before him, hidden by the mass of his muscles. If someone were to come in, they wouldn’t see you at all. Jeongguk coos at that, arching a little over you to place his lips against your ear. 

The proximity, his breath, his cock pressed against your ribs, the hardness of his body rubbing up against your perked nipples—you can’t take it anymore. Your own breathing becomes irregular, and you grip and pull at his useless clothes, asking for friction, for relief, for the open oasis that his cock offers—

“Not tonight, huh?” he asks mutely, kneading the back of your thighs, your ass, the womanliness of your hips, stilling your motions. “Tonight you wanna be Oppa’s little slut?” 

Your mouth falls agape, the soft gasp faultlessly emanating the shock your body is loaded with. Your heart pounds, painfully so, and you think he can feel it because he shifts into his gentleness by the way he draws back and cradles your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. His nose pokes yours, as if to say—hey, I’m here, we’re playing, but I’m here, and it makes you smile, composes your emotions, settles you into a restful state, in which you’re ready for the next step. 

“Answer me,” Jeongguk demands, and your smile grows, the most girlish blush adorning your cheeks. He squishes them at the sight, fighting his own grin from forming on his lips, and you feel so comfortable and so at ease, despite the fact you’re about to be absolutely ruined. 

“I wanna be your little slut tonight, Oppa, and I want you to fuck me like I deserve,” you purr, giving him the answer he wants, and it is now that his proud smile finally blossoms. A meadow of flowers bursts open in your heart, seeing that fatherly smile, and you long to do anything he asks, anything he desires, just to have that soul-stirring, life-changing smile fixed on you. 

He hums, pleased. “You know what I want,” he says, changing the course, closing the distance and planting a singular, hard kiss onto your lips, onto which he adds, “I want you to show me what you did.” 

With that, he pushes you onto your back, lifting your legs in the process as he crawls on the bed. Nods at you to get to work while he pins your limbs back, your trickling dewiness and swollen clit on full fucking show for him. You can’t help but silently laugh to yourself, and your bratty ways propel you to grasp his leaking dick and pump it a few times. Jeongguk hisses, squeezing his eyes shut, swiftly grabbing your wrist in order to make you stop doing that. But you have your other hand, too, and it mirrors your previous action, enveloping the room in your loud giggles when Jeongguk sighs, moans and growls, pinning both of your hands back. 

Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, drooling dick to your tummy. 

“You’re a naughty fucking girl, you know that?” he scolds croakily, diverting your wrists to his singular fist, merely prolonging your giggle with that, in spite of the fact he doesn’t find your own game amusing. Your breasts bounce in their tight confinement and he notices, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down. “Let me see those tits.” 

And he tugs down the neckline, so roughly that he almost rips the straps. And when his large hand seizes both of your breasts, the callouses on his palm stimulating your nipples, your giggles fade out, replaced by irregular loud breaths that make the atmosphere so much more serious and desperate. 

“That’s what I thought.”

Your nipples are the most sensitive part of your body, and Jeongguk knows. Leans down, and lightly laps at your pointed nub before facing you, smugly. A cruel tactic of discipline because he leaves it at that, doesn’t give you more. Even when you sway your body, puff up your chest so the bud gets to his mouth. No, he stays put, and that ever-relentless smirk on his face stays as well. 

And the tactic lengthens when, all of a sudden, he slips his swollen tip inside your heat, keeping it there, not going any further. The unexpected stretch nips at your muscles, and you let out a huff of uncomfortable breaths, your brows scrunched, your face tense. It’s now him who laughs as he drifts a finger down the middle of your sternum, the place between your tits. Down and up, down and up, deflecting and moving towards your nipple, which he teases. Your hips lift, a natural reaction that he clicks his tongue at because with the motion, as small as it was, it helped you get him deeper inside you, but as it seems—Jeongguk plans to irrevocably destroy you. 

“Don’t move.” 

He pinches your nipple, sending violent surges of pleasure all across your body, and you don’t stop your hips from moving—because you need to be fucked right now. As a matter of fact, your motions vivify and quicken, circling around his tip, grinding until you break sweat. It happens so fast, time makes haste, and you just—

“I can’t take it anymore,” you cry, longing for the entirety of his cock, for his drive, stamina and roughness. His tip does feel good, but it’s not the same. “Please—”

Abruptly, you’re maneuvered over to your stomach, your hips sprung in the air by his hands in order for you to perk your ass up while your face is planted on the mattress. His tongue takes a long, proper drag across your entire cunt from the back like this, and you hear him moan indistinctly at the taste before he plunges his cock inside you, and doesn’t give you time to get used to the achy stretch. 

He bottoms out. Digs crescent moons into the fleshy parts of your hips as he uses them to give you fast, hard, mini strokes that despotically scramble your brain. Your hair, a bird’s nest, unfurls around you like a pair of black wings, bouncing with each movement. You can’t breathe, you can’t think; you can only feel—the monumental weight of his cock, hitting just the right spot above, the very hastily rising heat in your lower tummy, its pressure heightening when he flattens you on the bed, and merely fucks you into the mattress. 

You can only take it; there’s nothing else for you to do. 

The pleasure is bigger and more all-consuming than anything you ever experienced. His balls slap against your clit, and his hand joins, too. Crawls from underneath, not only to lift your pelvis higher how he likes it, but to rub your clit to madness. Not once does his pace stop, nor does his pace ever falter. And now, with his fingers flicking your bundle of nerves, the pressure in your core is at its highest, needing so very little to throw you over the edge. His other hand comes to meet your jaw as he leans over to eclipse his body over yours, and his lips, once again, find your ear. 

“Is this how you did it?” he taunts, and that is all it takes to make you cum. 

To make you squirt, in fact. 

Your vision fills with streaks of white as your body trembles, even under the tower of his body. Jeongguk holds you through your orgasm, grunting as he listens to you moaning his name over and over again. You feel his eyes digging into the side of your face while your own roll back and stay there, despite the fact you’re drenching his cock and every other guy wouldn’t dare to miss the show. He swears, he moans, but he doesn’t stop flicking your clit, even though your juices have long pushed him out. He puts you first, taking your orgasm to the finish line, paying attention to the telltale sign of your body slackening against him, your eyes opening and your hands reaching for him—which is precisely what you do, when you come out of the euphoric limbo he just put you through.

“Fuck, baby,” you call out for him, still dopey, still so out of it that you can barely catch your breath, and your baby brings you back to life by spreading kisses down your nape, after which he rolls to the side with you, his hand roam down your torso—across your tits, which he momentarily squeezes, down your stomach until he reaches his destination. 

Your soppy little pussy. 

His other hand wraps around your shoulders. “So prettily wet, shibal,” he comments, touching your cunt all over, just to look at his fingers. Glistening, your squirt juices leaking down his palm like the popsicle earlier. There are still dried crumbs of it that you didn’t get to clean off, and your head spins. “I can still feel you dripping down my balls. Fuck, I missed you so much.” 

Oh. Your mind spins faster, the aftershocks of the orgasm rendering you utterly numb and powerless, but maybe you could clean them up for him… as a sign of gratitude for giving you more than you asked for or needed. You didn’t get to touch them after all. 

You begin to move, but he disagrees. 

“No, stay, we’re not done yet.” 

Jeongguk locks you in his embrace, and it is now that you perceive he’s taken off his shirt in the middle of fucking your brains out because you sense the nakedness of his chest. You snuggle deeper within his arms, turning your head to look at him and ask for a kiss. 

He’s as fucked out as you are. 

Hair disheveled, silkier than it were with the amount of sweat that clings to the strands. Eyes shining with the merciful light of desire, wet, narrowed and deep. Not dark, not lustful, but pure. He’s love incarnated from forever ago when love, in its truest form, truly existed, and you’re so lucky to have him that you don’t know what to do with this blessing. 

He slides himself back into your heat, his eyes rolling back as your tight walls constrict around him, welcoming him home. Jeongguk fucks you like this, from the side, while he busies his hands on your nipples and clit. Fucks you in missionary. Fucks you in the air until you’re giddy and crazy, throwing your head back, high on his cock and the constant pleasure he showers you with. Fucks you against the balcony window, upon which both of you simultaneously cum. You, for the fifth time; him for the first time. The glass is stained with this elixir of your shared love, and it’s something both of you embarrassingly laugh at once the game is over. 

After a much needed shower, you sleepily wipe away the memory of your wildest sex while Jeongguk makes you a large glass of matcha. You wait for him on the balcony as soon as you’re done, your muscles sore and limp. Gaze at the last of the yellow hues before they fully disappear beneath the horizon, thinking about how much more devastatingly you’ll miss him when he’ll, too, disappear to Seoul tomorrow morning and you’ll be alone again. 

The slow, homely melodies of his rnb playlist creep into the balcony, spreading across the canopy of the trees in full bloom, which lean forward towards Jeongguk’s voice as he harmonizes with the singers. You listen to him, fondly, regarding his vocals as tangible warmth whilst they lull you to slumber. 

And in no time at all, you don’t hear him come in. Had he not caressed the back of your head, like he did when he came home in the afternoon, you wouldn’t know he’s joined you. Your favorite green, ribbed glass of matcha is in his now clean hand, the matching straw waiting for your lips, and you smile up at him. 

Get up to your feet, kiss him, and allow him to fold you on his lap while he holds your drink for you. Milk and honey, with a green heart formed in the middle of the foam. Abel Tesfaye begins to sing Niagara Falls, his comforting voice the cherry on top, and you’re happy. Happy to be with him, happy to be listening to your favorite artist, happy to take your first sip of the matcha whilst Jeongguk lights up a cigarette with one hand. 

But so is that unrelenting bee, unfazed by the thick smoke. 

You yelp, clinging to Jeongguk, but he only chuckles, tightens his grip around you and hides you with his body. The story comes to a full circle—the bee looked for him and now has found him, sniffing his tattooed arm while you strain your muscles in fear so much that you can’t breathe, the bee too close to your liking. 

“If you don’t move, she’ll fly away. Relax. She won’t harm you,” he comforts you, kissing your temple, your muscles unflexing as he draws back his lips. You let out a sigh, choosing to believe him. “She can probably smell the matcha.” 

You doubt that, reminded of the conversation you had with him over the phone. “No, she was looking for you.” 

He coos, smiling against the side of your head. “That means she’ll leave now.” 

And she does. 

She touches him for the last time, and, as if she listened to his words, she turns around and flaps her small wings away, going for the trees, which hold more promise for her than the pair of you. 

Jeongguk takes a puff of the cigarette, placing it between your lips. You take after him, exhaling it out into the evening air, his free fingers quick to pull the glass straw to your lips, encouraging you to take your long-awaited first sip. 

The taste consoles your senses, but also magnifies the homesickness that has begun to carve out a hole in your heart. He’ll be gone in the morning, and you’ll go back to going through your routine all by yourself. You’ll make your matcha alone and you’ll smoke alone. On this very chair, on this very balcony. And it saddens you so much that you can’t bear it on your own. 

“I’ll miss you so much.” 

Jeongguk rubs his nose against yours, kissing it sweetly. “I know, I’ll miss you, too. But I’ll be back. You have to be patient for me.” 

You nod, knowing it’s true. You’ve done this before, and time and time again, it was proved to you that the distance made the heart grow fonder. The sex better. The romance more profound. And this time around, you both have something to look forward to when he comes back home. 

“You have to come back soon. You know I have to show you the bad thing I did,” you flirt, grinning, and Jeongguk’s eyes widen as he comprehends what you mean. 

And he laughs, heartily. “Yes, you have to show me how you play with your pussy.” He hums, kissing you twice on the mouth. Leans his forehead against yours, noses connected. “I’ll skip work. Call in sick or something. The members can cover for me. I’ll figure it out.” 

You laugh with him, not realizing in the moment that he meant every word. Down to the last detail. And that they, too, will come full circle. 

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

[hoseoksluna]

my babies, you might not be ready for what i’m cooking next…

[hoseoksluna]

happy birthday jungkook, my eternal muse, my soulmate, my everything in life.

the next fic will be about him. the idea that’s brewing in my mind is more insane than anything i’ve ever written, but it’s so hoseoksluna coded that you won’t even be surprised. it’ll be just a little different one this time around.

i wanted the next one to be about yoongi bc my heart is missing him, but jungkook showing up just… sigh. he ignites my passion for writing and i can’t ignore that fire.

the new lip piercing will be included. the moon and the stars. the ancient, the passionate, the troubled. all the good stuff.

i love you, guys. wishing you a happy, calm week.

love,

luna

[hoseoksluna]

i can’t wait to read when i get home love !!! i know it will be worth the wait and give me something to look forward to :))

it makes me so happy to know that i leave something behind for you to look forward to like it’s soooo cute and heartwarming 🥹🤍 mwah

[hoseoksluna]

i’m so so happy you’re back luna and i’m so happy you’re excited 💜 missed your writings so much i can’t wait to read this one

my sweet baby i hope you like it ilysm kissin u to the moon n back mmmmwah

[hoseoksluna]

i love you sm 😭🤍 thank you for reading mwah

CRUEL | jjk

pairing: idol!boyfriend!jeongguk x f. reader 

genre: smut, pwp

word count: 9k

summary: when jeongguk finds out you were touching yourself without his permission while he’s gone in seoul, he’s not hesitant to remind you how cruel he can be.

warnings: heavy daddy issues (ofc), dom/sub dynamics, punishment, spanking, edging, food used during intercourse, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), nipple play, deep-throat, degradation kink, squirting, the horniness is too much, bratty behavior, smoking and vaping, dirty talk, no condom, multiple rounds, multiple positions, miscommunication trope, jungkook is delicious and cruel.

note: i jinja can’t believe this is real. jungkook came live on hoseoksluna’s comeback and i still haven’t recovered. i can’t believe that i finally wrote something that i’m proud of and that i’m finally showing it to you. while he was live, i was making the same matcha that is mentioned in the fic and it just feels like a dream come true, a story coming full circle. you’ll see what i mean by the time you finish reading this fic. please, don’t forget to give me a warm welcome and give me ALL of your thoughts. i missed you all sooooo much, and i’m already thinking about what to write about next. I LOVE YOU ALL, ENJOY READING. MWAH.

The days were cruel. 

In an unimaginable way that made you cranky. The days were blistering hot; the sun grazed its round face against your skin too feverishly. The bees foolishly thought you were a flower, put together on this earth to refresh them and fill their backs with pollen, sending you into a spiral of fear of such great weight that the whole town heard you yelp and scream. And your boyfriend was out and about in the faraway city of Seoul, bulky and masculine, but still the same Jeonggguk, making his name bigger in the world by crafting an album with his closest brothers. 

You were alone with the bees. And you were alone with your… loneliness, which had many shades. 

Blue for when you missed the quintessence of his presence. His softness, and the gentleness that was the true core of his openness, his warmth and his lovingness. All of which was palpably manifested through his most prominent love language: acts of service. Making you breakfast, fixing you a quick lunch, making you dinner with snacks and desserts in between. Washing your fruits, then watching you eat them with the kind of joy only a person like him could radiate. Making you matcha. Filling up your water bottle without you ever asking. Tying the shoelaces of your favorite sneakers or helping you with the clip of your most-beloved heels. Washing your hair, lathering your body in your colorfully scented body butters and creams… massaging you. 

The very gesture interlaced with the second shade. 

Burgundy was for when you missed the physicality only a man like him could offer you. The big muscles he worked when he jackhammered his fingers in and out your heat just to see how many times you could squirt for him in two minutes. The rawness of his competitive nature that would come up to the surface more vehemently than ever, more eagerly and more yearningly than the world had even seen. For you, he would unload your burdens, your bad days and your moods with his mouth and his cock, fucking it out of you until your mind was blank, praising you for taking it so wonderfully, for letting him empty you out of the lousy and filling you up with something else he very much enjoyed watching leak out of you. 

You missed him. You fucking missed him. And counting the days wasn’t helping when your body flushed with this burgundy shade. Has been flushing for weeks. Your own fingers weren’t much of a help, cramping when trying to mimic his speed and his technique, and cumming on your own was as dissatisfactory as not cumming at all. 

You were coming home on your own. Getting the groceries on your own. Matcha, skincare. Even the cleaning was bland and dull without the melodious sound of his singing voice, the warmth of his humming, the depth of his conversational skills. 

He isn’t supposed to be returning to the stillness of the town for another couple of days, but you can’t spend another minute delving any further into the realm of your memories with him. Living there, instead of the reality—of your life with him, the life he changed forever. You’re not the type to bother your partner while he is at work, but he has been gone for such a long time and the messages and phone calls haven’t been so frequent, and the liquid heat that pools beneath your panties just isn’t so bearable at the moment. 

And you’re hot. Dying of heat. And you want some ice cream. 

Before your mind is registering what your body is doing out of its own fervent will, you're listening to the ringing on the other side of the phone. A bee buzzes to the left side of you as you make yourself more comfortable on the plushy chair Jeongguk got for you on his balcony, the noise mingling with the repetitive other one. And when he picks up, you don’t even realize it—because the bee flies towards you. 

You scream. Flit your hands. Shriek at it to go away, and the slender yellow creature quickly flaps its wings in the other direction. Away from you, frightened by your reaction, expecting a much different one. 

Your heart thuds heavily in your chest and you take a minute to calm down. It isn’t until you hear Jeongguk calling your name that you snap back to the present moment, and the flesh relaxes at the sound of his voice. 

“What happened?” he asks, a hint of amusement lacing his deep, raspy voice, which divulges to you that he might have a fraction of an idea of what just went down. 

A pout naturally forms, the heavy feeling of his absence expanding in your soul. “A bee attacked me.” 

He chuckles, but the sound is so soft and amiable that it doesn’t scar your heart. On the opposite, his sympathy reloads the void within your sternum, and you suddenly feel the need to grab onto something in order to ground yourself.

“No,” he coos, prolonging the vowel, and you squeeze the suppleness of your bare thigh as you feel his voice reaching the very middle of your lap. It doesn’t really make the situation better. “Are the bees bothering you?” 

“Yes, they are,” you bite just as soon as he asks the question, as if it were his fault that they kept stumbling into his balcony. Perhaps, they miss him, too. “Because they’re looking for you.” 

Jeongguk hums, thinking about what you just said. Clicks his tongue and sighs. “Are they?” 

You hum just the same, in agreement. Don’t expect his following question. 

“What about you?” 

Your breath hitches in your lungs, and your heart skips almost immediately. The thought of what he would do if he were here skyrockets into the canvas of your mind, and the burgundy hue lengthens. You need him. You need him to protect you from the bees, fuck you on this balcony and then take you inside for a continuation of the pleasure, deepening it on the bed. 

“Yes,” you admit, shamelessly, sinking your teeth into the pillow of your bottom lip. “Way more than they are.” 

He chuckles, his raspy adoration spreading in the sound, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together. And you squeeze them harder when he says, “oh yeah?” 

You nearly whimper. Or perhaps the noise does come out, you don’t know because you’re so overwhelmed with your need for him that everything feels stifling and tight and he has the right pair of hands to undo the knots and the damage. And soon, you do know—because Jeongguk does the thing you didn’t have the guts to ask for.

“Princess, put on a pretty dress and wait for me outside. I’ll be there in fifteen,” he murmurs into the phone, zapping you with an amalgamation of shock and pure joy. You gasp, springing up to your feet, and it takes a minute or two before reality descends over your mind, and you engulf him with your words of worries and are you sure’s, which you don’t really hear. Not over the drum of your heartbeat. 

But the one who instigated it also stills it with the smooth, homely melody of his voice. 

“Oppa will manage, don’t you worry about it,” he reassures you, smacking his mouth as he licks his lips. Momentarily, you think about the kind of noises it would make somewhere down below between your thighs until he continues his sentence. “You worry about that dress. The prettier it is, the harder I fuck you in it.” 

You let him hear your sharp intake of breath. Let him hear the influence of his dirty words as they course down your body with the whimpery sigh that leaves your parted lips. And a bud of embarrassment opens and flourishes in your cheeks when he laughs. 

At you. 

And you’re reminded of how truly mean he can be in bed, even though he doesn’t look the part. For a blink of an eye, you fold yourself into the earliest memory you can find in your mind. Of him edging you with his fingers massaging your swollen clit until your tears lined your vision and you had to beg him to make you cum. You feel the center of your panties dampen at that, but you can’t go any further into that recollection. The teasing snarks of his band members and harmonizing voices in the background snap you out of it, and you feel so empty that your mouth corners downturn. Empty with the kind of void only Jeongguk can fill. 

You’re horny, sweltering, and you miss his body. Miss him. 

“Alright then. Can you get me some ice cream on the way?�� you ask, tracing invisible patterns on your thigh, your sweat creating a heavy layer on your skin, one of utmost discomfort. The throbbing in your sensitive bundle of nerves only adds to that, despite your phony nonchalance. 

And Jeongguk makes it so much worse. 

“It depends,” he says, ever so seriously, and your bottom lip juts out in a bratty way. “Have you been good while I’ve been away?” 

If being good meant you stroked your pussy while your face was buried in his pillow during those two long weeks of him sleeping in a cold, foreign bed somewhere in Seoul, then yes. You were good. 

Exceptionally good. 

And you tell him. 

“Very good.” Your voice springs to an octave higher, playfulness lacing it sweetly, enough to coax out a soft grunt out of your boyfriend, only for your ears to hear. You surely do hope that none of his band members are around and that his phone is fixed to his own ear because you murmur: “I’ve played with my clit so much that it hurts now.” 

Well, it was half truth, half lie. You did go hard enough last night that you couldn’t do another round, whatever number you were at—you can’t really remember. The muscle became so sensitive and so sore that a sting shot up your sternum when you tried to touch it again, so you let it be. And this morning, in the shower, there was no pain to speak of. You merely said it just to pull his attention to this very pressing matter: your fingers weren’t enough to satisfy your need for him, and you yearned for his own, for his tongue, and for the manhood between his legs that tore up your old life and construed a brand new one. 

Jeongguk growls into the phone, and you can hear the loud, indignant thud of his car door closing. A smirk is drawn on your lips, that very easily. The promise of being redeemed by his ruthless strokes hangs in the air and sweat, excitement and a dark layer of a sensual craze coats you tighter, drives you mad, pushes you into that little role you found your home in the moment you met Jeon Jeongguk. 

The sub space welcomes you, and your boyfriend locks you inside with his following words. 

“That doesn’t sound like you were very good,” he disagrees, and you can almost see him flexing his jaw and gritting his teeth, the action causing that delicious dimple to make a dent in his chewy cheeks, the one you like cumming on so wetly. Because if there’s anything that he’s fundamentally against, it’s you touching yourself without him being present. He regards it unethical when he reminds you every now and then that he owns those dewy little princess parts. And whenever he leaves, whether it be for a tour or promotional events, he very sternly orders you to be good and to not touch your little clit. 

You’ve never had the guts to disobey. You were always eager for his praise and validation whenever he came back to find you dripping wet and swollen, two, three weeks without an ounce of orgasm dopamine. This time, you gathered the courage to rock the boat—but not because you had the craving to be bad, but because there was something different about his absence. 

Be it the aftereffect of the military, you simply couldn’t go any longer without this key part in your life—because truth be told, the sex was everything to you. Intimacy with Jeongguk was the tree of your spine that held your body upwards, its lengthy roots the pathways of your veins. His pheromones, sweat, the mint of his breath, the milkiness of his body wash clinging to his body—that was your oxygen. His grunts, moans, growls and whimpers were the music you needed for your soul’s and mind’s refreshments. And his cum…

You moan his name, brazenly and crazedly, at the thought of his cum. And you perceive what you’ve done when Jeongguk austerely calls you by your own, and you dumbly make a confused noise in response. 

And he’s seemingly had enough.

“That’s it. I’ll deal with you when I get home,” he grumbles, and ends the call. The beeping noise signaling what you’re about to face takes its time getting through the mashed potato your brain has become, and it is the clamorous fluttering of another pair of a bee’s wings that propels your body to awaken and jump to action. 

You grab your green glass of matcha and your phone, and you run back inside. Though the lack of solidness to your brain remains. 

Your thighs are slick with your yearning, your mouth dry and ashy. You feel as though you’ve done something very wrong, and that a punishment awaits you. A great punishment that might elevate your relationship or utterly diminish its wonderful spell. The bee tries to get inside through the transparency of the window, and it reminds you of all the times you got in trouble on purpose for your father to notice you. You realize that you’re nearly doing the same thing now, though not with your father, but another equally important male figure in your life—bumping your head against the glass again and again, despite the fact you know and you’ve seen that the way doesn’t lead there. 

Asking for his time, for his attention… not with your words, but with the rosy wickedness of your actions. Lies, pretense, challenge. 

You’re ashamed of your actions, and it is an ice-cold, prickling sensation beneath your skin. And because of it, your matcha tastes bitter when you slurp it all in one go, no matter how much you sweetened it with the honey Jeongguk bought. The same honey he told you to eat a spoonful of everyday for good health and your throat, made scratchy with the persistent cough caused by your constant smoking. 

How he cares for you, and how little you appreciate it. 

A certain inkling to fix yourself inflames your heart, and because of that—you listen to what Jeongguk told you to do, and you pick out the prettiest dress you own. The one you can’t really wear outside, but only inside due to the sheerness of the fabric. Black and short, ending barely beneath the suppleness of your butt, with an additional slit to accentuate your thighs. Teeny tiny straps, easy for his teeth to tug down your shoulders. And the stretched, long tiger stripes that adorn the fabric, and that do absolutely nothing to cover your nakedness. 

You don’t feel sexy in the dress. Not even when you fluff up your hair. Not even when Jeongguk takes his time and you smoke two cigarettes on the balcony, waiting for his matching black car to appear on the driveway. Not when you’re trembling with the weight that you got yourself in some serious, irredeemable trouble, which results in him not wanting to come home to you at all. 

But the beeping of the lock does find your ears. The quiet shuffling of his feet, the rustling of a plastic bag, the jingling of the plush animal hung over the strap of his bag. You’re not smoking anymore, so you let the balcony door open, and you don’t look back when the shuffling of his socked feet draws closer and closer— 

His warm, large, calloused palm touches the crown of your head. 

No hello’s are spoken aloud, but shared intimately and silently between the interlocking of even warmer, plumper lips. You didn’t even get to get a good glance at him, and he’s deepening the kiss, as if compensating for all those weeks he didn’t get to kiss you at all. His body heat is soaring, dipping into your skin, melting down the severity of your guilt and shame, and if he didn’t pull away and almost fix everything with the intensity of his stare, you would break into liquid, sorrowful emotions. 

Dark, doe eyes, twinkling. The extreme, bottomless outer space of utter blackness, which holds everything. The eyes of a wounded animal, having lost his mother and his home, belonging to a man, capable of making his own home. And that’s the essence of Jeongguk, this split persona that you will never cease to love. 

Hardness and softness, meeting somewhere in the middle. 

Silky hair, falling into that gentle creek of his eyes, damp with the summer air. He glints in the sun—in fact, the entirety of the star reflects off of him as he soaks it, and you soak him, too. Enough that you split into two sides, in which you’re happy to see him and at the same time, you feel as though you don’t deserve to see him at all. 

But Jeongguk sinks his fingers deeper into your hair, bends at the waist again and sinks a tender kiss into the arch of your forehead, lingering there, inhaling you. Spreads the sun into your body until light catches you, takes a hold of the heaviness you carry inside. Doesn’t take it away, not at all. Merely holds it with you, for it’s his job to make it disappear. 

And he does when he withdraws his hand to rummage in the white plastic bag in his other one, and pulls out your favorite strawberry popsicle. 

The sun rays burst in your eyes. Push at the back of them, inviting your tears. 

But they don’t come. Jeongguk stops them with his words. 

“Do you deserve it?” 

The intensity of the moment thumps between you and him, and your guilt threatens to seize your emotions, but Jeongguk crouches in front of you and unwraps the sweet treat you hankered for all day. Holds it up before you, seemingly waiting for your answer, but he doesn’t. 

He speaks again. 

“Did you miss me that much?” 

Now he waits, now he wants to consume your answer with the way he narrows his round eyes, with the way the corner of his puffy mouth twitches upwards and stays there. The amusement fans off from him, and he’s not doing anything to hide it. As a matter of fact, he gladly allows you to see it, bask in it, settle in it. 

That’s the core of his meanness. As small as it is, as shrouded and imperceivable as it has been all this time, its influence is boundless. It straps you down, renders you boneless. But something in its heart requests the presence of your former naughtiness. 

And he proves it to you by his sudden impatience. 

Jeongguk stands up. Your impassioned eyes travel far up with how tall he is, and you can’t help but regard how pretty he is against the gradient of blue and ochre upon the canvas of the sky. A momentary observation that steals the breath out of your lungs before the nerve center of your inner challenge is incited. 

He lifts the hem of his oversized dark gray T-shirt and shows you his groin. 

Not even the excessive bagginess of his jeans can conceal the hard-on he’s sporting. 

His girth, pumped full and thick, creates an outline in his pelvis that causes you to salivate. It reaches his left hip, being fastened to the side like that by the tightness of his ivory Calvins, which peek out from the waistband. His fist also reveals a little bit of his tummy as he holds up his shirt, and there’s so much drool collecting in your mouth that you have a difficult time swallowing it all. 

Your eyes flick back to his manhood, and you think about how easily your lips could glide along its side after you’d slobber all over him. That familiar heat brushes across your mound, your folds moistening, and your mind is wiped clean. 

Jeongguk appears to be intently watchful of your return to your sub space, and you adore the feeling of it. Adore the feeling of him stepping into his own role as your dom. The dynamic is unspoken, always has been, and something tells you that this fact is about to change. 

“You see what you’ve done to me?” he rasps, his arousal clawing at his voice, clawing at you, stimulating your body to want more, yet giving it the sense and the focus it needs to hear what he’s trying to tell you. The popsicle melts and drips at his side, making a mess on the balcony floor. “I had to drive so slow I had the cars honk at me and cuss me out because all I could hear and see in my mind is you moaning and touching yourself to the thought of me.” He grunts, and your muscles jerk in response, calling out for him. The sun is scorching hot inside you, swallowing every bit of your being. And you’re not ignorant to the pang of disappointment that collides with it, when he lets the hem of his shirt drop. “And when I get home, I see you in this dress. Tell me, why are you making it so difficult for me?” He lets his shoulders droop, can’t stand the distance, parts your legs with his, meets your forehead, one hand on the back of your chair, the other—the busy one—in front of you. “I need to fuck you,” he breathes out, fumes, bites his lip. “I need to spank that ass raw for making me rethink everything I’ve ever done or felt.” He pauses, tilts his head, and when that icy dollop of the popsicle plummets to the inner of your thigh, you mewl so devastatingly that he growls and sinks his nails into the plush of the back of the chair. Sucks in heavy breaths through his teeth, inches closer and closer to your lips. He can’t see what the popsicle has done to you, not just yet, because—“I need to watch you play with your little clit for me. I need you to misbehave. It’s just so—” 

And he doesn’t finish his sentence because he kisses you senseless. 

Promptly, he parts your mouth open and slips his tongue inside, groaning at the taste of redemption because he was wrong for forbidding you from being intimate with yourself. The movement of his lips closing is harsh, bruising, but you take it all, take in this newness, this change to the dynamic of the relationship, and you submit so easily that it feels freeing. 

He’s in charge, but he’s given you freedom. 

“I’m gonna make it nice and wet for you.” 

And it is now that, as he kisses you for the last time—more tenderly than before, as if the indication of your pussy softened him, that he notices the ichorous pea of the pink popsicle that has dropped onto your thigh. His hand is tinged with the runny mass, creating veins of white and the same pink, which cascade down his wrist. One of the sun beams, the richest of them all, shimmers in his eyes, and the heaven’s canopy darkens when he swears and dips to your smeared thigh, without averting his gaze, and collects the pea with his wet tongue. 

The moan that comes out of you in response instigates him to grip both of your thighs and push your hips forward, nearly over the edge of the chair. And he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time, and nosedives into your scorched dewiness, seizing your pussy with his whole mouth. And the sensation of his flat tongue against your lips, your outer folds and finally your clit… you let your head drop back and flutter your eyes shut, your moans a continuous stream, which supports his tongue’s potency in licking that already swollen pearl over and over.

But Jeongguk doesn’t like that you’ve closed your eyes. His dominance manifests in full glory, and he withdraws, much to your disappointment. It takes some time for you to fully emerge out of that stupor he’s caused you with his prowess, but he hastens the process. Skillfully so. 

“Look at me while I eat your pussy or I won’t,” he slurs, stupefied just the same, as if he craved your pussy just as you have craved him, and he’s drunk on the sentiment of it all. 

Your eyes flung open, barely, drooping within this overbearing energy. 

Jeongguk’s mouth cracks into a soft smile. “That’s it,” he praises from between your thighs, which he pushes further back into your chest and spreads as far as they can go. Then, he faintly kitten licks your clit. Makes your body zap with the delicate, yet strong surge of pleasure he gives you. Your moan is breathy, but he wants more. You can see it on him long before he voices it out. “Are you not speaking to me?” 

Then, he shocks you with his following action. 

He runs the tip of the popsicle over the top of your bare mound, stopping right at the sensitive spot before your clit. Your chest shudders, the stimulation so cruel but so good, evoking the memory of the first and the last time he edged you, the last time he was mean. You don’t even remember the reason, only the fervent moment was dug deeply in the soil of your mind. And you don’t even know why you’re not speaking—you’re overwhelmed, overfilled with yearning, which is dotted with the last bits of guilt and shame you have. 

But the awareness of what you need dawns upon you. 

You need a conversation. 

“I thought I was in trouble,” you admit quietly, your lips forming that natural pout of sadness. Jeongguk’s eyes soften at the sound of your voice and at the meaning of your words, and time beats twice as he comprehends the information you’ve given him, his irises fixed on your own before they slope down to your pout. 

He licks his lips. Meets your eyes again. Dominant, sharp, ready to resolve. 

“You were,” he adds his own admission, keeping the eye contact intact as he slides the popsicle further down. Its iciness on your clit releases a vulgar moan out of your mouth, the pleasure so vivid and so loud within your body, unlike anything you ever felt in your life. Your thighs shake in his hold and he presses them harder against your chest, his fingers making dents in their thickness. He lets the popsicle dwell there, moving it up and down ever so slowly but firmly, and you feel your dewiness drip down your skin. You rock against it, your eyes flitting as they roll back, and Jeongguk laughs, bitterly. “Until I realized how much I liked it.”

You whimper. The coldness, his words—it’s too much. You furrow your brows and push his hand away, sticking your knees together in overstimulation. Jeongguk obliges, getting the message, replaces the popsicle with his mouth, warming up your pussy. He sucks your clit, watching as your long lashes fan over your eyes, but before you could focus on the pleasure and on your eventual orgasm, he’s gone. 

Ponders his thought before he releases it. “I never thought you would do that,” he continues with his admission, kissing your clit, your fold, your pelvic bone. Your heart jumps, the subtle pleasure enabling your brain to think. “Rub your pussy to the thought of me, I mean,” he explains, brushing his lips over the skin of your inner thigh. Your hand extends out and rakes through the soft ebony of his hair above his ear, encouraging him to carry on. “I always thought you would do it while watching someone else, and I wouldn’t survive that.” A graceful patch of rosiness forms on his cheeks and he shies away, into your thigh, having shown his emotions and the apparent, deeply-set insecurity strung throughout your relationship. 

And it clicks. 

The reason why he doesn’t let you touch yourself is because he’s possessive. And his self-esteem is so insubstantial that he thought you’d rather watch other guys than envelop your self-pleasure around him and the memories he perfumed your life with. 

Your heart sinks, heavy and laden with his burden. It wrecks you, the fact he thinks so low of himself, that he thinks he isn’t worth your alone time while he’s away, and you sit up. Surprise him as you do so. Grab his face, hug him to your chest and hold him like that. 

Hold him as you affirm him of reality. 

“I spent these past two weeks with my nose buried in your pillow because it made my memories of the way you fucked me seem more real,” you say into his hair, the scent of milkiness, honey and cotton filling up your nostrils, intoxicating your brain. Jeongguk listens with his mouth parted and cheeks flaring, his breath heavy against your bosom, and when he kneels and drags you down with him to sit you on his lap, you let him. Gaze into the darkened, dreamy creek of his eyes. Take a dip inside. Try not to grind against his hard manhood, but his wandering hands already begin to do the job. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, tilting his head to go for your neck, peppering the column with the softest kisses and the graze of his teeth as his hands control the back-and-forth motion of your pussy against his denim-clad length by gripping your ass. The popsicle has been discarded forever ago, you guess, and his smeared, cold hands get warmed up easily by your scorching skin, which he fondles, squeezes, all while still maintaining the control. 

But you haven’t finished. Not quite yet. 

You run your fingers through his hair and sigh in all the world’s delight. “Why would I look at different guys in porn when I have the hottest man in the world? Just your selca would make me cum in a minute.” 

He groans, and his hot breath is the last thing you feel before the sinking of his teeth overcomes your senses. 

Jeongguk bites your neck. And you definitely need a cigarette or two after this. 

The drumming in your clit heightens. You can almost hear its music in your head when he soothes the bite with the lap of his tongue, sucking the skin right after and… you’ve nearly forgotten what you two were talking about, had he not backtracked—right there, upon the column of your abused neck. 

“I still want to punish you, just for the fun of it,” he says, and you take two seconds to remember what you did to deserve the play-pretend punishment he speaks of. That much he emptied out your brain with that one singular gesture. “Can I?” 

Oh, and he asks. 

“Please.” 

He begs. 

You whimper his name, his delicious, pretty name, and force him to look at you. Teary eyes, more rounder than ever, tender and lenient, so terribly weak and horny. And those cheeks, so cutely stained with his carmine meekness. You could eat him, you could chew him—and you wouldn’t have enough. 

Such a lamblike man, begging to punish you. 

“Punish me,” you purr, puckering your lips through the unfolding of your seductiveness. “I’ve been so bad, doing something you told me not to do.” 

The game begins, and Jeongguk is a man of his time. Leads your legs to wrap around his torso. Raises himself to his feet with you clinging to him like this without huffing a breath of exhaustion, and you squeal in surprise—reckoning soon after that he probably lifts more than you weight. You’re not ignorant to the tingle it brings to your bundle of nerves, and you grind against his stomach, pepper the same kisses to his neck that he gave you, but when he shifts his hands and holds you with just one, you pause and see that he’s fetching the abandoned popsicle and incorporating it into the game.

Your stomach jumps.

In a minute, you’re thrown on the bed. The gossamery, white canopy, hung over it, rustles with the incoming summer wind rushing through. And with your legs spread, sticky and and half-soppy with your essence, you watch him watch you. Watch him suck on the popsicle and swallow the sweet delight, his Adam’s apple bobbing in that very way you find so appealing. The strawberry scent clasps to him, and you’re so hungry for him that merely the treat retracing its pathway down his ashy-pink wrist makes you drool. Your breathing accelerates, and you wonder why he’s not doing anything—just to soon realize that this is a part of the punishment. 

And he confirms it with his following words. 

“You’re not getting the ice cream,” he decides, sternly, coaxing out your slick. It’s bare and raw for his eyes to see, but he doesn’t look there. He intently studies your reaction, reveling in the way his power over you affects you, and all you can think about is how his meanness has finally come to take its rightful place. He smacks his mouth, hums, makes this so much worse for you, makes you crave something that only he can decide if you can have or not. 

And he smirks. 

“Besides,” he continues, sticking out his tongue to catch a large dollop, flattening it on the side as he drags it back up, pulling a pathetic moan out of you. Your body vibrates, your muscles tense up and your hands fist the covers. “I haven’t heard you apologize to me, have I?” 

The two words collect in your mouth, but you swallow them. Just for the fun of it. 

The hefty silence wafts between the pair of you, charged with the intensity of the moment. You narrow your eyes at him, playfully, and like him, you drag the tip of your tongue over the arch of your upper lip. His brows twitch, and you’re sure something else you’re severely hungry for twitches, too. The notion of it brings your hands to wander over your stomach, nearing dangerously close to your breasts and perked nipples, poking through the black, pellucid fabric. 

“I have nothing to apologize for,” you say, your voice a low vibrato. Jeongguk chuckles, finishing the popsicle, his stained, tattooed hand glistening in the dimmed light. The yellows and blues outside have darkened to the fullest, too, resembling the coat of the bees you fear so much. 

His smirks deepens and slightly widens, that dimple exceeding yet again in rearranging your guts. “Bratty fucking mouth.” 

Your breath hitches, stopping your panting, and the dynamic impacts him just as well because abruptly, with his clean hand, he pulls out his pink vape and takes a hit. And you’ve never witnessed anything hotter. 

And you were wrong. Prematurely wrong. Because as he puffs out the ivory, strawberry-scented smoke, he straddles you and kisses you, madly. Bites your lower lip when he pulls away. And then, then, he uses your open mouth to stick the middle two of his popsicle-coated fingers inside. 

He hits your gag reflex, and he moans when he hears it, unbuckling his pants. Doesn’t let you clean his fingers in all entirety because as soon as he pulls out his drooling cock, reddened and swollen, he stains it pink with the residue of the sweet treat. Holds it for you at the base, grabs the back of your neck, and pushes your head to take him. 

“Here’s your popsicle, baby.” 

That is the hottest thing you ever witnessed. 

The heavy feeling of him, the warmth, the veins all across your tongue when he swiftly fucks your mouth. It was all worth the turmoil, the waiting. Your eyes are fixed upwards, unblinking, boring into his as he grits his teeth, trying his hardest to last. And you can’t really believe it, having him in your mouth like this, finally. You feel as though you’re merely soaring on a cloud of dreams, and you need something to ground yourself with. 

You grab his fingers. The dirty, tattooed ones. 

Jeongguk slows down. Pulls out of your mouth. Bends to your level. Your heart skips a beat, regarding his sweaty, aroused countenance. “Did it taste good?” 

You nod, without hesitation. “I want more.” 

Your throat is raw. You missed this, missed being changed so visibly by something so vulgar. And you want to be devastated to smithereens, only to be put back together with the same healing hands and kisses. 

But Jeongguk shakes his head. “No.” 

But he fondles the knuckles of your fingers before he lets go, a fond reminder that this is just a game. Grabs a fistful of your hair to give you a nasty, wet kiss before he continues them down your neck and collarbone, only to hastily turn you around to your stomach. Your short dress has ridden up so much that he doesn’t need to do anything to see your full bareness. And he fleetly observes his favorite part on your body before the rough palm of his hand smacks down on it. Hard. 

The burning sensation makes you yelp into the covers, but he wants to hear it. Comes over to the side and grabs your face. 

“On your knees.” 

You comply, sticking your ass up in the air, drawing out a pleased hum out of his chest. He follows the arched curve of your spine, landing another spank to the other cheek. Harder than the last one. 

“Apologize,” Jeongguk orders again, inches closer to your lips until they’re almost touching, brushing up and down, ever so slowly and torturously. “I know you can do it,” he whispers, encouraging you, the words sending a thrill of shivers down your back. “I know you wanna be a good little princess for me.” 

Goosebumps dot your flesh, and Jeongguk chases them. There, over the small of your back, connecting them as if they were sparkly beads of constellations, created for his slender fingers. He permits your heart to beat two times as you purposefully keep your mouth shut and, snickering to himself, he squeezes your ass harshly before he spanks both cheeks. 

Shifting your mind from the acute pain, he straightens your body, letting you kneel on the bed as he tugs you flush to his body, one arm wrapped around your back. You’re so small before him, hidden by the mass of his muscles. If someone were to come in, they wouldn’t see you at all. Jeongguk coos at that, arching a little over you to place his lips against your ear. 

The proximity, his breath, his cock pressed against your ribs, the hardness of his body rubbing up against your perked nipples—you can’t take it anymore. Your own breathing becomes irregular, and you grip and pull at his useless clothes, asking for friction, for relief, for the open oasis that his cock offers—

“Not tonight, huh?” he asks mutely, kneading the back of your thighs, your ass, the womanliness of your hips, stilling your motions. “Tonight you wanna be Oppa’s little slut?” 

Your mouth falls agape, the soft gasp faultlessly emanating the shock your body is loaded with. Your heart pounds, painfully so, and you think he can feel it because he shifts into his gentleness by the way he draws back and cradles your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. His nose pokes yours, as if to say—hey, I’m here, we’re playing, but I’m here, and it makes you smile, composes your emotions, settles you into a restful state, in which you’re ready for the next step. 

“Answer me,” Jeongguk demands, and your smile grows, the most girlish blush adorning your cheeks. He squishes them at the sight, fighting his own grin from forming on his lips, and you feel so comfortable and so at ease, despite the fact you’re about to be absolutely ruined. 

“I wanna be your little slut tonight, Oppa, and I want you to fuck me like I deserve,” you purr, giving him the answer he wants, and it is now that his proud smile finally blossoms. A meadow of flowers bursts open in your heart, seeing that fatherly smile, and you long to do anything he asks, anything he desires, just to have that soul-stirring, life-changing smile fixed on you. 

He hums, pleased. “You know what I want,” he says, changing the course, closing the distance and planting a singular, hard kiss onto your lips, onto which he adds, “I want you to show me what you did.” 

With that, he pushes you onto your back, lifting your legs in the process as he crawls on the bed. Nods at you to get to work while he pins your limbs back, your trickling dewiness and swollen clit on full fucking show for him. You can’t help but silently laugh to yourself, and your bratty ways propel you to grasp his leaking dick and pump it a few times. Jeongguk hisses, squeezing his eyes shut, swiftly grabbing your wrist in order to make you stop doing that. But you have your other hand, too, and it mirrors your previous action, enveloping the room in your loud giggles when Jeongguk sighs, moans and growls, pinning both of your hands back. 

Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, drooling dick to your tummy. 

“You’re a naughty fucking girl, you know that?” he scolds croakily, diverting your wrists to his singular fist, merely prolonging your giggle with that, in spite of the fact he doesn’t find your own game amusing. Your breasts bounce in their tight confinement and he notices, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down. “Let me see those tits.” 

And he tugs down the neckline, so roughly that he almost rips the straps. And when his large hand seizes both of your breasts, the callouses on his palm stimulating your nipples, your giggles fade out, replaced by irregular loud breaths that make the atmosphere so much more serious and desperate. 

“That’s what I thought.”

Your nipples are the most sensitive part of your body, and Jeongguk knows. Leans down, and lightly laps at your pointed nub before facing you, smugly. A cruel tactic of discipline because he leaves it at that, doesn’t give you more. Even when you sway your body, puff up your chest so the bud gets to his mouth. No, he stays put, and that ever-relentless smirk on his face stays as well. 

And the tactic lengthens when, all of a sudden, he slips his swollen tip inside your heat, keeping it there, not going any further. The unexpected stretch nips at your muscles, and you let out a huff of uncomfortable breaths, your brows scrunched, your face tense. It’s now him who laughs as he drifts a finger down the middle of your sternum, the place between your tits. Down and up, down and up, deflecting and moving towards your nipple, which he teases. Your hips lift, a natural reaction that he clicks his tongue at because with the motion, as small as it was, it helped you get him deeper inside you, but as it seems—Jeongguk plans to irrevocably destroy you. 

“Don’t move.” 

He pinches your nipple, sending violent surges of pleasure all across your body, and you don’t stop your hips from moving—because you need to be fucked right now. As a matter of fact, your motions vivify and quicken, circling around his tip, grinding until you break sweat. It happens so fast, time makes haste, and you just—

“I can’t take it anymore,” you cry, longing for the entirety of his cock, for his drive, stamina and roughness. His tip does feel good, but it’s not the same. “Please—”

Abruptly, you’re maneuvered over to your stomach, your hips sprung in the air by his hands in order for you to perk your ass up while your face is planted on the mattress. His tongue takes a long, proper drag across your entire cunt from the back like this, and you hear him moan indistinctly at the taste before he plunges his cock inside you, and doesn’t give you time to get used to the achy stretch. 

He bottoms out. Digs crescent moons into the fleshy parts of your hips as he uses them to give you fast, hard, mini strokes that despotically scramble your brain. Your hair, a bird’s nest, unfurls around you like a pair of black wings, bouncing with each movement. You can’t breathe, you can’t think; you can only feel—the monumental weight of his cock, hitting just the right spot above, the very hastily rising heat in your lower tummy, its pressure heightening when he flattens you on the bed, and merely fucks you into the mattress. 

You can only take it; there’s nothing else for you to do. 

The pleasure is bigger and more all-consuming than anything you ever experienced. His balls slap against your clit, and his hand joins, too. Crawls from underneath, not only to lift your pelvis higher how he likes it, but to rub your clit to madness. Not once does his pace stop, nor does his pace ever falter. And now, with his fingers flicking your bundle of nerves, the pressure in your core is at its highest, needing so very little to throw you over the edge. His other hand comes to meet your jaw as he leans over to eclipse his body over yours, and his lips, once again, find your ear. 

“Is this how you did it?” he taunts, and that is all it takes to make you cum. 

To make you squirt, in fact. 

Your vision fills with streaks of white as your body trembles, even under the tower of his body. Jeongguk holds you through your orgasm, grunting as he listens to you moaning his name over and over again. You feel his eyes digging into the side of your face while your own roll back and stay there, despite the fact you’re drenching his cock and every other guy wouldn’t dare to miss the show. He swears, he moans, but he doesn’t stop flicking your clit, even though your juices have long pushed him out. He puts you first, taking your orgasm to the finish line, paying attention to the telltale sign of your body slackening against him, your eyes opening and your hands reaching for him—which is precisely what you do, when you come out of the euphoric limbo he just put you through.

“Fuck, baby,” you call out for him, still dopey, still so out of it that you can barely catch your breath, and your baby brings you back to life by spreading kisses down your nape, after which he rolls to the side with you, his hand roam down your torso—across your tits, which he momentarily squeezes, down your stomach until he reaches his destination. 

Your soppy little pussy. 

His other hand wraps around your shoulders. “So prettily wet, shibal,” he comments, touching your cunt all over, just to look at his fingers. Glistening, your squirt juices leaking down his palm like the popsicle earlier. There are still dried crumbs of it that you didn’t get to clean off, and your head spins. “I can still feel you dripping down my balls. Fuck, I missed you so much.” 

Oh. Your mind spins faster, the aftershocks of the orgasm rendering you utterly numb and powerless, but maybe you could clean them up for him… as a sign of gratitude for giving you more than you asked for or needed. You didn’t get to touch them after all. 

You begin to move, but he disagrees. 

“No, stay, we’re not done yet.” 

Jeongguk locks you in his embrace, and it is now that you perceive he’s taken off his shirt in the middle of fucking your brains out because you sense the nakedness of his chest. You snuggle deeper within his arms, turning your head to look at him and ask for a kiss. 

He’s as fucked out as you are. 

Hair disheveled, silkier than it were with the amount of sweat that clings to the strands. Eyes shining with the merciful light of desire, wet, narrowed and deep. Not dark, not lustful, but pure. He’s love incarnated from forever ago when love, in its truest form, truly existed, and you’re so lucky to have him that you don’t know what to do with this blessing. 

He slides himself back into your heat, his eyes rolling back as your tight walls constrict around him, welcoming him home. Jeongguk fucks you like this, from the side, while he busies his hands on your nipples and clit. Fucks you in missionary. Fucks you in the air until you’re giddy and crazy, throwing your head back, high on his cock and the constant pleasure he showers you with. Fucks you against the balcony window, upon which both of you simultaneously cum. You, for the fifth time; him for the first time. The glass is stained with this elixir of your shared love, and it’s something both of you embarrassingly laugh at once the game is over. 

After a much needed shower, you sleepily wipe away the memory of your wildest sex while Jeongguk makes you a large glass of matcha. You wait for him on the balcony as soon as you’re done, your muscles sore and limp. Gaze at the last of the yellow hues before they fully disappear beneath the horizon, thinking about how much more devastatingly you’ll miss him when he’ll, too, disappear to Seoul tomorrow morning and you’ll be alone again. 

The slow, homely melodies of his rnb playlist creep into the balcony, spreading across the canopy of the trees in full bloom, which lean forward towards Jeongguk’s voice as he harmonizes with the singers. You listen to him, fondly, regarding his vocals as tangible warmth whilst they lull you to slumber. 

And in no time at all, you don’t hear him come in. Had he not caressed the back of your head, like he did when he came home in the afternoon, you wouldn’t know he’s joined you. Your favorite green, ribbed glass of matcha is in his now clean hand, the matching straw waiting for your lips, and you smile up at him. 

Get up to your feet, kiss him, and allow him to fold you on his lap while he holds your drink for you. Milk and honey, with a green heart formed in the middle of the foam. Abel Tesfaye begins to sing Niagara Falls, his comforting voice the cherry on top, and you’re happy. Happy to be with him, happy to be listening to your favorite artist, happy to take your first sip of the matcha whilst Jeongguk lights up a cigarette with one hand. 

But so is that unrelenting bee, unfazed by the thick smoke. 

You yelp, clinging to Jeongguk, but he only chuckles, tightens his grip around you and hides you with his body. The story comes to a full circle—the bee looked for him and now has found him, sniffing his tattooed arm while you strain your muscles in fear so much that you can’t breathe, the bee too close to your liking. 

“If you don’t move, she’ll fly away. Relax. She won’t harm you,” he comforts you, kissing your temple, your muscles unflexing as he draws back his lips. You let out a sigh, choosing to believe him. “She can probably smell the matcha.” 

You doubt that, reminded of the conversation you had with him over the phone. “No, she was looking for you.” 

He coos, smiling against the side of your head. “That means she’ll leave now.” 

And she does. 

She touches him for the last time, and, as if she listened to his words, she turns around and flaps her small wings away, going for the trees, which hold more promise for her than the pair of you. 

Jeongguk takes a puff of the cigarette, placing it between your lips. You take after him, exhaling it out into the evening air, his free fingers quick to pull the glass straw to your lips, encouraging you to take your long-awaited first sip. 

The taste consoles your senses, but also magnifies the homesickness that has begun to carve out a hole in your heart. He’ll be gone in the morning, and you’ll go back to going through your routine all by yourself. You’ll make your matcha alone and you’ll smoke alone. On this very chair, on this very balcony. And it saddens you so much that you can’t bear it on your own. 

“I’ll miss you so much.” 

Jeongguk rubs his nose against yours, kissing it sweetly. “I know, I’ll miss you, too. But I’ll be back. You have to be patient for me.” 

You nod, knowing it’s true. You’ve done this before, and time and time again, it was proved to you that the distance made the heart grow fonder. The sex better. The romance more profound. And this time around, you both have something to look forward to when he comes back home. 

“You have to come back soon. You know I have to show you the bad thing I did,” you flirt, grinning, and Jeongguk’s eyes widen as he comprehends what you mean. 

And he laughs, heartily. “Yes, you have to show me how you play with your pussy.” He hums, kissing you twice on the mouth. Leans his forehead against yours, noses connected. “I’ll skip work. Call in sick or something. The members can cover for me. I’ll figure it out.” 

You laugh with him, not realizing in the moment that he meant every word. Down to the last detail. And that they, too, will come full circle. 

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

[hoseoksluna]

JUNGKOOKS NEW PIERCING. WHAT THE FUCKCKCKCKSNSBDBDBDBFBFBBFBF

it’ll be in the next fic just so u all know

[hoseoksluna]

Luna what the fUck. I missed your writing so much and this story reminded me exactly why. You just gET IT. the amount of lines i read and literally had to turn off my phone to look away 😳 like you’re just thAT bitch. You get it. So good every time i can’t wait to re-read already

BABY “YOURE JUST THAT BITCH” IS TAKING ME OOOUUTTTTT SJDNDNDNDNDND

thank u so much im SCREAMJNFNFNFNFNFNF

[hoseoksluna]

hello lovely! it's so great to see you back! i had this simple issue here, I can't access the dark room options from masterlist. i don't know what's the problem 😕 or is it just me facing the issue regarding the content warning (I'm not a minor 😭)

hello my love, thank u for letting me know i fixed it 🥹 whenever i post, the masterlist gets flagged bc of the words i use in the summary, so i have to censor it as much as i can 🥲

[hoseoksluna]

NIAGARA FALLS MENTION OMG OUR SONG

if you only saw the smirk on my face when i wrote that exact line bc i thought of u 😄

[hoseoksluna]

btw im gonna need you to come over and clean the mess u caused between my legs bcs of how good of a read cruel was🤗

🏃🏻‍♀️‍➡️🏃🏻‍♀️‍➡️🏃🏻‍♀️‍➡️🏃🏻‍♀️‍➡️🏃🏻‍♀️‍➡️

[hoseoksluna]

i missed reading ur nasty fics😞😞😞😞

and i missed writing them sm i’m so happy to be back 😞😞😞

[hoseoksluna]

HOSEOKSLUNA BACK TO FEEDING US OMG

I KNOW THATS RIGHT

[hoseoksluna]

250829 — jungkook's live ♡

[hoseoksluna]

thank you for recommending ichor. 🤍 mwah.

JUNGKOOK FF RECOMMENDATIONS - PART -2

Can't thank our precious authors enough for gifting us with these jewel works ♡

Happy reading y'all !! ⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

⋆ Blight by @kpopisthereasonihavenolife

⋆ Ichor by @hoseoksluna

⋆ A Thousand Reasons Why by @taegularities

⋆ Pas De Deux by @jiminrings

⋆ Dreamboat by @onlyswan

⋆ In Which The First Collection of heartouching drabbles by @onlyswan

⋆ Fontana Di Trevi by @jeonstudios

⋆ Hotter Than Hell by @chateautae

⋆ I Gasp And In That Breath I Take You In by @inkofyoonkoo

⋆Timeless In Paris by @jjkchronicles

⋆ SPF 50 by @gimmeyoon

⋆ One Year My Love by @hayjeon

⋆ Save You by @hongcherry

⋆ What If I Love You Too Much by @taleasnewastime

⋆ Magnets by @kkaetnipjeon

⋆ Please Don't Go by @httpjungkookcom

[hoseoksluna]

CRUEL | jjk

pairing: idol!boyfriend!jeongguk x f. reader 

genre: smut, pwp

word count: 9k

summary: when jeongguk finds out you were touching yourself without his permission while he’s gone in seoul, he’s not hesitant to remind you how cruel he can be.

warnings: heavy daddy issues (ofc), dom/sub dynamics, punishment, spanking, edging, food used during intercourse, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), nipple play, deep-throat, degradation kink, squirting, the horniness is too much, bratty behavior, smoking and vaping, dirty talk, no condom, multiple rounds, multiple positions, miscommunication trope, jungkook is delicious and cruel.

note: i jinja can’t believe this is real. jungkook came live on hoseoksluna’s comeback and i still haven’t recovered. i can’t believe that i finally wrote something that i’m proud of and that i’m finally showing it to you. while he was live, i was making the same matcha that is mentioned in the fic and it just feels like a dream come true, a story coming full circle. you’ll see what i mean by the time you finish reading this fic. please, don’t forget to give me a warm welcome and give me ALL of your thoughts. i missed you all sooooo much, and i’m already thinking about what to write about next. I LOVE YOU ALL, ENJOY READING. MWAH.

The days were cruel. 

In an unimaginable way that made you cranky. The days were blistering hot; the sun grazed its round face against your skin too feverishly. The bees foolishly thought you were a flower, put together on this earth to refresh them and fill their backs with pollen, sending you into a spiral of fear of such great weight that the whole town heard you yelp and scream. And your boyfriend was out and about in the faraway city of Seoul, bulky and masculine, but still the same Jeonggguk, making his name bigger in the world by crafting an album with his closest brothers. 

You were alone with the bees. And you were alone with your… loneliness, which had many shades. 

Blue for when you missed the quintessence of his presence. His softness, and the gentleness that was the true core of his openness, his warmth and his lovingness. All of which was palpably manifested through his most prominent love language: acts of service. Making you breakfast, fixing you a quick lunch, making you dinner with snacks and desserts in between. Washing your fruits, then watching you eat them with the kind of joy only a person like him could radiate. Making you matcha. Filling up your water bottle without you ever asking. Tying the shoelaces of your favorite sneakers or helping you with the clip of your most-beloved heels. Washing your hair, lathering your body in your colorfully scented body butters and creams… massaging you. 

The very gesture interlaced with the second shade. 

Burgundy was for when you missed the physicality only a man like him could offer you. The big muscles he worked when he jackhammered his fingers in and out your heat just to see how many times you could squirt for him in two minutes. The rawness of his competitive nature that would come up to the surface more vehemently than ever, more eagerly and more yearningly than the world had even seen. For you, he would unload your burdens, your bad days and your moods with his mouth and his cock, fucking it out of you until your mind was blank, praising you for taking it so wonderfully, for letting him empty you out of the lousy and filling you up with something else he very much enjoyed watching leak out of you. 

You missed him. You fucking missed him. And counting the days wasn’t helping when your body flushed with this burgundy shade. Has been flushing for weeks. Your own fingers weren’t much of a help, cramping when trying to mimic his speed and his technique, and cumming on your own was as dissatisfactory as not cumming at all. 

You were coming home on your own. Getting the groceries on your own. Matcha, skincare. Even the cleaning was bland and dull without the melodious sound of his singing voice, the warmth of his humming, the depth of his conversational skills. 

He isn’t supposed to be returning to the stillness of the town for another couple of days, but you can’t spend another minute delving any further into the realm of your memories with him. Living there, instead of the reality—of your life with him, the life he changed forever. You’re not the type to bother your partner while he is at work, but he has been gone for such a long time and the messages and phone calls haven’t been so frequent, and the liquid heat that pools beneath your panties just isn’t so bearable at the moment. 

And you’re hot. Dying of heat. And you want some ice cream. 

Before your mind is registering what your body is doing out of its own fervent will, you're listening to the ringing on the other side of the phone. A bee buzzes to the left side of you as you make yourself more comfortable on the plushy chair Jeongguk got for you on his balcony, the noise mingling with the repetitive other one. And when he picks up, you don’t even realize it—because the bee flies towards you. 

You scream. Flit your hands. Shriek at it to go away, and the slender yellow creature quickly flaps its wings in the other direction. Away from you, frightened by your reaction, expecting a much different one. 

Your heart thuds heavily in your chest and you take a minute to calm down. It isn’t until you hear Jeongguk calling your name that you snap back to the present moment, and the flesh relaxes at the sound of his voice. 

“What happened?” he asks, a hint of amusement lacing his deep, raspy voice, which divulges to you that he might have a fraction of an idea of what just went down. 

A pout naturally forms, the heavy feeling of his absence expanding in your soul. “A bee attacked me.” 

He chuckles, but the sound is so soft and amiable that it doesn’t scar your heart. On the opposite, his sympathy reloads the void within your sternum, and you suddenly feel the need to grab onto something in order to ground yourself.

“No,” he coos, prolonging the vowel, and you squeeze the suppleness of your bare thigh as you feel his voice reaching the very middle of your lap. It doesn’t really make the situation better. “Are the bees bothering you?” 

“Yes, they are,” you bite just as soon as he asks the question, as if it were his fault that they kept stumbling into his balcony. Perhaps, they miss him, too. “Because they’re looking for you.” 

Jeongguk hums, thinking about what you just said. Clicks his tongue and sighs. “Are they?” 

You hum just the same, in agreement. Don’t expect his following question. 

“What about you?” 

Your breath hitches in your lungs, and your heart skips almost immediately. The thought of what he would do if he were here skyrockets into the canvas of your mind, and the burgundy hue lengthens. You need him. You need him to protect you from the bees, fuck you on this balcony and then take you inside for a continuation of the pleasure, deepening it on the bed. 

“Yes,” you admit, shamelessly, sinking your teeth into the pillow of your bottom lip. “Way more than they are.” 

He chuckles, his raspy adoration spreading in the sound, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together. And you squeeze them harder when he says, “oh yeah?” 

You nearly whimper. Or perhaps the noise does come out, you don’t know because you’re so overwhelmed with your need for him that everything feels stifling and tight and he has the right pair of hands to undo the knots and the damage. And soon, you do know—because Jeongguk does the thing you didn’t have the guts to ask for.

“Princess, put on a pretty dress and wait for me outside. I’ll be there in fifteen,” he murmurs into the phone, zapping you with an amalgamation of shock and pure joy. You gasp, springing up to your feet, and it takes a minute or two before reality descends over your mind, and you engulf him with your words of worries and are you sure’s, which you don’t really hear. Not over the drum of your heartbeat. 

But the one who instigated it also stills it with the smooth, homely melody of his voice. 

“Oppa will manage, don’t you worry about it,” he reassures you, smacking his mouth as he licks his lips. Momentarily, you think about the kind of noises it would make somewhere down below between your thighs until he continues his sentence. “You worry about that dress. The prettier it is, the harder I fuck you in it.” 

You let him hear your sharp intake of breath. Let him hear the influence of his dirty words as they course down your body with the whimpery sigh that leaves your parted lips. And a bud of embarrassment opens and flourishes in your cheeks when he laughs. 

At you. 

And you’re reminded of how truly mean he can be in bed, even though he doesn’t look the part. For a blink of an eye, you fold yourself into the earliest memory you can find in your mind. Of him edging you with his fingers massaging your swollen clit until your tears lined your vision and you had to beg him to make you cum. You feel the center of your panties dampen at that, but you can’t go any further into that recollection. The teasing snarks of his band members and harmonizing voices in the background snap you out of it, and you feel so empty that your mouth corners downturn. Empty with the kind of void only Jeongguk can fill. 

You’re horny, sweltering, and you miss his body. Miss him. 

“Alright then. Can you get me some ice cream on the way?” you ask, tracing invisible patterns on your thigh, your sweat creating a heavy layer on your skin, one of utmost discomfort. The throbbing in your sensitive bundle of nerves only adds to that, despite your phony nonchalance. 

And Jeongguk makes it so much worse. 

“It depends,” he says, ever so seriously, and your bottom lip juts out in a bratty way. “Have you been good while I’ve been away?” 

If being good meant you stroked your pussy while your face was buried in his pillow during those two long weeks of him sleeping in a cold, foreign bed somewhere in Seoul, then yes. You were good. 

Exceptionally good. 

And you tell him. 

“Very good.” Your voice springs to an octave higher, playfulness lacing it sweetly, enough to coax out a soft grunt out of your boyfriend, only for your ears to hear. You surely do hope that none of his band members are around and that his phone is fixed to his own ear because you murmur: “I’ve played with my clit so much that it hurts now.” 

Well, it was half truth, half lie. You did go hard enough last night that you couldn’t do another round, whatever number you were at—you can’t really remember. The muscle became so sensitive and so sore that a sting shot up your sternum when you tried to touch it again, so you let it be. And this morning, in the shower, there was no pain to speak of. You merely said it just to pull his attention to this very pressing matter: your fingers weren’t enough to satisfy your need for him, and you yearned for his own, for his tongue, and for the manhood between his legs that tore up your old life and construed a brand new one. 

Jeongguk growls into the phone, and you can hear the loud, indignant thud of his car door closing. A smirk is drawn on your lips, that very easily. The promise of being redeemed by his ruthless strokes hangs in the air and sweat, excitement and a dark layer of a sensual craze coats you tighter, drives you mad, pushes you into that little role you found your home in the moment you met Jeon Jeongguk. 

The sub space welcomes you, and your boyfriend locks you inside with his following words. 

“That doesn’t sound like you were very good,” he disagrees, and you can almost see him flexing his jaw and gritting his teeth, the action causing that delicious dimple to make a dent in his chewy cheeks, the one you like cumming on so wetly. Because if there’s anything that he’s fundamentally against, it’s you touching yourself without him being present. He regards it unethical when he reminds you every now and then that he owns those dewy little princess parts. And whenever he leaves, whether it be for a tour or promotional events, he very sternly orders you to be good and to not touch your little clit. 

You’ve never had the guts to disobey. You were always eager for his praise and validation whenever he came back to find you dripping wet and swollen, two, three weeks without an ounce of orgasm dopamine. This time, you gathered the courage to rock the boat—but not because you had the craving to be bad, but because there was something different about his absence. 

Be it the aftereffect of the military, you simply couldn’t go any longer without this key part in your life—because truth be told, the sex was everything to you. Intimacy with Jeongguk was the tree of your spine that held your body upwards, its lengthy roots the pathways of your veins. His pheromones, sweat, the mint of his breath, the milkiness of his body wash clinging to his body—that was your oxygen. His grunts, moans, growls and whimpers were the music you needed for your soul’s and mind’s refreshments. And his cum…

You moan his name, brazenly and crazedly, at the thought of his cum. And you perceive what you’ve done when Jeongguk austerely calls you by your own, and you dumbly make a confused noise in response. 

And he’s seemingly had enough.

“That’s it. I’ll deal with you when I get home,” he grumbles, and ends the call. The beeping noise signaling what you’re about to face takes its time getting through the mashed potato your brain has become, and it is the clamorous fluttering of another pair of a bee’s wings that propels your body to awaken and jump to action. 

You grab your green glass of matcha and your phone, and you run back inside. Though the lack of solidness to your brain remains. 

Your thighs are slick with your yearning, your mouth dry and ashy. You feel as though you’ve done something very wrong, and that a punishment awaits you. A great punishment that might elevate your relationship or utterly diminish its wonderful spell. The bee tries to get inside through the transparency of the window, and it reminds you of all the times you got in trouble on purpose for your father to notice you. You realize that you’re nearly doing the same thing now, though not with your father, but another equally important male figure in your life—bumping your head against the glass again and again, despite the fact you know and you’ve seen that the way doesn’t lead there. 

Asking for his time, for his attention… not with your words, but with the rosy wickedness of your actions. Lies, pretense, challenge. 

You’re ashamed of your actions, and it is an ice-cold, prickling sensation beneath your skin. And because of it, your matcha tastes bitter when you slurp it all in one go, no matter how much you sweetened it with the honey Jeongguk bought. The same honey he told you to eat a spoonful of everyday for good health and your throat, made scratchy with the persistent cough caused by your constant smoking. 

How he cares for you, and how little you appreciate it. 

A certain inkling to fix yourself inflames your heart, and because of that—you listen to what Jeongguk told you to do, and you pick out the prettiest dress you own. The one you can’t really wear outside, but only inside due to the sheerness of the fabric. Black and short, ending barely beneath the suppleness of your butt, with an additional slit to accentuate your thighs. Teeny tiny straps, easy for his teeth to tug down your shoulders. And the stretched, long tiger stripes that adorn the fabric, and that do absolutely nothing to cover your nakedness. 

You don’t feel sexy in the dress. Not even when you fluff up your hair. Not even when Jeongguk takes his time and you smoke two cigarettes on the balcony, waiting for his matching black car to appear on the driveway. Not when you’re trembling with the weight that you got yourself in some serious, irredeemable trouble, which results in him not wanting to come home to you at all. 

But the beeping of the lock does find your ears. The quiet shuffling of his feet, the rustling of a plastic bag, the jingling of the plush animal hung over the strap of his bag. You’re not smoking anymore, so you let the balcony door open, and you don’t look back when the shuffling of his socked feet draws closer and closer— 

His warm, large, calloused palm touches the crown of your head. 

No hello’s are spoken aloud, but shared intimately and silently between the interlocking of even warmer, plumper lips. You didn’t even get to get a good glance at him, and he’s deepening the kiss, as if compensating for all those weeks he didn’t get to kiss you at all. His body heat is soaring, dipping into your skin, melting down the severity of your guilt and shame, and if he didn’t pull away and almost fix everything with the intensity of his stare, you would break into liquid, sorrowful emotions. 

Dark, doe eyes, twinkling. The extreme, bottomless outer space of utter blackness, which holds everything. The eyes of a wounded animal, having lost his mother and his home, belonging to a man, capable of making his own home. And that’s the essence of Jeongguk, this split persona that you will never cease to love. 

Hardness and softness, meeting somewhere in the middle. 

Silky hair, falling into that gentle creek of his eyes, damp with the summer air. He glints in the sun—in fact, the entirety of the star reflects off of him as he soaks it, and you soak him, too. Enough that you split into two sides, in which you’re happy to see him and at the same time, you feel as though you don’t deserve to see him at all. 

But Jeongguk sinks his fingers deeper into your hair, bends at the waist again and sinks a tender kiss into the arch of your forehead, lingering there, inhaling you. Spreads the sun into your body until light catches you, takes a hold of the heaviness you carry inside. Doesn’t take it away, not at all. Merely holds it with you, for it’s his job to make it disappear. 

And he does when he withdraws his hand to rummage in the white plastic bag in his other one, and pulls out your favorite strawberry popsicle. 

The sun rays burst in your eyes. Push at the back of them, inviting your tears. 

But they don’t come. Jeongguk stops them with his words. 

“Do you deserve it?” 

The intensity of the moment thumps between you and him, and your guilt threatens to seize your emotions, but Jeongguk crouches in front of you and unwraps the sweet treat you hankered for all day. Holds it up before you, seemingly waiting for your answer, but he doesn’t. 

He speaks again. 

“Did you miss me that much?” 

Now he waits, now he wants to consume your answer with the way he narrows his round eyes, with the way the corner of his puffy mouth twitches upwards and stays there. The amusement fans off from him, and he’s not doing anything to hide it. As a matter of fact, he gladly allows you to see it, bask in it, settle in it. 

That’s the core of his meanness. As small as it is, as shrouded and imperceivable as it has been all this time, its influence is boundless. It straps you down, renders you boneless. But something in its heart requests the presence of your former naughtiness. 

And he proves it to you by his sudden impatience. 

Jeongguk stands up. Your impassioned eyes travel far up with how tall he is, and you can’t help but regard how pretty he is against the gradient of blue and ochre upon the canvas of the sky. A momentary observation that steals the breath out of your lungs before the nerve center of your inner challenge is incited. 

He lifts the hem of his oversized dark gray T-shirt and shows you his groin. 

Not even the excessive bagginess of his jeans can conceal the hard-on he’s sporting. 

His girth, pumped full and thick, creates an outline in his pelvis that causes you to salivate. It reaches his left hip, being fastened to the side like that by the tightness of his ivory Calvins, which peek out from the waistband. His fist also reveals a little bit of his tummy as he holds up his shirt, and there’s so much drool collecting in your mouth that you have a difficult time swallowing it all. 

Your eyes flick back to his manhood, and you think about how easily your lips could glide along its side after you’d slobber all over him. That familiar heat brushes across your mound, your folds moistening, and your mind is wiped clean. 

Jeongguk appears to be intently watchful of your return to your sub space, and you adore the feeling of it. Adore the feeling of him stepping into his own role as your dom. The dynamic is unspoken, always has been, and something tells you that this fact is about to change. 

“You see what you’ve done to me?” he rasps, his arousal clawing at his voice, clawing at you, stimulating your body to want more, yet giving it the sense and the focus it needs to hear what he’s trying to tell you. The popsicle melts and drips at his side, making a mess on the balcony floor. “I had to drive so slow I had the cars honk at me and cuss me out because all I could hear and see in my mind is you moaning and touching yourself to the thought of me.” He grunts, and your muscles jerk in response, calling out for him. The sun is scorching hot inside you, swallowing every bit of your being. And you’re not ignorant to the pang of disappointment that collides with it, when he lets the hem of his shirt drop. “And when I get home, I see you in this dress. Tell me, why are you making it so difficult for me?” He lets his shoulders droop, can’t stand the distance, parts your legs with his, meets your forehead, one hand on the back of your chair, the other—the busy one—in front of you. “I need to fuck you,” he breathes out, fumes, bites his lip. “I need to spank that ass raw for making me rethink everything I’ve ever done or felt.” He pauses, tilts his head, and when that icy dollop of the popsicle plummets to the inner of your thigh, you mewl so devastatingly that he growls and sinks his nails into the plush of the back of the chair. Sucks in heavy breaths through his teeth, inches closer and closer to your lips. He can’t see what the popsicle has done to you, not just yet, because—“I need to watch you play with your little clit for me. I need you to misbehave. It’s just so—” 

And he doesn’t finish his sentence because he kisses you senseless. 

Promptly, he parts your mouth open and slips his tongue inside, groaning at the taste of redemption because he was wrong for forbidding you from being intimate with yourself. The movement of his lips closing is harsh, bruising, but you take it all, take in this newness, this change to the dynamic of the relationship, and you submit so easily that it feels freeing. 

He’s in charge, but he’s given you freedom. 

“I’m gonna make it nice and wet for you.” 

And it is now that, as he kisses you for the last time—more tenderly than before, as if the indication of your pussy softened him, that he notices the ichorous pea of the pink popsicle that has dropped onto your thigh. His hand is tinged with the runny mass, creating veins of white and the same pink, which cascade down his wrist. One of the sun beams, the richest of them all, shimmers in his eyes, and the heaven’s canopy darkens when he swears and dips to your smeared thigh, without averting his gaze, and collects the pea with his wet tongue. 

The moan that comes out of you in response instigates him to grip both of your thighs and push your hips forward, nearly over the edge of the chair. And he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time, and nosedives into your scorched dewiness, seizing your pussy with his whole mouth. And the sensation of his flat tongue against your lips, your outer folds and finally your clit… you let your head drop back and flutter your eyes shut, your moans a continuous stream, which supports his tongue’s potency in licking that already swollen pearl over and over.

But Jeongguk doesn’t like that you’ve closed your eyes. His dominance manifests in full glory, and he withdraws, much to your disappointment. It takes some time for you to fully emerge out of that stupor he’s caused you with his prowess, but he hastens the process. Skillfully so. 

“Look at me while I eat your pussy or I won’t,” he slurs, stupefied just the same, as if he craved your pussy just as you have craved him, and he’s drunk on the sentiment of it all. 

Your eyes flung open, barely, drooping within this overbearing energy. 

Jeongguk’s mouth cracks into a soft smile. “That’s it,” he praises from between your thighs, which he pushes further back into your chest and spreads as far as they can go. Then, he faintly kitten licks your clit. Makes your body zap with the delicate, yet strong surge of pleasure he gives you. Your moan is breathy, but he wants more. You can see it on him long before he voices it out. “Are you not speaking to me?” 

Then, he shocks you with his following action. 

He runs the tip of the popsicle over the top of your bare mound, stopping right at the sensitive spot before your clit. Your chest shudders, the stimulation so cruel but so good, evoking the memory of the first and the last time he edged you, the last time he was mean. You don’t even remember the reason, only the fervent moment was dug deeply in the soil of your mind. And you don’t even know why you’re not speaking—you’re overwhelmed, overfilled with yearning, which is dotted with the last bits of guilt and shame you have. 

But the awareness of what you need dawns upon you. 

You need a conversation. 

“I thought I was in trouble,” you admit quietly, your lips forming that natural pout of sadness. Jeongguk’s eyes soften at the sound of your voice and at the meaning of your words, and time beats twice as he comprehends the information you’ve given him, his irises fixed on your own before they slope down to your pout. 

He licks his lips. Meets your eyes again. Dominant, sharp, ready to resolve. 

“You were,” he adds his own admission, keeping the eye contact intact as he slides the popsicle further down. Its iciness on your clit releases a vulgar moan out of your mouth, the pleasure so vivid and so loud within your body, unlike anything you ever felt in your life. Your thighs shake in his hold and he presses them harder against your chest, his fingers making dents in their thickness. He lets the popsicle dwell there, moving it up and down ever so slowly but firmly, and you feel your dewiness drip down your skin. You rock against it, your eyes flitting as they roll back, and Jeongguk laughs, bitterly. “Until I realized how much I liked it.”

You whimper. The coldness, his words—it’s too much. You furrow your brows and push his hand away, sticking your knees together in overstimulation. Jeongguk obliges, getting the message, replaces the popsicle with his mouth, warming up your pussy. He sucks your clit, watching as your long lashes fan over your eyes, but before you could focus on the pleasure and on your eventual orgasm, he’s gone. 

Ponders his thought before he releases it. “I never thought you would do that,” he continues with his admission, kissing your clit, your fold, your pelvic bone. Your heart jumps, the subtle pleasure enabling your brain to think. “Rub your pussy to the thought of me, I mean,” he explains, brushing his lips over the skin of your inner thigh. Your hand extends out and rakes through the soft ebony of his hair above his ear, encouraging him to carry on. “I always thought you would do it while watching someone else, and I wouldn’t survive that.” A graceful patch of rosiness forms on his cheeks and he shies away, into your thigh, having shown his emotions and the apparent, deeply-set insecurity strung throughout your relationship. 

And it clicks. 

The reason why he doesn’t let you touch yourself is because he’s possessive. And his self-esteem is so insubstantial that he thought you’d rather watch other guys than envelop your self-pleasure around him and the memories he perfumed your life with. 

Your heart sinks, heavy and laden with his burden. It wrecks you, the fact he thinks so low of himself, that he thinks he isn’t worth your alone time while he’s away, and you sit up. Surprise him as you do so. Grab his face, hug him to your chest and hold him like that. 

Hold him as you affirm him of reality. 

“I spent these past two weeks with my nose buried in your pillow because it made my memories of the way you fucked me seem more real,” you say into his hair, the scent of milkiness, honey and cotton filling up your nostrils, intoxicating your brain. Jeongguk listens with his mouth parted and cheeks flaring, his breath heavy against your bosom, and when he kneels and drags you down with him to sit you on his lap, you let him. Gaze into the darkened, dreamy creek of his eyes. Take a dip inside. Try not to grind against his hard manhood, but his wandering hands already begin to do the job. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, tilting his head to go for your neck, peppering the column with the softest kisses and the graze of his teeth as his hands control the back-and-forth motion of your pussy against his denim-clad length by gripping your ass. The popsicle has been discarded forever ago, you guess, and his smeared, cold hands get warmed up easily by your scorching skin, which he fondles, squeezes, all while still maintaining the control. 

But you haven’t finished. Not quite yet. 

You run your fingers through his hair and sigh in all the world’s delight. “Why would I look at different guys in porn when I have the hottest man in the world? Just your selca would make me cum in a minute.” 

He groans, and his hot breath is the last thing you feel before the sinking of his teeth overcomes your senses. 

Jeongguk bites your neck. And you definitely need a cigarette or two after this. 

The drumming in your clit heightens. You can almost hear its music in your head when he soothes the bite with the lap of his tongue, sucking the skin right after and… you’ve nearly forgotten what you two were talking about, had he not backtracked—right there, upon the column of your abused neck. 

“I still want to punish you, just for the fun of it,” he says, and you take two seconds to remember what you did to deserve the play-pretend punishment he speaks of. That much he emptied out your brain with that one singular gesture. “Can I?” 

Oh, and he asks. 

“Please.” 

He begs. 

You whimper his name, his delicious, pretty name, and force him to look at you. Teary eyes, more rounder than ever, tender and lenient, so terribly weak and horny. And those cheeks, so cutely stained with his carmine meekness. You could eat him, you could chew him—and you wouldn’t have enough. 

Such a lamblike man, begging to punish you. 

“Punish me,” you purr, puckering your lips through the unfolding of your seductiveness. “I’ve been so bad, doing something you told me not to do.” 

The game begins, and Jeongguk is a man of his time. Leads your legs to wrap around his torso. Raises himself to his feet with you clinging to him like this without huffing a breath of exhaustion, and you squeal in surprise—reckoning soon after that he probably lifts more than you weight. You’re not ignorant to the tingle it brings to your bundle of nerves, and you grind against his stomach, pepper the same kisses to his neck that he gave you, but when he shifts his hands and holds you with just one, you pause and see that he’s fetching the abandoned popsicle and incorporating it into the game.

Your stomach jumps.

In a minute, you’re thrown on the bed. The gossamery, white canopy, hung over it, rustles with the incoming summer wind rushing through. And with your legs spread, sticky and and half-soppy with your essence, you watch him watch you. Watch him suck on the popsicle and swallow the sweet delight, his Adam’s apple bobbing in that very way you find so appealing. The strawberry scent clasps to him, and you’re so hungry for him that merely the treat retracing its pathway down his ashy-pink wrist makes you drool. Your breathing accelerates, and you wonder why he’s not doing anything—just to soon realize that this is a part of the punishment. 

And he confirms it with his following words. 

“You’re not getting the ice cream,” he decides, sternly, coaxing out your slick. It’s bare and raw for his eyes to see, but he doesn’t look there. He intently studies your reaction, reveling in the way his power over you affects you, and all you can think about is how his meanness has finally come to take its rightful place. He smacks his mouth, hums, makes this so much worse for you, makes you crave something that only he can decide if you can have or not. 

And he smirks. 

“Besides,” he continues, sticking out his tongue to catch a large dollop, flattening it on the side as he drags it back up, pulling a pathetic moan out of you. Your body vibrates, your muscles tense up and your hands fist the covers. “I haven’t heard you apologize to me, have I?” 

The two words collect in your mouth, but you swallow them. Just for the fun of it. 

The hefty silence wafts between the pair of you, charged with the intensity of the moment. You narrow your eyes at him, playfully, and like him, you drag the tip of your tongue over the arch of your upper lip. His brows twitch, and you’re sure something else you’re severely hungry for twitches, too. The notion of it brings your hands to wander over your stomach, nearing dangerously close to your breasts and perked nipples, poking through the black, pellucid fabric. 

“I have nothing to apologize for,” you say, your voice a low vibrato. Jeongguk chuckles, finishing the popsicle, his stained, tattooed hand glistening in the dimmed light. The yellows and blues outside have darkened to the fullest, too, resembling the coat of the bees you fear so much. 

His smirks deepens and slightly widens, that dimple exceeding yet again in rearranging your guts. “Bratty fucking mouth.” 

Your breath hitches, stopping your panting, and the dynamic impacts him just as well because abruptly, with his clean hand, he pulls out his pink vape and takes a hit. And you’ve never witnessed anything hotter. 

And you were wrong. Prematurely wrong. Because as he puffs out the ivory, strawberry-scented smoke, he straddles you and kisses you, madly. Bites your lower lip when he pulls away. And then, then, he uses your open mouth to stick the middle two of his popsicle-coated fingers inside. 

He hits your gag reflex, and he moans when he hears it, unbuckling his pants. Doesn’t let you clean his fingers in all entirety because as soon as he pulls out his drooling cock, reddened and swollen, he stains it pink with the residue of the sweet treat. Holds it for you at the base, grabs the back of your neck, and pushes your head to take him. 

“Here’s your popsicle, baby.” 

That is the hottest thing you ever witnessed. 

The heavy feeling of him, the warmth, the veins all across your tongue when he swiftly fucks your mouth. It was all worth the turmoil, the waiting. Your eyes are fixed upwards, unblinking, boring into his as he grits his teeth, trying his hardest to last. And you can’t really believe it, having him in your mouth like this, finally. You feel as though you’re merely soaring on a cloud of dreams, and you need something to ground yourself with. 

You grab his fingers. The dirty, tattooed ones. 

Jeongguk slows down. Pulls out of your mouth. Bends to your level. Your heart skips a beat, regarding his sweaty, aroused countenance. “Did it taste good?” 

You nod, without hesitation. “I want more.” 

Your throat is raw. You missed this, missed being changed so visibly by something so vulgar. And you want to be devastated to smithereens, only to be put back together with the same healing hands and kisses. 

But Jeongguk shakes his head. “No.” 

But he fondles the knuckles of your fingers before he lets go, a fond reminder that this is just a game. Grabs a fistful of your hair to give you a nasty, wet kiss before he continues them down your neck and collarbone, only to hastily turn you around to your stomach. Your short dress has ridden up so much that he doesn’t need to do anything to see your full bareness. And he fleetly observes his favorite part on your body before the rough palm of his hand smacks down on it. Hard. 

The burning sensation makes you yelp into the covers, but he wants to hear it. Comes over to the side and grabs your face. 

“On your knees.” 

You comply, sticking your ass up in the air, drawing out a pleased hum out of his chest. He follows the arched curve of your spine, landing another spank to the other cheek. Harder than the last one. 

“Apologize,” Jeongguk orders again, inches closer to your lips until they’re almost touching, brushing up and down, ever so slowly and torturously. “I know you can do it,” he whispers, encouraging you, the words sending a thrill of shivers down your back. “I know you wanna be a good little princess for me.” 

Goosebumps dot your flesh, and Jeongguk chases them. There, over the small of your back, connecting them as if they were sparkly beads of constellations, created for his slender fingers. He permits your heart to beat two times as you purposefully keep your mouth shut and, snickering to himself, he squeezes your ass harshly before he spanks both cheeks. 

Shifting your mind from the acute pain, he straightens your body, letting you kneel on the bed as he tugs you flush to his body, one arm wrapped around your back. You’re so small before him, hidden by the mass of his muscles. If someone were to come in, they wouldn’t see you at all. Jeongguk coos at that, arching a little over you to place his lips against your ear. 

The proximity, his breath, his cock pressed against your ribs, the hardness of his body rubbing up against your perked nipples—you can’t take it anymore. Your own breathing becomes irregular, and you grip and pull at his useless clothes, asking for friction, for relief, for the open oasis that his cock offers—

“Not tonight, huh?” he asks mutely, kneading the back of your thighs, your ass, the womanliness of your hips, stilling your motions. “Tonight you wanna be Oppa’s little slut?” 

Your mouth falls agape, the soft gasp faultlessly emanating the shock your body is loaded with. Your heart pounds, painfully so, and you think he can feel it because he shifts into his gentleness by the way he draws back and cradles your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. His nose pokes yours, as if to say—hey, I’m here, we’re playing, but I’m here, and it makes you smile, composes your emotions, settles you into a restful state, in which you’re ready for the next step. 

“Answer me,” Jeongguk demands, and your smile grows, the most girlish blush adorning your cheeks. He squishes them at the sight, fighting his own grin from forming on his lips, and you feel so comfortable and so at ease, despite the fact you’re about to be absolutely ruined. 

“I wanna be your little slut tonight, Oppa, and I want you to fuck me like I deserve,” you purr, giving him the answer he wants, and it is now that his proud smile finally blossoms. A meadow of flowers bursts open in your heart, seeing that fatherly smile, and you long to do anything he asks, anything he desires, just to have that soul-stirring, life-changing smile fixed on you. 

He hums, pleased. “You know what I want,” he says, changing the course, closing the distance and planting a singular, hard kiss onto your lips, onto which he adds, “I want you to show me what you did.” 

With that, he pushes you onto your back, lifting your legs in the process as he crawls on the bed. Nods at you to get to work while he pins your limbs back, your trickling dewiness and swollen clit on full fucking show for him. You can’t help but silently laugh to yourself, and your bratty ways propel you to grasp his leaking dick and pump it a few times. Jeongguk hisses, squeezing his eyes shut, swiftly grabbing your wrist in order to make you stop doing that. But you have your other hand, too, and it mirrors your previous action, enveloping the room in your loud giggles when Jeongguk sighs, moans and growls, pinning both of your hands back. 

Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, drooling dick to your tummy. 

“You’re a naughty fucking girl, you know that?” he scolds croakily, diverting your wrists to his singular fist, merely prolonging your giggle with that, in spite of the fact he doesn’t find your own game amusing. Your breasts bounce in their tight confinement and he notices, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down. “Let me see those tits.” 

And he tugs down the neckline, so roughly that he almost rips the straps. And when his large hand seizes both of your breasts, the callouses on his palm stimulating your nipples, your giggles fade out, replaced by irregular loud breaths that make the atmosphere so much more serious and desperate. 

“That’s what I thought.”

Your nipples are the most sensitive part of your body, and Jeongguk knows. Leans down, and lightly laps at your pointed nub before facing you, smugly. A cruel tactic of discipline because he leaves it at that, doesn’t give you more. Even when you sway your body, puff up your chest so the bud gets to his mouth. No, he stays put, and that ever-relentless smirk on his face stays as well. 

And the tactic lengthens when, all of a sudden, he slips his swollen tip inside your heat, keeping it there, not going any further. The unexpected stretch nips at your muscles, and you let out a huff of uncomfortable breaths, your brows scrunched, your face tense. It’s now him who laughs as he drifts a finger down the middle of your sternum, the place between your tits. Down and up, down and up, deflecting and moving towards your nipple, which he teases. Your hips lift, a natural reaction that he clicks his tongue at because with the motion, as small as it was, it helped you get him deeper inside you, but as it seems—Jeongguk plans to irrevocably destroy you. 

“Don’t move.” 

He pinches your nipple, sending violent surges of pleasure all across your body, and you don’t stop your hips from moving—because you need to be fucked right now. As a matter of fact, your motions vivify and quicken, circling around his tip, grinding until you break sweat. It happens so fast, time makes haste, and you just—

“I can’t take it anymore,” you cry, longing for the entirety of his cock, for his drive, stamina and roughness. His tip does feel good, but it’s not the same. “Please—”

Abruptly, you’re maneuvered over to your stomach, your hips sprung in the air by his hands in order for you to perk your ass up while your face is planted on the mattress. His tongue takes a long, proper drag across your entire cunt from the back like this, and you hear him moan indistinctly at the taste before he plunges his cock inside you, and doesn’t give you time to get used to the achy stretch. 

He bottoms out. Digs crescent moons into the fleshy parts of your hips as he uses them to give you fast, hard, mini strokes that despotically scramble your brain. Your hair, a bird’s nest, unfurls around you like a pair of black wings, bouncing with each movement. You can’t breathe, you can’t think; you can only feel—the monumental weight of his cock, hitting just the right spot above, the very hastily rising heat in your lower tummy, its pressure heightening when he flattens you on the bed, and merely fucks you into the mattress. 

You can only take it; there’s nothing else for you to do. 

The pleasure is bigger and more all-consuming than anything you ever experienced. His balls slap against your clit, and his hand joins, too. Crawls from underneath, not only to lift your pelvis higher how he likes it, but to rub your clit to madness. Not once does his pace stop, nor does his pace ever falter. And now, with his fingers flicking your bundle of nerves, the pressure in your core is at its highest, needing so very little to throw you over the edge. His other hand comes to meet your jaw as he leans over to eclipse his body over yours, and his lips, once again, find your ear. 

“Is this how you did it?” he taunts, and that is all it takes to make you cum. 

To make you squirt, in fact. 

Your vision fills with streaks of white as your body trembles, even under the tower of his body. Jeongguk holds you through your orgasm, grunting as he listens to you moaning his name over and over again. You feel his eyes digging into the side of your face while your own roll back and stay there, despite the fact you’re drenching his cock and every other guy wouldn’t dare to miss the show. He swears, he moans, but he doesn’t stop flicking your clit, even though your juices have long pushed him out. He puts you first, taking your orgasm to the finish line, paying attention to the telltale sign of your body slackening against him, your eyes opening and your hands reaching for him—which is precisely what you do, when you come out of the euphoric limbo he just put you through.

“Fuck, baby,” you call out for him, still dopey, still so out of it that you can barely catch your breath, and your baby brings you back to life by spreading kisses down your nape, after which he rolls to the side with you, his hand roam down your torso—across your tits, which he momentarily squeezes, down your stomach until he reaches his destination. 

Your soppy little pussy. 

His other hand wraps around your shoulders. “So prettily wet, shibal,” he comments, touching your cunt all over, just to look at his fingers. Glistening, your squirt juices leaking down his palm like the popsicle earlier. There are still dried crumbs of it that you didn’t get to clean off, and your head spins. “I can still feel you dripping down my balls. Fuck, I missed you so much.” 

Oh. Your mind spins faster, the aftershocks of the orgasm rendering you utterly numb and powerless, but maybe you could clean them up for him… as a sign of gratitude for giving you more than you asked for or needed. You didn’t get to touch them after all. 

You begin to move, but he disagrees. 

“No, stay, we’re not done yet.” 

Jeongguk locks you in his embrace, and it is now that you perceive he’s taken off his shirt in the middle of fucking your brains out because you sense the nakedness of his chest. You snuggle deeper within his arms, turning your head to look at him and ask for a kiss. 

He’s as fucked out as you are. 

Hair disheveled, silkier than it were with the amount of sweat that clings to the strands. Eyes shining with the merciful light of desire, wet, narrowed and deep. Not dark, not lustful, but pure. He’s love incarnated from forever ago when love, in its truest form, truly existed, and you’re so lucky to have him that you don’t know what to do with this blessing. 

He slides himself back into your heat, his eyes rolling back as your tight walls constrict around him, welcoming him home. Jeongguk fucks you like this, from the side, while he busies his hands on your nipples and clit. Fucks you in missionary. Fucks you in the air until you’re giddy and crazy, throwing your head back, high on his cock and the constant pleasure he showers you with. Fucks you against the balcony window, upon which both of you simultaneously cum. You, for the fifth time; him for the first time. The glass is stained with this elixir of your shared love, and it’s something both of you embarrassingly laugh at once the game is over. 

After a much needed shower, you sleepily wipe away the memory of your wildest sex while Jeongguk makes you a large glass of matcha. You wait for him on the balcony as soon as you’re done, your muscles sore and limp. Gaze at the last of the yellow hues before they fully disappear beneath the horizon, thinking about how much more devastatingly you’ll miss him when he’ll, too, disappear to Seoul tomorrow morning and you’ll be alone again. 

The slow, homely melodies of his rnb playlist creep into the balcony, spreading across the canopy of the trees in full bloom, which lean forward towards Jeongguk’s voice as he harmonizes with the singers. You listen to him, fondly, regarding his vocals as tangible warmth whilst they lull you to slumber. 

And in no time at all, you don’t hear him come in. Had he not caressed the back of your head, like he did when he came home in the afternoon, you wouldn’t know he’s joined you. Your favorite green, ribbed glass of matcha is in his now clean hand, the matching straw waiting for your lips, and you smile up at him. 

Get up to your feet, kiss him, and allow him to fold you on his lap while he holds your drink for you. Milk and honey, with a green heart formed in the middle of the foam. Abel Tesfaye begins to sing Niagara Falls, his comforting voice the cherry on top, and you’re happy. Happy to be with him, happy to be listening to your favorite artist, happy to take your first sip of the matcha whilst Jeongguk lights up a cigarette with one hand. 

But so is that unrelenting bee, unfazed by the thick smoke. 

You yelp, clinging to Jeongguk, but he only chuckles, tightens his grip around you and hides you with his body. The story comes to a full circle—the bee looked for him and now has found him, sniffing his tattooed arm while you strain your muscles in fear so much that you can’t breathe, the bee too close to your liking. 

“If you don’t move, she’ll fly away. Relax. She won’t harm you,” he comforts you, kissing your temple, your muscles unflexing as he draws back his lips. You let out a sigh, choosing to believe him. “She can probably smell the matcha.” 

You doubt that, reminded of the conversation you had with him over the phone. “No, she was looking for you.” 

He coos, smiling against the side of your head. “That means she’ll leave now.” 

And she does. 

She touches him for the last time, and, as if she listened to his words, she turns around and flaps her small wings away, going for the trees, which hold more promise for her than the pair of you. 

Jeongguk takes a puff of the cigarette, placing it between your lips. You take after him, exhaling it out into the evening air, his free fingers quick to pull the glass straw to your lips, encouraging you to take your long-awaited first sip. 

The taste consoles your senses, but also magnifies the homesickness that has begun to carve out a hole in your heart. He’ll be gone in the morning, and you’ll go back to going through your routine all by yourself. You’ll make your matcha alone and you’ll smoke alone. On this very chair, on this very balcony. And it saddens you so much that you can’t bear it on your own. 

“I’ll miss you so much.” 

Jeongguk rubs his nose against yours, kissing it sweetly. “I know, I’ll miss you, too. But I’ll be back. You have to be patient for me.” 

You nod, knowing it’s true. You’ve done this before, and time and time again, it was proved to you that the distance made the heart grow fonder. The sex better. The romance more profound. And this time around, you both have something to look forward to when he comes back home. 

“You have to come back soon. You know I have to show you the bad thing I did,” you flirt, grinning, and Jeongguk’s eyes widen as he comprehends what you mean. 

And he laughs, heartily. “Yes, you have to show me how you play with your pussy.” He hums, kissing you twice on the mouth. Leans his forehead against yours, noses connected. “I’ll skip work. Call in sick or something. The members can cover for me. I’ll figure it out.” 

You laugh with him, not realizing in the moment that he meant every word. Down to the last detail. And that they, too, will come full circle. 

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