#my goddess✨💜 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

oftenderweapons · 1 year

Text

In Your Calvin's | JJK

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x reader (nicknamed Candy)

Wordcount: 9.6k

Genre: smut, fluff, pwp, established relationship

Rating: 18+ Minors, do not interact

Synopsis: Being Jeon Jeongguk's girlfriend is a great honour, but it comes with great responsibilities. When the commercial celebrating your boyfriend (very secret boyfriend) starts playing on everyone's and their mother's phones, it's time you face what it means to be loved by the most wanted idol of them all.

Warnings: Jealousy and general possessiveness. Swearing. Powerplay, switch!reader, switch!jk. Masochist!jk (?). Marking (hickey, writing on body with a pen), hair pulling (male receiving), edging (male receiving), spanking (male and female receiving). Teasing. Mild degradation. Dry humping. A very mild boobjob. Breast worship. Unprotected foreplay, oral sex (female receiving; brief male receiving), unprotected sex (be smarter, kids), rough sex. Mentions of cockring.

One last thing: 1. this was edited at 3am, please bear with me. 2. Sidenote: I try to be as neutral as possible with the way I describe the girls' appearance, however I wanted to specify that in this fic, I mention Candy having long, straight hair (and huge badonkers, but that's kinda canon by now LOL). It's just a brief mention, absolutely nothing major and holds no relevance to the fic, you might not even notice it; but still, I wanted to make sure I thought about my curly haired goddesses, and short haired queens, (or a combo of both heart eyes) and that I apologise for making this fic just a pinch less immersive for you. (Is this the right moment to apologise to small boobs princesses too? ily sisters, itty bitty titty committee 5evah)

Here's my masterlist, lemme just disappear very quickly. Enjoy 💜✨

You knew Jeongguk had a gig with Calvin Klein. You've known it for months. You've seen him cut calories and hit the gym and dehydrate for a couple days before the shoot because he explained to you how muscle definition works, and crucial to showing a great slab of abs is being basically as dry as a breadstick, to the point of being cranky because you have drunk three glasses of water in the last forty-eight hours.

Which all means, you knew his stomach would be quite surely showing.

And yet your world still stops once you're merrily sitting on your train back home and his half undressed form appears on the screen on your phone.

At first you slam your phone shut, mostly because you're used to hiding your boyfriend away and that's the reaction you usually have when you open one of his flirty pics from your chat.

Next, you realise you weren't on your private chat, and you weren't even looking at pictures in your phone gallery.

You were absentmindedly scrolling. On Instagram.

You unlock your phone again, and right there you're confronted with the very naked truth.

Jeongguk. Is basically naked. On your phone. And it's for the entire world to see.

Your brain slows down, as if the earth axis is tipping over a little in the opposite way.

Something inside you snaps around the third time the video plays in front of your unseeing eyes. To anyone looking at you, you could be just an obsessed fan taking a close look at the fine piece of art, but your eyes are unfocused, your mind too deep in thought to register any stimulus from the external world.

The vibration from the phone awakens you from your state of trance.

“Candy, baby,” says the adorable lover boy calling you. “Have you seen it already?”

Your lips are sealed, and you can't quite bring yourself to speak, you don't know why.

“I'm on my way back home.” You say, and the words feel like cracking a glow stick in your chest.

“But did you see it?” His voice isn't as bright now.

“I'm coming home.” You repeat.

He's silent for a few seconds, and you can hear him sigh. “Okay.”

“He's so insanely hot,” you overhear a girl sitting across from you comment.

“I want to run my palms down the sides of his waist,” says her friend.

You stare at them and you know you must look like a woman possessed right now, but you still allow yourself to incinerate them with a glare, as if your eyes could turn into flamethrowers.

“Candy?”

“I'll be home in ten.” And you close the call.

On the way back home, you hear more people talk. More girls fawn. More women zoom in.

On the escalator, you notice a woman fanning herself while staring at the screen. Another one even crosses herself as the ad from your boyfriend reruns on her phone screen.

Every step on your way home is utter agony, and once you step over the threshold, you're not sure what you're going to do.

Jeongguk is in the kitchen in a sleeveless top, tattoos out, piercings glowing in the gentle light of the living room. And his hair is fluffy, which means he's probably just done blow drying it after taking a shower.

The fact that the scent of his body lotion is still sharp gives you further indication of how recent that shower must be.

“Hey,” he says, turning towards you with a bunny grin, which immediately dims once he sees your expression. “Oh. Bad day?”

You bite your lip and stare at him a fair bit. Then, a bit more.

“Candy, love.”

You don't know what to do with him. Is he yours? Is he really yours?

How come you come home to him making dinner, and being freshly showered, and being so domestic? How come you're living in his apartment, knowing his pass code, having an ID card for his apartment complex and his studio at HYBE? How come he gives you a copy of his schedule and talks about you over the phone on his weekly call to his grandmother and brings you to his parents' house? How come you go on trips together and you're the emergency contact to his fur babies and you make love two to four times a week? How come he's brought you to the town he grew up in and loved you down in the place where he lost his virginity because, "I wish it had been you since the very first time"?

Who is this man?

Is he Jungkook from Bangtan Sonyeondan? Or is he Jeon Jeongguk, your very own quiet, shy, reserved lover boy?

“You're scaring me,” he whispers, putting down his wooden spoon and taking a few steps to stand in front of you.

“Why me?” you ask, staring at his collarbones, too scared to look into his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asks back, sheepish.

This time your eyes meet his. “Why me? Of all the women out there, why me?” You look down, taking in just how average you feel, every imperfection magnified in your eyes, now that you have so many people you're comparing yourself with, and competing with.

“Candy—” He starts.

“Everyone, everyone out there is literally foaming at the mouth at that commercial, and I'm here? I come home to you? I make love to you almost every night?” You pause and laugh bitterly at him. “I'm a fucking fraud.”

He shakes his head and moves closer, grabbing your wrists. “A fraud, you say?” He tuts in disappointment, places your hands on his waist. “You're not a fraud, ____, you're my soulmate.” He leaves your hands once he feels them clutch at his narrow waist.

Possessiveness hits you all of a sudden, and it is only mildly ebbed by his hands landing at the top of your ass.

“I love you, and I make love to you because it's a fucking dream. You're a fucking dream, and I'm so upset that you don't see it.”

You're jealous. You're simply jealous. It's human and it's healthy to be moderately jealous. After all the comments you heard and read, it's fair to be jealous.

“I reckon you saw the commercial.”

“I saw the commercial and everyone's reaction to it,” you comment, slightly acidic.

Jeongguk bends to place a kiss below your earlobe. “Are you angry?”

No. Not just anger.

Your hands mimic his and crawl to his lower back, toying with the hemline of his underwear. “I'm not mad.” I'm disgustingly jealous and I don't like them having more of what's mine. They already have too much, they've always wanted too much and you always give it to them and I'm furious that it's not mine alone.

Jeongguk wears a mischievous smile as he makes you take several small steps back, the back of your legs hitting the kitchen counter. “Do you like it?”

You click your tongue and shake your head. “No.”

The reply startles him, and he feels his mood dim. Did he—

“I'm not a jealous person, but this… God, this hits a new level,” you finally admit. “They already drool over you quite enough, and now they even have a video of you shirtless. How would I not be jealous!? Half the girls would have snapped your neck. If Yoongi ever did this, Kitten would have his balls dangling from her Mercedes keychain. I don't even know how Lace and Princess are handling their boyfriends naked on everyone's phone. If I were Tae I would seek political asylum in Greenland. Or maybe Tibet.” You take a large mouthful of oxygen before you launch yourself in another tirade.

“Everyone's talking about grabbing your waist, licking your abs, tugging at your hair and shit and hi! I'm here! I'm the girlfriend! Sorry I exist! WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Jeongguk laughs and lowers himself to your chest, kissing where your heartbeat echoes like a crazed war drum.

“It's not fun!” you complain, significantly agitated.

“Mh.” He hums as he moves aside the hem of your shirt, meeting the soft, smooth skin of your chest. “It was supposed to come out on your birthday, that's why's a bit more racy,” he explains more patiently. “But they decided to release it early.” He kisses a tender spot and your left knee tingles a little. “It was supposed to be a slightly too public boudoir shoot. But secretly it was just yours.” Jeongguk finds the cup of your bra and stares up at you as his fingers reach the hem and slide the fabric aside. “I was thinking of you when I made it.”

And once his mouth wraps around your nipple, your right knee starts tingling too.

“Must admit I had to push the limits a lot to finally make you jealous,” he purrs once he is done with the licking, sucking motion of his mouth around your tender flesh. “But I'm sorry I crossed the line.”

What line? You think, your brain already hazy. No sharp line exists in the world you’re currently in. Just the loving, plush hills of Jeongguk's lips, the slippery slopes of his waistline, the sinuous curves of his hip bones leading you to his pelvis, and the soft curls of his luscious dark locks. No crossed borders, only gentle waves licking the shore, water and land embracing one the other.

“Remind me who's the boss here, Candy,” he says, and you know he's playing you right now. “Remind me where I belong.” His mouth is at your ear as he whispers, “Show me who owns me.”

The tingles are spreading as his fingers grab at your ass, his lips connecting with your jaw. “Talk to me, Candy.”

You’re not sure you can articulate words at this moment. Talking isn’t as easy as everyone makes it seem.

His eyes connect with yours and he can tell you’re staring at his lips by the poetic detail of your lashes lowered over your cheekbone.

It makes him chuckle, very gently, that he has all these details of you he adores, and that you have the audacity of asking him why he picked you, and why he keeps choosing you over and over.

He loves you, his family loves you, his dogs love you. This is the way it’s supposed to be.

His finger reaches underneath your chin, forcing your eyes to actually meet his. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he purrs, and as your lashes dart up, he shakes his head a little, loving the way you arch up a fraction, as if pulled towards him. “There she is, beautiful.”

You feel completely neutralised. Disarmed. All the storms brewing over you a minute ago are forgotten as soon as his sweet smile shines like sunlight above you.

His hand combs your hair back, cupping your cheek and landing a kiss on your temple. “Are you feeling better?”

You nod.

“What mood are we in?” You’ve asked him this question thousands of times since the two of you became serious, ever since he opened up about feeling too closed off to make a relationship work; and now, the fact that it was such a solid, valid ritual in your dynamics made it natural for him to ask too. “You need to talk to me, sweetheart.”

“I’m better. I…”

“Tell me what you want.”

You stare at him, at his shoulders, at his biceps, you trace his tattoo with your fingertip, and he looks closely at your finger, at it drawing swirls and circles on his skin.

“Pick me up,” you say softly.

And he does, immediately. His biceps flex and he grunts a little, not at the weight, but just because he knows the sound can make your toes curl, and he likes that a lot. His hands are wrapped around the back of your thighs, then they adjust to your bottom.

“Next? Counter? Bed? Shower?”

You kiss him. Impatient, and needy, you kiss him.

He opens up for you without hesitation, moaning at the sweet invasion of your tongue in his mouth. God, he loves it. It makes him melt, to feel your tongue slip against his, moving wet and sloppy, your lips plush and hot pressed up against him. He loves kissing you. Actually, he loves making out with you. He’s pretty sure he could come of that alone, and he tries to remind himself you have to give that a try. Another day.

He places you onto the counter because he fears his knees might give out on him. And once he has you there it means his hands can roam all over you and grab your chest and toy with—

“No touching,” you snap at him, gripping his wrists and pulling his hands behind his back.

His eyes go wide at the shift in pace, but he obeys. He also feels like he's awakening from a dream only to find out reality can be so much better.

You dig your hands in his hair and he hisses a little as you tug gently, but still roughly. You think of all the people who wish they could do just so as you stare into his eyes, seeing just how turned on he gets as you manhandle him.

You lean towards him and you notice him trying to kiss you, but you tug at his hair harder, holding him in place as the heat of your exhale fans over his parted lips and his chin.

“You want me to own you?” you ask him, watching his muscles twitch as he fights the urge to grab you and put you in place.

He nods. “Do me all the things no one else can.” He has a roguish smile as he adds, “Do me everything they won't ever, ever do to me.” And he is god of deception when he finally tips you over the edge. “Do me everything I want just from you, and you alone.”

You watch him intently, then tug at his hair so that his head is angled upwards, throat vulnerable and exposed.

He's staring at you with a mischievous glint in his expression, a walking temptation, and you can almost hear him say it, 'come on, do it'. And you do it.

You bend forward and sink your teeth in his flesh, the tender skin caving in as your bite marks him softly before your cheeks move into a suctioning motion that you know will turn into a bruise. It just pleases you so.

“Take a step back,” you order as soon as you're happy with the hickey. “Take off your shirt.”

And he winks before he does. You watch the plain of his chest, the valley in between his pectorals leading you down to his navel.

“I hope you're wearing your Calvin's,” you tease with a cocked eyebrow.

He smirks. “Always in my Calvin's.”

You snicker and shake your head. “Take off your pants.”

His forehead scrunches up in surprise, but he eventually obeys.

He's standing in a pair of socks and his white boxer briefs. At least he didn't lie, they are Calvin Klein.

“Do you want—”

“The Calvin's stay on,” you sentence, then you descend from the counter. “Head over to the bedroom. I'll come over in a minute.”

He stares at you, flabbergasted.

“Oh, and I almost forgot: don't touch yourself. Settle down, hands on the headboard and wait pretty.”

He blinks, unsure of where this is going to end or where it came from, but so blazingly grateful for it.

“Okay.”

You give him a quick once-over as you stand in front of each other. His abs are toned and defined, but now less alarmingly than the days before the shoot. His thighs are strong and you love how the material from the boxers wraps around them comfortably and smoothly.

You dare stare at his crotch, at the way the fabric traces the curve of his length, so perfectly long and so perfectly thick.

You allow your fingertips to trace the curve of his spine, so lightly that it causes him to close his eyes, his head inched to the side as he shivers in pleasure.

“Can I be rough with you?” you ask him, your hand reaching the small of his back and cupping the curve of his ass.

He moves his hands on you the exact same way you did. “Maybe I like pain,” he suggests, and from the collection of tattoos and piercings, but mostly from the supercut of memories of him getting bitten, spanked and scratched by you, you’re reminded that you’re not dealing with the edited version of him he has promoted publicly.

This is your boyfriend. Jeongguk. Your Jeongguk.

You sink your nails into the flesh of his ass, and he hisses but smiles, pulling you closer, swaying his hips to tease your crotch with his. “Go get ready, babyboy,” you croon.

He hums invitingly and kisses your neck, trying to get you to move with him, but you’ve made up your mind already.

“Go,” you repeat.

He pouts and grabs your hips. “Come on, what are you trying to do?” he asks, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark and wide and imploring for you to just follow him and spare him whatever cruel surprise you want to use against him.

You grab his wrists, making him unclasp his hands. “Go and you’ll find out.”

He hesitates and then he faces away, still reluctant, turning around a couple times on his way, checking if you’re following him — perhaps, maybe, hopefully…

Yet, you don’t move, not until he turns the corner to the bedroom. And then you make your way over, slow, unbothered.

And you close the door on him.

You head to the bathroom, wash up quickly, and equally quickly you cover yourself in his favourite lotion, taking special care of your neck and chest. Once properly buttered up and covered in nothing but pretty Calvin undies and his favourite Calvin jeans jacket, you’re ready to attack. But you stare at yourself in the mirror, and you feel like there’s still something you could do to give him a heart attack…

Oh, that, you think. And you get to work.

Apparently he has behaved, as you find him lounging in bed, with his boxers still on, his hands laced behind the crown of his head, a fine slab of abs in full glow from the dark amber hue coming from his led lights.

“Are we on a sunset gold kinda vibe— Holy shit.” He didn’t manage to sound as cool and aloof as he’d tried to be once his eyes landed on you.

He wished he could take a picture of you and spread it across town, just so he could stare at it while waiting for a bus, or hanging out at Hongdae with his friends, and excitedly point at it while tipsy to holler “that’s my fucking girlfriend, that fine piece of ass fucking owns me”.

He wished he could put you on an album cover and fill it with all the insane stuff you do to his heart and his mind and his body. How his heartbeat does a little hiccup thing when he sees you first thing in the morning, and how he’s spent every wish on fallen eyelashes over you, and making you happy, and building you a house and having fireworks for your wedding night, and having all his fans seeing just how incredibly fantastic you are to him, how you make him so happy and deliriously smitten and barely coherent when it comes to talking about you, and just… He just wants everyone to love you half as much as he does.

And maybe for you to be only ever in love with him, so he doesn’t risk anyone thirsting for you enough to steal you from him.

“What were you saying about golden lights?” you ask, climbing on the bed, your hand modestly holding the lapels of his jeans jacket together — it’s not time to destroy him yet.

“I— I…” He tries to sit up, but you push him back where he belongs with a well-placed hand pressed to the middle of his chest.

“Put on the red lights, love.” You grin devilishly, watching his doe eyes glimmer with wonder and disbelief.

“Have I ever told you I am one lucky motherfucker?” he says, staring at your neck, at your face, at your hand, his palms already moving to your hips as you straddle him.

“I just know it.” You sit on your throne — his lap —, stretch to the end table to grab the remote to switch the lights to red, and once the deal is settled, you let the jacket open. “I mean. I’m the luckiest because I have these, but considering you profit from them… You know…” You let your breasts show.

“I know…” he says, entirely mesmerised. God, he is so easy, you think, watching his eyes scan your chest like a cat playing catch with a laser light. You mix your standard level of charm with a slow grind of your hips, so slow and gentle that it’s straight up teasing, torture at its blandest level.

“You make it so hard to think,” he speaks with a strangled voice, trying to make you move the way he wants, but you grab his hands with the excuse of lacing your fingers with his, only to drag them back by the sides of his head.

“I didn’t know I could turn your brain into mush just like this,” you reply, feeling your folds moisten in an attempt to ease the sliding of your crotch against his length. Too bad both of you are still clad in your underwear and, according to your plans, would stay that way for quite a while, as long as possible. “You’re so whipped.”

“I am,” he purrs, and tries to get away with moving his hands back to your hips, but before he can dig his digits in the soft of your flesh, you tut.

“You’d better not touch that ass, Jeon. Keep your hands to yourself if you want my hands on you,” you threaten. “Just to remind you who’s in charge, sweetheart.”

His eyes go wide and he moves his palms back behind his head as soon as you finish your remark. “Yes, miss.”

“Good boy,” you praise him, and you visibly notice him holding back from smiling at the praise. “Did you see my little mark?” you ask. “Call it a slog

an of sorts. A vision statement.” You shrug and push back the lapels, hoping for the lights not being too low for him to see.

It has taken a while for your handy work to happen, mostly because it can be absurdly tricky writing in reverse, but thankfully you’re quite prone to graphic arts.

Jeongguk rises a little, getting closer to where he can recognise dark scribbles on your chest. Unusual dark scribbles.

“Is that… Tattooed?” he asks, and his eyes go wide as he meets your face.

You cackle at him, leaning over and licking his lips, sucking his lower one, then travelling along his jaw, nibbling at his earlobe in a way that makes his hips jolt against you, buckling. “I can't have that tattooed, can I? Unless the world knows and it gets a little too permanent.”

He frowns, not at the way he loses contact with your warm crotch, but because of the unwelcome realisation of what it means to not belong to you entirely. “I'm so sorry,” he sighs, trying to hold you, but stopping his hands before he can touch you.

He goes back to his assigned position and begs you with his eyes.

“Oh, no. Don't worry, it's okay.” To keep him distracted, you get back to a soft roll of your pelvis against his, and he seems to oppose, but it only lasts for maybe five seconds.

His wound-up exhale convinces you to reward him further, lowering your chest so that it drags against his as you keep grinding on him.

“Jeongguk, baby,” you murmur fondly.

“So unfair… That I don’t get you like a girlfriend like anyone else…” He speaks, his focus spotty and frail.

“What do you mean, love?” you egg him on.

“All the public stuff… All the PDA and the grand gestures. The stuff that makes it official, you know.” His eyes are glassy and fleeting as he speaks, and it really feels as if speaking were like making a necklace except he can’t quite line up the beads the right way and he can’t manage to get the string inside the hole and it takes a very long time for the words to finally turn into meaning and it’s all so frustrating.

“I don’t care,” you reassure him, and this time you’re not unaffected either, the sentence stumbling out of you before you can even fully register the meaning you were trying to convey. “Can you read the tattoo, Guk?”

His eyelids lift through great effort, and in slow motion. You stop moving to help him focus on the writing, and he grunts at the interruption. He does not like that at all, and having you so close, so soft, so hot and wet for him is making his instinct vibrate with need to be inside you, move inside you, and then finally find his release in the welcoming darkness of your womb.

“I—” He’s really trying so hard, god bless his heart, but he’s so unfocused and his vision is blurry and he needs to blink for a bunch of seconds before he manages to spell the message, and then compute it, and then smirk wildly before he bucks his hips up against you, letting you know that you’d better move on him.

“What is it, Jeongguk? Mind sharing with the class?” you bait him with a cheshire grin.

“Not sharing any of this,” he growls, and you can feel his arms jolt at the urgency to wrap around you, press you to his front and shove you underneath him, so that he can finally move as hard and as fast as he knows the both of you need.

“Oh, don’t be a greedy little boy! Don’t you want to test how it feels to say it?” you tease him further, ready to push him to his breaking point. After all, that is what you’re always trying to do, get as far as it needs to make him go wild on you, barely coherent and entirely animalistic.

“You want me to say it, don’t you?” he provokes you, feeling just how much the humiliation will further send you soaring over him.

“I do,” you admit.

He bites his lip and you look at him, you study the shape of his lips, the glint in his eyes, the dark shimmering of his lovely ebony locks, and the way his chest heaves with effort and arousal. “These tits own Jeon Jeongguk,” he speaks, his gaze piercing yours, holding you accountable for the undoing he knows will follow.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” Your smile is sardonic, evilly pleased with his admission of submission, with him confirming, with conviction, that he is indeed entirely enslaved to his fascination for your chest, that he is so deeply enticed by it that just a silly part of you can guarantee you his unflinching devotion.

“You know it’s right,” he grunts as your movements resume. And at this point, he knows this is going to take a while, and it will most surely turn out vicious.

“Just checking in on you, making sure you haven’t found a better pair—”

“Don’t you dare talk to them like this. Not in front of me,” he hisses with a passion, and you chuckle at how chivalrously he defends your breasts from your own ill assumptions.

“That’s so gallant of you,” you reply, your hands pulling his hair back, your tone fond and just vaguely lined with mocking. “Let them repay you for your kindness,” you suggest, as you start crawling down his body, your breasts landing heavily on his lap.

“Really…?” he asks, first distracted and then extremely alert as he connects the dots. “With my boxers on?” He says with a frown.

You shrug and smirk. “Maybe we’ll get rid of them later…” You sprinkle some kisses on his abdomen, your chest dragging against his sensitive parts.

He frowns at the weight of them, so welcome, and yet deceiving as the fabric is hindering him from fully enjoying the act. “Please, off,” he huffs, tutting and fussing a little, but you decide to reward his patience with your nails tracing patterns against his chest, your fingertips drawing his areolae, your eyes hungry on his lost, bewildered state.

“Not yet, love… Be patient with me,” you reassure him, tracing the rift in between the crests of his hips, one side, then the others, ricocheting between the bones on the two sides. “I’m going to make it so good to you,” you promise him, placing kisses all around the underrated perfection of his belly button — a huge ‘fuck you’ to the people salivating over him and never, ever knowing how such a minuscule inch of his body has you so irreversibly whipped.

“Candy… Mh, love—” His voice has grown unbearably raspy and airy, so light it feels almost incorporeal, if it weren’t for the velvet smoothness of his skin underneath your lips, like marble that has finally received the breath of life, your boy an ineffable Galatea.

“If you knew, Guk, if only—” kiss— “you knew—” kiss— “how sexy, and erotic, and exciting and poetic you look right now, baby. You look like art.”

“Lemme touch you, I need you, I need—” he gasps and you’re almost expecting him to release a groan before he comes, way too early, much earlier than planned. But fortunately he doesn’t, he holds back stoically and cants his hips away. “For fuck’s sake,” he whispers, an arm covering his eyes. “I need a second if you need me to hold back.”

“Oh,” you reply in surprise, lifting yourself off him. “Are you alright?”

“Just give me some quiet for a second, Candy, don’t you dare even speak.” Jeongguk’s chest is rising and falling in wide movements, enticing and captivating.

Finally he removes his arm from his eyes, but he barely makes eye contact.

“Guk?” You ask, worried.

“Just— I’m trying to keep it cool here, love.” He wiggles his body a little, trying to get his boxers to fit a bit less tightly around him. “We should be smarter about this, you know?” His hands clench as he stops himself from reaching for you. “We should get a cockring for next time.”

You ogle him, then smile excitedly. “Really?” you chirp.

“Totally,” he concedes. He smiles even bigger at your smile. “Don’t tell me you bought one already.”

“Uhm… No,” you admit with a pout.

“Dammit. It would have been weird, but I wouldn’t even have complained about it since it would pretty much save my ass right now.” He licks his lips, stares at you some more, and he groans and throws his head back at the renewed flare of arousal after he’d just managed to tone it down a notch.

“I’m so sorry, bunny.”

“I’m alright,” he admits, his tone defeated.

“Is this the right moment to suggest I ride your face?” you say, your grin now sardonic, almost drunk on him and the sight of his body shutting down for you, malfunctioning at the mere touch of you.

He stares at you, wide eyed, nodding energetically, like a kid being asked if they want to visit Disneyland. “Guess it took a half naked commercial to get you to finally ask for it like you own it.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Careful or I can keep going with torturing you. I’m liking it anyway.”

“No no no, come over here,” he says with a stern and determined expression on his face, his hands reaching for the back of your thighs. “I’ve been waiting. Get comfy,” he encourages you, and after some manoeuvring you settle on top of him.

He nods to himself, his nose nuzzling against the crotch of your panties, his mouth opening so he can feel your heat with his tongue, trying to get as close as possible.

Unsatisfied, his fingers reach to slip your panties to the side, but you slap at his hand.

“Nope. You wanted the Calvin’s, and we’re keeping the Calvin’s,” you scold him.

He frowns. “No, you were the one wanting them,” he argues. “Keep them on, you said.”

“Whatever.” You arch an eyebrow at him, but you also know he’s right and this decision has come to bite you in the ass. “Imagine how good it will feel once we take them off… And it feels a bit kinky to keep them on. Like… Like we’re having a quickie and everyone out there is waiting for model Jeongguk to come out anytime now, but once he does, well, he looks freshly fucked and everyone can’t stop talking about it— Oh, that!” you moan, your musings interrupted by Jeongguk trying to get bits of you in his mouth.

You’re thankful for the brazilian cut panties giving him plenty of stuff to work with even with the underwear still on.

“Stop me if it’s lewd but, dammit, I love the smell of you.” He drags his face side to side, basking in the damp, salty scent of your arousal. “I don’t even know what it is about it, but I like it so much.”

“Keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you comment, your voice breathy.

“Do you want me to keep talking?” he asks, and you just rub yourself against his chin, his mouth, and his words come out muffled. At some point you think you might have hurt his nose, so you ease the pressure a little, but he grabs handfuls of your butt and keeps you snug to his face, parts his lips wider as if he were really trying to eat you.

He parts from his designed heaven only long enough to announce, “I’m pushing ‘em to the side, fuck it.” And you’re barely coherent, and he’s speaking with that intimate lisp of his, his accent heavy, like he can’t pay too much attention to words anyway.

You don’t oppose.

In seconds, his tongue is tipping inside you, slippery, and so hot, and you moan without even noticing it. Everything is soaked, his chest is covered in perspiration, and so are your thighs.

You dare look down, and his eyes are closed as he is filling all his other senses with the sensation of you.

You bask in the sight of him, one forearm draped against the headboard of the bed, your other hand reaching down, to his fluffy hair currently tickling your inner thigh. You grab it, careful to be right between gentle and aggressive, in that way he finds so pleasant and sexy.

He opens his eyes suddenly, and the moment he finds your eyes already connected with his face, he finds himself more eager to give you just what you need to plunge into oblivion.

He gives you lush, slow licks, from your centre to your most sensitive spot, he takes his time, and moves into more sinuous motions, drawing curve after curve on his way up. He is unrushed, patient, and eloquent. He is luxuriant, explorative, curious.

He loves what he’s doing, and he loves you and he’s showing it, top to bottom, and all the way up again.

“Guk,” you breathe out, and it’s almost a hiccup.

“Yes, I know,” he murmurs against the bend of your inner thigh, right at the fold to your crotch. It’s so private, so sacred. It’s heartbreakingly yours and his and no one else’s. You’re in a shared space where nobody else can tell what you and him know.

“Please,” you manage to say.

He rearranges his arm so he can move two fingers along the seam between your legs, and then they’re inside, and he’s moving them right, rubbing them against the back wall of your entrance.

As you tip your body forward, he moans with his mouth to your clitoris, happy with the new angle, and once you start grinding against him, climbing your way to your climax, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t go faster, he doesn’t add pressure. He does not change one single thing, and you’re so grateful for the way he has come to understand you, your body, your tells.

“Just right,” you encourage him. “You’re so damn perfect, love— Oh, there.”

That’s the last thing you can remember saying before he sets you off like fireworks. You don’t take much into consideration after that. All is fair, unless he’s holding you back.

You grind, hump, moan, thrash just a little as you get too sensitive and fold in two, your forehead pressed to your wrist on the headboard

as you shake your head ‘no’ but can’t bring yourself to stop from feeling everything he wants you to take.

When you manage to recover, you whisper, “Okay, gimme a second.” And you try to unstraddle his face, but he holds you there, and simply avoids touching your sensitive parts, removing his fingers from inside you.

“Are you alright, Candy?”

You nod and take some large breaths.

He moves your panties back in place, then kisses your mound softly, affectionate, innocent even.

“Can I do anything for you now, love?” He asks with a reverent, caring note in his voice.

You shake your head, still recovering. “Can I lay on top of you?”

“Sure thing,” he says, unlatching from you and leaving some room for you to realign with him, face to face, torso to torso, hip to hip, calf to calf.

He’s still hard as marble, and the gentle grind of your pelvis against his causes him to groan softly.

You press your lips to his to distract him.

The jeans jacket you’re still wearing gives him something to ground himself, his focus aimed entirely at the feeling of the fabric underneath his fingers instead of the humid warmth of your crotch pressed against his.

Just then, you bring your heels underneath your ass, rising to your knees as you swiftly remove your upper garment.

The way his focus moves immediately to your breasts makes you cackle a little, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Candy, you’ll have to get that tattooed.”

“Nah, too dangerous. They might tell on you.”

He frowns. “You’re right,” he still agrees. Too dangerous. You’re dangerous to him too, and there are not many chances of him keeping some form of dignity if he could at any time see a tattoo calling him out for his undying liaison with your chest.

He catches your wrists, making you lose your balance so that your torso collapses onto his. And he keeps you there, wraps you up in his arms.

“Still jealous, love?” he asks you.

“More than ever,” you admit, and you look into his eyes, recognising the feeling pooling in them.

“I'm only yours,” he swears, kissing the side of your head, whatever he can reach, and it's so tender, so innocent, so magical. “What can I do for you?” he whispers, flirting with you.

You wrap your hands around his forearms and bring them up above his head. “No. I want to do things for you.”

You press your lips to his gingerly, then start to kiss down, tracking his throat and moving further downwards, to his chest, stopping where his heart thumps against the petals of your lips.

“Beats so hard for me,” you comment lightly. “Do I make your heart race, love?”

“You do, Candy,” his reply is strained, as if it hurt to speak at that moment.

“But I—” You let your nails tickle the flat of his waist, the elastic band around his hips— “I also make your dick hard, don't I?”

He moans eloquently, then chuckles at your teasing. “You so do,” he admits, embarrassed but also excited, and so so thankful for having found you.

You grab the waistband of his underwear with your teeth, letting it slap against his skin with a dry snap. “Grab a pen from your bedside, will you?”

You look up just in time to catch his eyes flickering open, his expression coming to life slowly. “What?” he asks, confused.

“A pen, from your drawer,” you repeat.

“Oh.” He had been too unfocused and he hadn’t realised you were talking to him, as if the words were just sound with no meaning; however, now he’s paid attention, so he stretches to the side, exposing the slender twist of his waist to your reverent mouth. You kiss him there, his body contracting as your lips attack his ticklish spot.

“You’re a menace,” he complains, giving you the side eye, but also offering you a boyish, loving smirk.

“And yet, you love me.”

“You’re lucky,” he says, right before you nip at his skin in reprimand. “Okay, I am the lucky one,” he concedes, returning to you with a pen in his hand. “You want this one?” he asks.

You nod and stretch for it, then peck the mole beside his navel and make your way down.

His underwear by now is bitterly persona non grata, still you make yourself okay with it and simply move the elastic down, exposing his hipbone more fully.

“What you gonna do?” he muses, propping himself up and staring at you bent over his pelvis. You look at him and prepare the pen, staring in his eyes as you suck at your bottom lip, torturing it a little as you think.

“Are you gonna mark me? Sign me up?” he asks, a mocking grin on his face.

You move the pen away and loll your tongue out, drawing a thick stripe following the shape of him in his boxers.

He immediately drops his cocky act and arches up, sensitive, holding on barely.

“You think you’re so smart, huh?” you scold him provokingly. “Remember where this is all coming from,” you remind him threateningly.

He gasps as your mouth sucks his tip through the fabric, your nails tracing the indentations of his quads.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You’ve got me.”

You nod to yourself. “I do,” you say, patronising just in the slightest. And because you can you rise, remove yourself from the way, and pull at his hipbone, trying to flip him around.

He’s alarmed, but he follows your lead. You straddle the back of his thighs, bend down, and move his underwear down, the elastic stuck under the fold of his ass, further emphasising it. It looks plump and delicious, and for a moment you’re caught admiring him.

He’s twisting his neck to try and see what you’re doing, filled with wonder at the way your hair tumbles over, and he’s mesmerised by the shine of it, the softness of the tips, like a brush, whispering at his skin.

You pick the right spot, then settle down, folded over his glute. His skin is hot against your touch and when you finally bring the pen to his flesh, you hope it won’t fail, despite the perspiration and the soft surface.

Shamelessly, you draw the words like an inscription on a stone.

Poetic, and dirty. Just the way you like it. However, you don’t give him the benefit of knowledge.

You lean back, watch your little handywork with a surging of pride and love and confidence. You smack it, just because you can, not hard, not soft either, just sweet enough that it doesn’t feel like a violation doing it without asking his permission first.

His muscles squeeze, and his breath catches.

Because I can, your brain keeps telling you, over and over, like a mantra. You’re allowed to. He’s yours and you’re the only one allowed to.

“You’re getting confident with this,” he comments, and suddenly your eyes are meeting.

He looks like something you would paint. Something you would dream of, and then wake up and sketch down in the middle of the night, caught by some sort of frenzy, some urgency mixed with an impending fear of forgetting, of losing it. Losing him.

“I’m gonna draw you.”

He doesn’t connect the words for a bunch of seconds. Not until you’re standing up and running out of the room and he asks himself, why, why the fuck is she leaving?

“Candy?” he calls, unsure.

He tries to see what in the world you’ve written on his ass, but you’re making your way back in the room, tablet in hand, and your steps are bouncy and your tits follow the movement so his attention is divided.

“What— Where—?” He’s confused.

And then you’re perched on the armchair at the corner of the room, and the light from your tablet reflects on your face, and you look spirited, caught by some urgency he can’t quite find a name for.

“Candy, for the love of—”

“Just a bunch of minutes. A quick sketch, no more.”

He’s been patient. He’s been understanding. He’s let you tease him, and he’s let you touch him, lick him, suck him. He still has your taste all over his face and chin and he still feels the phantom touch of your breasts against his crotch and all he wants is to feel you on him, around him, against him.

“Please,” he whines.

“Just a minute.”

He swells. Frowns. Thrusts his hips against the mattress.

“Almost—” you say, drawing a couple more lines.

You’re in his arms next. “Put that down, Candy.” His face is right above yours and he’s carrying you bridal style. “Put it down,” he repeats.

You're very still. He's looking at your quick sketch, at the way it was all a rough frame and some basic lines. “You're gonna post that? Share it as some fanart instead of a live portrait?” He throws you on the bed and you clutch your tablet harder, trying to save it from any damage. He's on top of you next, grabbing the device and moving it to his drawer before he returns upon you, blocking your wrists above your head.

“Are you maybe going to draw it faceless, so you can sell it as a picture, to decorate somebody's house?” He bends to your ear and nips at the side of your neck. “Let my ass hang naked on someone else's wall?”

You feel overwhelmed and surprised by his counterattack, not really knowing how to react.

He drags his body against yours, stealing a whimper from your lips. “I think you enjoyed topping a little too much tonight.” He flips you onto your front next, and you find yourself only mildly embarrassed that he's made only one tenth of the effort it had taken you to flip him.

He slaps your ass, and it is nowhere as playful or light as the spank you'd given him. It is his turn to grab the pen.

“Let's see if you can walk the talk, Candy. If you like the taste of your own medicine,” he muses, and he bites your ass cheek, bending over to start writing, but accidentally finding himself unable to resist the urge to sink his teeth in your plush flesh.

“Since I'm not a selfish asshole, I'm gonna tell you what I'm writing. Here we go, 'This ass likes spankings from Jeon Jeongguk'. What do you say? Is it true?”

You're panting, wiggling in his hold, trying anything to see the possessed look on his face. “It's true,” you admit, breathless.

He smirks and lands one more hit on your ass. “Damn right it is,” he says confidently.

He tugs your underwear off harshly, almost angry.

Soon he's naked, and so are you, and he's slipping inside you while you're still on your front, your hips arched all the way up, cupped by his hands. “Let's make this fuck more fun than your drawing, huh?”

And when he starts, goodness, you want him to never, ever stop.

He's ruthless, and he only asks if you're alright once, after three strokes. After that, all's fair, and he's ramming inside you in a way that makes you gasp and arch further, trying to get him even deeper, to an even better angle.

You can't really look at him, since you'd risk a kink in your neck, but he doesn't care. He only cares about his handwriting on your ass, and his name on it. He only cares about the way you're gasping his name, and sometimes, when he slams in at the right moment, the impact causes too much of your breath to come out, so the whispered begging gets punctuated by moaned-out, hiccuped syllables.

He smacks your ass a few more times, his hand tingling, but the spanks seem to make you happy, so he doesn't stop, and he doesn't complain either.

“You're jealous of me, Candy,” he manages to speak, slowing down just enough so he has more of your attention. “Do you have any idea how jealous I am of you? How hard it is to feel like you want to own me half as much as I want to be yours?” He's on his knees behind you, and his thrusts grow more patient, more luscious. Richer and fuller. “Sometimes I'm scared you'll leave me, and someone else will get to have all the wonderful sex I get to have with you. Someone else will get to see your face first thing in the morning, and become a character in your cartoons, and talk about you with their granny, and bring you home for New Year's.” His face collapses close to your shoulder. “What will I do with myself, then?”

You turn your face and you finally get to see him. “Flip me around,” you order him, but your voice is fond. “I want to look you in the eyes while you fuck me like no one else has ever.”

His hair is fuzzy with his perspiration, and his face glistens with a light sheen of sweat. “Sure?” he asks, in confirmation.

“I'm sure,” you comfort him.

He's only happy once you're below him, and he's on top of you, inside you.

You clench around him, and he frowns deeply, trying to control himself. Still, he gives a sharp jab with his hips, and it steals your breath.

“Like that,” you praise him. “I want you to fuck me like that. Like no one else can.”

His eyes stay wide open, stubbornly nailed to yours as he starts moving. It's hard and slow, and it makes you see stars.

“Do you still feel like drawing?” he provokes you, “Or am I fucking you good enough?”

You hiss and bite his arm, both to keep him humble, but also, again, because you can — and nobody else does.

“Maybe I could get on top of you so you can watch my tits bounce, and maybe that will make you want to draw,” you bite back, and next thing you know you're both sat up, you're on his lap and he's bouncing you on his dick.

“Definitely feeling inspired right now,” he concedes. “Maybe I should stop and paint them.”

You push him down and he's finally with his back to the mattress, you on top. “Or maybe you could shut your mouth and get busy so I can cum.”

The slap lands almost immediately on your ass. “Dirty mouth. And a fucking divine cunt,” he speaks through gritted teeth.

He lets you lead for about thirty seconds, during which he stays occupied with your boobs, grabbing them, slapping them, pinching your nipples, and then he grabs your hips and stills them.

“Touch yourself,” he orders your roughly before he starts fucking up from below you.

It escalates quickly from there, and in less than a minute you're gone, collapsing forward, against him, and he's so thankful because he's coming too and your kegels are squeezing him just right, and he only manages to say “fucking yours” before he abandons all his inhibitions and loses himself inside you.

You come back to reality only, and you find yourself tucked in his embrace, his body above yours. You don’t know when he flipped the two of you over, but you like his weight on top of you.

“Hey,” you murmur, combing his hair away from his face.

His expression is lazy and satisfied.

Well done, you tell yourself, almost giving a pat to your own shoulder. He looks fantastically fucked, deliciously edible and perfectly yours.

“Hey you,” he replies, with the most heavenly, blissful grin on his face. No, too tired to be a grin, more like a glowy smile. It’s not fully on, it looks like those battery-operated lights when they’re almost out of energy, a bit faded, or maybe pale. Faint, feeble, dim. Soft. Muted. If his bunny smiles were jewel tones, this was the most delicate pastel pink. A powder baby blue, almost robin egg blue.

You want to wrap yourself in the hazy glow radiating from him, gentle as a sunny dawn in late May.

“So glad you got those Calvin’s,” you joke, and there it is, bunny grin, ten million watts. Apparently that makes his battery die because his head collapses to your neck and he doesn’t seem willing or ready to lift himself back up.

“So glad I made you jealous. But also sorry,” he says, truly apologetic. “I’m happy we did this. I’m happy I saw you like this.”

His lips tickle the side of your neck, and you squirm a little, but you try not to move too much. You want to be comfortable for him to rest on. You want him to stay like that on top of you forever. “I’m still maddish. But I think I can deal with it.”

“There’s more pictures coming,” he says tentatively, and he makes the effort to pick up his head to give you a helpless look, trying to protect himself already by giving you the sweetest pair of puppy eyes he’s ever used on anyone.

“Oh, I’m totally getting your ass branded,” you reply, saccharine. “I was thinking I could make those ribbons, like the ones the police use, except I put my name on it and I wrap it all around your chest, so they can’t drool all over your abs.”

He laughs, and the sound is boyish and playful, and lovely. You fall in love a tiny bit more.

“Can I see the pictures in advance?”

He hums as he thinks about it for three seconds, except he already knows how he wants to play it. “Mh…” he says some more, keeping you on your toes. “No.” He looks up, testing you. “But let’s say I hope you get that cockring ready.”

You pull your head back, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re not naked in your Calvin’s, right?”

He grins, gives you a devilish wink. “Maybe.”

You grab his cheeks and squeeze his face and he laughs so hard you can’t be possibly mad at him for even a nanosecond. “You’ll be the death of me.”

“And your tits will be it for me,” he flirts back.

You shake your head. “Brat.”

And he kisses you. Just that.

Before he hits the shower the following morning, Jeongguk inspects the damage you’ve done on him.

He’s quite happy with it. A very faint bruise on his neck. A red splotch on his abs, and another on his hip, but nothing that won’t fade within one or two days. He knows you know the drill by now.

He turns around to inspect his back, and he’s okay with it, nothing that will get him in trouble in case he needs to be shirtless or generically undressed around staff members. He drops his underwear and it’s only once he’s making his way to the shower that he notices something strange on his asscheek.

Oh, fuck. Suddenly reminded of your little handiwork with the pen the night before, he bends to the side, trying to get a better view at his ass.

He finds himself wobbling side to side, like a silly puppy chasing his tail, and that is exactly the way you find him when you enter the bathroom.

A laugh bubbles out of you and you smack his butt playfully. “Do you need help with that?” you ask, cheery.

“No,” he bites back, but he has the most innocent, pouty look on his face, and he is having fun a little. “Maybe,” he concedes, his voice young.

You wrap your arms around him and rise to your toes, propping your chin on his shoulder as you hug him from behind. “I wrote, ‘Candy’s babyboy’.”

His ears go red, just the tiniest bit. “Really?” His expression is so sweet.

“Really,” you confirm, confident, serious, and loving.

“You’re not making fun of me,” he asks, vulnerably.

“I promise I’m really, really not, Guk.” You kiss his shoulder. “You’re my babyboy. And my sexy man. And just mine, generally speaking.”

He nods, a happy, fulfilled look on his face. “Right.” He’s once more confident. Entirely adult.

“Love you,” you reassure him again, and then you kiss his shoulder, again.

He grins. There he is, your boy. “Love you too.”

Hi it's Dita, the writer, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment to keep this poor gremlin fanfic writer motivated. Bye and I LOVE YOU!!!

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