#antique dating advice | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hoseoksluna · 4 months ago

Text

CRANBERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!hobi x berries!oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk and... hyeonwol)

genre: heavy smut, angst

word count: 18.4k

summary: the final breaking of the curse hurts, but pain brings fruit.

pinterest board: cranberries / taglist: join

warnings: physical violence, fight, daddy issues, alcohol consumption, smoking, thigh humping, female masturbation, use of a vibrator, squirting, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), raw sex, conception, fears of infertility, finger sucking

note: THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE BERRIES SERIES WHAT. i can't breathe, i can't speak. i wrote the moment i woke up and it's now 4pm. ran out of cigs. :( i was so emotional as i was in this world with them and i love them. so much. i'm so excited for you to read this. i had iffy feelings about this series in the beginning, but that has changed. i love every chapter, every detail, every moment. and i think i did a good job. so, enjoy this. i poured my entire heart into this. my issues, personal experiences, everything. it means a lot to me. i love you, guys. i'm happy to give this to you after two long weeks! HAPPY READING.

side note: please, do check out the pinterest board. i'll add pics of every place oc and hobi have been. <3 SPAM MY INBOX. I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS.

The sleep lines are paused shooting stars across his back. The dips and definition pools of refreshment for those dimmed lights and when you cross over the threshold with Hobi right behind you, with his finger hooked over the waistband of your ivory mini skirt, your own fingers gain feeling. Much to your dismay, they remember the sharpness of those lines, the stickiness of his sweat as his body boiled during any weather he slept through.

He must have been on the brink of awakening, for you didn’t wait long before he answered the door. His gray curtains are pulled in and Jungkook walks over them, invites in the light of the early afternoon. In your peripheral vision, you recognize that the easel, which holds the painting in all its glory, is right there on your left side, and you strain your eyes to remain fixed on his bare back, even as wrong as that is. Hobi’s word of advice regarding thinking twice before you look at the artwork are pink blossoms that begin to grow in your ribs, spreading down to your stomach—because whether you like it or not, the place you find yourself to be in used to be one of absolute safety.

It used to be your home, once upon a time.

Cold, cold home that only ever reached tepidity at best. It’s all you ever knew—as the home you grew up in with your parents invariably had the same temperature. The same energy, too, charged with silence, ignorance and very little care that seldom carried love.

Which brings a certain thought to the front of your head, just as Jungkook is bathed in light, arms extended as if he bore wings.

He never loved you.

Because if he did, then his home and the memories that are rushing in would feel the way Hobi feels.

And like Hobi carried the false beauty in his heart, in his life—in the form of the poetry book—you carried the false perception of safety. If Hobi wasn’t here, if the stability of his antique stature wasn’t a wall doused in rain-kissed humidity that you now feel your body gravitating towards, and even if his finger wasn’t hooked behind your skirt, you wouldn’t feel safe.

But on the other hand, softness coats Jungkook. Strange, strange softness that you haven’t seen in ages. Since the first days of your relationship, the first dates, the first kisses and touches, for everything you did with Jungkook was different each time, never the same until his life story shared with his childhood best friend ended on bad terms and the guy moved across the sea. It’s what triggered his mental issues that in the long run ended your story with him.

As it seems, Jungkook has been trying to write a sequel that was never meant to exist.

He bends over his coffee table and it is only now that you notice the clutter of crumpled tissues that he now picks up. Bile scratches your throat as needles prick it because it dawns on you fairly quickly what those issues served him for. A blanket is strewn over the backrest of his leather couch and a singular, flat pillow is propped against the armrest. He slept on it during the night; had a perfect view of the painting right across from him. And if your mind serves you well, he sent that picture in the middle of the night, in which he deliberately showed you that creating the message sexually thrilled him.

It’s not hard to pinpoint that he fist-fucked himself while looking at the painting. And by the number of tissues that he hides in his palms and throws away in the bin in the kitchen, it’s evident his gratification process took a long, long time.

You anticipate the bile pouring out of your throat again, but… it never comes. Oddly, it’s second-hand embarrassment that you sense swirling in the cranberry lumps of your bloodstream, its fumes drooping your pink blossoms, your veins thick and ghastly on your wrists. And while you should feel disgusted, for some reason you don’t.

The discovery added magnitude to the star of his softness, weightiness and substance. It made it more real, bigger. It envelops him, confusing your mind because the only way it allows you to remember him is through the pain he caused you, using the expression of his fury. He broke your heart. Degraded you. Handled you harshly. Threw away your vape. Made you lose the respect you had for him, the worship you carried in the back of your heart. This can’t be the same person, kissed by a good night’s sleep.

You don’t recognize him and you feel so out of place, standing in the middle of an obscure, amorphous dream that you’re trying to remember. A bizarre, uncanny feeling. You wish to run—as it lessens your form into that milky blue aura of smallness, but not in the way you like. Your body pleads to stand behind Hobi and clutch the back of his shirt in your fists while he steps in and makes order. But the energy around is too light, too gentle for a fight.

Which is why you’re not sure if it’s a good idea that Hobi should unfurl his plan here.

Hobi looks down at you as Jungkook answers his phone in the kitchen. You didn’t hear a thing due to the way you were lost in your thoughts and your confusion deepens as you regard the crooked furrow of his brow and the pinpricks of his pupils. Hobi wraps his arm low on your waist, tugging you flush to his side, kissing the plane of your head, lingering there for a second more as he inhales the natural scent of your hair. One you didn’t wash today, for he kept you busy. You fear he can smell your puke on you from earlier, despite the fact you almost sprayed the entirety of your vanilla perfume on yourself that you carry in your purse before you and him left together. You grow insecure, lessening furthermore.

“Do I stink?” you ask, hushedly, gazing up at him with intention, willing him to answer you truthfully. Hobi smiles down at you, tenderly, pleased with the hint of familiarity and normalcy in the middle of the battlefield. Inhaling your scent and touching you diminished the intensity of the bloodthirst in his eyes and you’re glad for it. You hope that he perceives the elephant in the room and doesn’t strike first, but knowing how smart he is, you trust that he will, if he hasn’t already.

Hobi doesn’t answer you. His smile falls as briskly as it appeared and his head swivels in the direction of the kitchen, features tight and startling. Your heart ceases its beat for a second before it speeds up, thumping painfully against your ribcage. What did Jungkook say over the phone? You weren’t paying attention.

He lets go of you and stomps over to the kitchen. His back faces you, bringing your consciousness into present time, shudders with long staccatos of breaths. He’s fuming. Concern crawls up your back, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“So, that’s what you do? You traumatize my girlfriend while you have someone else on the side?” Hobi says, brusquely, placing his fists on his hips. “Does she know you paint degrading pictures of your ex in your spare time?”

A beat of silence. Your breath hitches in your throat.

Your blood freezes over and you don’t know how your legs take you over to Hobi, weak and tingling as they are. You can’t feel anything. Can’t feel your fingers as they hook over his back pocket, your inner child’s deepest wish infiltrating through reality.

Jungkook worries his bottom lip, his phone still held over his ear, and he exhales, shortly through his nose, dropping his gaze. “I’ll call you back.”

He throws the phone over the kitchen island, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as he so often does, staring Hobi down.

There’s no doubt she heard it. Hobi said it loud enough.

Good.

Good of Hobi to take the ruination by its legs and launch it back at its creator. You change your mind by the shift of the energy, having foolishly forgotten the girl personification of the storm that you saw by Jungkook’s side in the museum. She has no idea how preoccupied he’s been with you, chasing you down ever since he laid his eyes on you after nearly a month. And you pity her. She doesn’t deserve this kind of unfair treatment, no matter the hostility she showed you and the fraction of the same emotion you felt towards her in return.

Jungkook had it coming, that’s what you’re sure of now—sowing the seeds of his downfall in your orchard. What he didn’t know was that by staying around, hurting not just you, but another vulnerable person at the same time, he would also reap its poisonous growth. You hope his hands are red and burning, pulling out the weeds and poison ivy.

He leans against the kitchen counter, the muscle of his pierced brow quivering with the onrush of anger. You find it so pathetic that you almost dryly snicker, backed by the continuous, fatherly act of Hobi standing up for you—your antique wall, the architecture of the old, Mediterranean times.

Strong and unwilling to break under pressure.

“My personal life is none of your business—”

“And mine is?” Hobi interrupts him, leaning forward due to the influence of his own anger and the sight is horrifying. If you were in Jungkook’s place, you’d be trembling like a sissy. Hobi laughs, scornfully, doing it for you and your heart rejoices. “You stalked my wife, touched her, painted that shitty—”

Wife.

“I didn’t stalk her,” Jungkook says, awfully calmly, as if he were bored, despite the tremor of his pierced brow that divulges the true face of his feelings. “Wife?” He laughs, humorlessly, and you bunch your fists, letting go of your private, personal link to Hobi. Even though you swore you wouldn’t raise them again when facing him, it’s all you want to do now for the way he mocked something so meaningful to you. Raise them and use them until they bruise.

The concern that hung over your back fades into a discomposure that slices over your skin with a blunt knife. Over and over, maddened by the incessant rampage to cause you pain, incited by his mockery. Won’t let up until blood pours out.

“Don’t talk over me, I wasn’t finished,” Hobi scolds and your second-hand embarrassment for the opponent doubles, abating your discomposure just like that.

The knife is lifted in the air, paused.

Jungkook’s jaw begins to tremble, disliking the easiness to Hobi’s overpowering tendencies, the way his stern words force him to become that aforementioned sissy that you’d be in his place. You think it suits him right.

“You shamed my—” Hobi points to his heart, like Jungkook did last night when he bared his feelings for you and your throat dries, unbelief peculiarly setting your discomposure free at the rightful turning of tables. “Wife for moving on with her life, for becoming the person she needed to become without you controlling her. Sent her a picture of your dick while you were at it, belittling her, using sex to lure her back to you as if she wasn’t smart, as if she wasn’t mine. You did all that and you think you’re gonna come out of this unscathed? Let your girlfriend see what you’ve done. What, you were going to hide that painting under your bed like a little bitch?”

It’s Hobi who laughs now, the sound full of that same mockery Jungkook used to inflict pain. You wrap a hand around his arm, coming over to stand side by side with him, sliding your hand down to his, needing it and not being afraid of it. Not to his palm, but over the back of his hand, slipping your fingers through his. And together you clench that singular fist, stronger.

You thought all your life that you were stupid. Your own Father bashed you for it every chance he had; you, yourself, hated your being for it with all your might. Thought it was the root of the curse over your life, made strong by your bad decisions, bad actions, bad footfalls. Learning that Hobi doesn’t regard you as such cuts that majority of your life away from you. He binds up your wounds, cleaning them. And the fact he put two and two together apropos the meaning of the painting, the reason behind the punishment, using your recitation of the bizarre poem is a kiss to make the boo-boo better.

You weep, silently. Your love for Hobi trickles out of your tear ducts, doesn’t touch your makeup, doesn’t steal the attention of the two males away from each other. It dips into your ribcage through your chest, sprucing them until they can breathe again and fill your lungs with sweetened, poetic air, with a will to live on, reminding you that you have a future ahead of you that is beautiful and bereft of the curse and all you’ve ever known.

And you wash that breath, purposefully, over the bare skin of Hobi’s warmth. Remind him, too, as you press your lips over it. He squeezes yours and his united fist, hearing you.

Lifting your gaze, Jungkook crosses his arms over his chest, devoid of those sleep lines. His biceps bulge, but it does nothing to you. Hobi’s fixing of your dignity, heart and life has taken care of that, all via that sonnet of his that he spat in Jungkook’s face, one that contorts in envy upon seeing your intertwined hand with Hobi’s. He nibbles on his bottom lip, eyes wetting, but the following words he says sting as if his face never wore those softened emotions. And the discomposure returns in the form of a colossal spider on your back. A slimy, heavy, breathing spider.

You cringe, tensing your muscles, nuzzling your body deeper into Hobi’s arm. It only menaces your vivaciousness, but the fluff on your body stands on end, nonetheless.

“She came here to look at the painting. I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he mutters, crossing his leg. Double protection. He’s stuck in a peril—feels vulnerable and threatened, just like Hobi said. “She likes being spanked, being punished. That’s why she’s here.”

It takes two seconds for Hobi to release your hand and slap him like the little bitch he is. A fatherly discipline, that hard swoop of the back of his hand, a new line indenting his carmine face, one belonging to the ring on Hobi’s middle finger. Absolutely humiliating, that act you are a witness to—but you don’t feel a slither of pity for him. The joy from your heart springs to your eyes and you feel yourself blinking unorthodoxly—more briskly, serenely, femininely.

The spider jumps off your back, afraid of Hobi. You sigh in relief, willing strength into your knees as they signify their giving out on you, boneless as they are.

And Jungkook is afraid, too, once he recuperates from the hit, straightening, but not facing the king. His mouth rounds as if he were on the verge of crying, and maybe he is. He focuses on stalling the natural flow of his emotions, his pride forbidding him from being weak, even as he’s getting hit like a teenage boy.

But Hobi makes him look at him. He grabs his face, repeating the motion of last night; squeezing his cheeks until his knuckles turn white, although this time Jungkook doesn’t moan in pain. He scrambles the last of that pride of his, threading it into the stiflement of his reaction.

“Are you that dumb that you forgot about what I told you that would happen if I heard those words come out of your mouth again?” he seethes in his face. Jungkook sucks in quick breaths, a caged animal, furious. “You degraded her again. You’re asking for it at this point.” He slaps him again, harder this time, still with the back of his hand. Doesn’t give him time to shake it off. Grabs him in the same way. “I’ll let you know that those words you read in that little message? That probably made your dick hard? Those were my words, boy. I came here to break that painting, but I changed my mind. I want your girlfriend to see the work of your hands.”

Hobi told him the true story while he omitted the detail he could’ve used to inflict further pain on him. He could’ve said that he told you to write that message after he was done fucking your trauma out of you. He could’ve rubbed that in his face and you wouldn’t mind.

But he didn’t.

He respects you. Protects your dignity. Doesn’t need to flaunt his private life with you; isn’t insecure to do something like that. And along with joy, he installs something within you that you lacked all your life.

A respect, a high regard and an expensive love for yourself.

You stand straighter, all of a sudden.

Jungkook looks at you. A rawness of pain daubs his even softer eyes, but you recognize that it’s all pretense, a manipulation technique that you see right through. You lift your chin higher, interlocking your hands behind your back. A powerful, feminine stance. His eyes descend to your pride in the middle of your breasts, drench as he mumbles something your way that you can’t comprehend due to the way Hobi squeezes his cheeks harder, that moan of pain slipping through, at last.

You smile, sensing the end of this chapter. You can see the door to it, wide open, Hobi standing by it, gripping the doorknob. And he shuts it with his following words.

“Don’t even look at her. It’s over. The little game you’re playing? You lost,” Hobi says and lets him go. Jungkook grumbles, baring his teeth, his hand shaking as he lifts it to his jaw as if to rub away the pain, but he changes his mind at the last minute. Doesn’t want to show his weakness. His hand falls, flaccidly, to the side. Throws Hobi’s way a dirty look that makes you laugh.

“It’s over,” you intone along, lips stretched in a glinting grin, the crown of your victory. You’re the queen to your king. Jungkook gazes at you with a puppy’s sadness, for a mere second before Hobi pushes his head away from your direction with a poke of his fingers. His inhales are sharp and thunderous and you think he’d be a perfect match to his companion, that is if he were a good guy, deserving of her.

“Did you even see the painting?” he hushes out, head still turned towards the windows, and the redness on his face inflames in vibrancy, darkening. Why he thinks he needs to keep fighting, in spite of the way Hobi overthrew him, is beyond you. His head slowly swivels back to face you and tears cloud his eyes. It inspires no pity in you, no curiosity to look behind you at the painting. “I made the background an imitation of Monet’s waterlilies. The green ones, the ones you’ve always liked. Does that mean nothing to you? Can’t you see that I still care—”

“No,” you interrupt him and you bask in it, inhale the power. Your pink blossoms grow in abundance, becoming a collection of beauty and strength that will live on forever, never to wither. “I didn’t look at the painting and I refuse to because I don’t care.”

You open your mouth to continue, but he outruns you.

“So, you lied to me? Why are you here, then?”

The wheels seem to whirr in his brain, at last.

“My husband and I came here to make one thing clear,” you explain and you flick your eyes to Hobi just in time to catch him smiling at you, fondly, his loving pride bursting through his own pools. “It’s over. You’re not gonna bother me anymore; you’re not gonna text me, call me. In fact—” You pull out your phone out of your front pocket and unlock it, tapping on Jungkook’s contact and blocking him, deleting the number right away. “You can’t anymore.” You smile, satisfied with your decision. “I live a happy life without you and it’s going to stay that way.”

Jungkook’s posture slouches and he wrinkles his brows, mouth agape, downturned. “Husband? What the fuck is this?”

You only lift your hand in the air, for Hobi to take, dismissing him once and for all. “Let’s go.”

You take a step back as Hobi rushes to you in a comical, endearing way, a huge smile engraving crinkles by his glimmering, pearlescent eyes. He takes your hand and when you look at Jungkook one last time to say goodbye to him, he whimpers like a wounded animal.

Your heart constricts, not touched by pity, but by discomfort. It’s time to leave; you don’t want to be here anymore.

Hobi leads you towards the door and you follow him, but Jungkook’s final words halt your footsteps. Hobi’s too.

“I can be like him and better when he drops you. Don’t forget that.”

You frown at him, your mouth pressed in a tight line. “There’s no when to me and you. I never want to see you again. Goodbye, Jungkook.”

He mewls, the final kick to his bruised body and you leave.

You leave his life for good.

The air of the afternoon’s breath is floral. You thought the clouds would’ve smothered the last remains of the summer, but it is still, most strangely, in full bloom. You feel hot in Hobi’s linen shirt and the sun is scorching hot, balmy and paradisiacal on your bare thighs, though you wish you hadn’t worn your Nike’s. Your toes are asking for some sand, for the pecks of sea waves and the entanglement of seaweed around them like tropical adornment of toe rings.

You met the girl, the personification of storm, behind the door to his apartment. She was about to rack her knuckles on the wood like you did, but Hobi opened the door for her. Her breath hitched in her throat, hard and heavy like the wind during that storm she resembles so much, and you felt bad for her. So much that you told her to leave him, unabashedly and plainly, and didn’t stick around to hear her response.

But you did hear muffled sounds of vocal violence and you prayed, for the first time in your life, to someone in the sky, who has always been a witness to your curse and never did a thing about it, to guide her to break that painting in two.

Not for your healing, not at all. But for the curse to be unleashed on him, turned to him and fixed on him.

You’re not ashamed to carry such evil in your heart. You know, full well, that it will dull overtime. Your mother would’ve rebuked you, told you to forgive your enemies and wish them well, but bricking up your heart for him to feel safe is something she would never understand. Because if she did, she wouldn’t share the same home with your Father. And if she did, you would’ve never ended up with a guy like Jungkook that was the raw epitome of him.

It’s a good thing she’ll never learn of your secret. She never met Jungkook but she looks at his face every day, and you’re not so sure if the idea of introducing Hobi to her is pleasant. You sense the time you find yourself to be in is meant to be a solitary one, spent in a bubble with your husband, and there’s nothing you want more.

You and Hobi, alone.

For a little while before a little creature comes along.

The mountain peak is awaiting—you feel it profoundly in your bones.

Hobi opens the door to his car for you, places a hand on the edge of his vehicle so you don’t hurt your head as you sit down—like he did on your first date. But he doesn’t close the door and walk over to the driver’s seat. No, he straddles you. Pushes your seat back a little in order for you to have a perfect and comfortable view of him. You sputter out your giggles, felicitously confused by his actions, and when he props his hands by your head, his smile quivering in effort to not laugh along with you, your giggles rise in volume.

And then his gaze deepens on you, lessening the pitch. Seriousness shrouds the energy, your little giggles ringing, faintly, and you press your thighs together between his legs.

“I’m not fucking you here,” you whisper, the sound full of humor, your eyes feignedly widened, but Hobi is deep in thought, his imaginary wings furling and unfurling in the spaciousness of his car.

“How do you feel?” he asks, steeped in that earnest, warm and lightweight solemnity. It feels like home. That question, too.

You relax, your expression of joy fading into a comfortable silence and you take a moment to focus on what you’re feeling right now.

A graze of the pink blossoms on the inside of your ribs. Relief, a wave sloshing over them. Freedom, the sunlight that heats up that body of water. Joy—a full rainbow of joy after a century-long rainfall.

And you tell him.

“I feel free. Happy. I feel happy, Hobi.”

He smiles, fondly, that blush rolling over his cheeks like it always does. And you love him, irrevocably. You love him, you love him, you love him.

He did this, your God. It’s the creation of his clean hands.

And as he kisses the tip of your nose, you thank him with the same earnestness he brought in.

And you mean it. You would’ve died, had he not found you. You would’ve died, had you not taken him to that museum. You think about what your life would’ve looked like if you never suggested that place, but your mind stumbles upon a dead end. You can’t—there’s nothingness up ahead.

It was meant to happen this way. Along with the pain, the tears, the scars. If it never ached this much, it wouldn’t matter; it wouldn’t have the gravity, the substance, the meaning. It would’ve been plain and it wouldn’t change your life so devastatingly, so beautifully.

You wouldn’t have wings and neither would he.

You kiss him right back on that slender nose of his and much to your surprise, he gives his voice over to your heart.

“I love you,” he confesses, the pearls in his eyes wetting, and he cradles your face. Your heart stops and then beats differently—in a way you never heard it sing before. “Is it too soon to say that?”

Another surprise comes. A tear trickles down your cheek, a happy, elated, small rivulet that cleanses the last, difficult events that just ended. Down your cheek that stretches and aches, blissfully, as you smile up at him.

“Is it too soon to say that I love you, too?”

The song melts into another poetic stanza and Hobi kisses you. But he smiles as well, so the kiss is full of clashing of teeth and sudden hunger to express the fulfillment of that love. You and him try and try again until your lips mold into his and the hard kiss, filled with passion, respect and devotion, splits the curse in two.

Now the residue, the smithereens only need to be fucked out of you.

Hobi will do a good job, no doubt.

“Let’s celebrate.”

Hobi was eyeing a bottle of soju in a market nearby his house, but settled eventually for a bottle of spirits that he’s now popping open and drinking right from the lip of the tall, glass container. He’s sat on the ground of your bedroom, back propped against your bed, the bottle between his outstretched legs as he watches you strip out of the combination of yours and his clothes. A blackberry vape might be in your hand, the fume curling around the curds of cranberries that your blood still consists of, but a pack of cigarettes lies crooked on your bedding.

You told Hobi you needed something stronger after that happened. And he brushed a wisp of your hair away from your face and said he’d willingly have a cigarette with you as he still felt adrenaline coursing through his smooth bloodstream. Bought a pack of gold Davidoff’s for you, the ones you shared with him that you used to smoke until…

You haven’t voiced your panic, though. Not in the market, not in the car, not right now as you’re standing in front of your closet, searching for a lounging outfit to wear, similarly like Hobi did back at his house a few hours ago. Jungkook forbade you from smoking. Hated the sight of it. Hated it even more when you switched to vapes. And as you recollect his anger whenever he saw you with it, you can’t believe you let him do it. Can’t believe you stopped smoking just to please him.

And you can’t believe Hobi bought you a pack. With his own money, by his own will. To please you.

You should be feeling happy right now, but the panic… it stands behind you, the silhouette of Jungkook’s form, waiting for you to take that cigarette between your fingers and place it between your lips, daring you, taunting you, waiting for the right moment to strike, to rebuke, to untether its anger. It’s what keeps you planted on your feet, whisking your eyes up and down along the corner of your closet, where your comfortable clothes are neatly folded.

You’re afraid to turn around. Afraid to see Jungkook there—

“Come here.”

Hobi’s voice. Not Jungkook’s.

“I need to get dressed,” you say, softly, staring down a pink wisp of your sleep shorts.

You hear the sloshing of alcohol in the bottle. Hobi must be taking another sip.

“You don’t, really.”

You laugh through your nose.

“I don’t want to get pregnant here.”

Hobi lets out the same sound, making a smile curl on your mouth. “Come here, pup.”

It’s the gentleness sunk within his intonation that is a force of the same nature that turns your body around. Hobi is staring at you as if he were looking up at an angel—those pearlescent eyes of his bright and swimming, but not prematurely under the influence of the alcohol. They’re swimming with love.

You used to be an angel. Now you’re you.

And Jungkook isn’t standing there; Jungkook is gone.

You walk over to him with ease, the panic dispersing and flying out your wide open window, your rosy curtains guiding it out. You sit on his outstretched thighs and as your bum plops down, you take off his green beanie. Run your fingers through his hair, fluffing them. Cradle his face to your naked bosom as you inhale him, tracing patterns on his scalp.

Hobi begins to purr and you melt, becoming a liquid form of you, making his hands shine in the ever undying stark sunlight as he wraps his arms around your torso, tightly.

You’re not going anywhere, the act says.

This is what deserves to be painted, you muse.

Listening to him emit that sound, your heart notices the absence of Luna and it craves her, awfully missing her. And the more you receive it through your ears and it settles within the chambers of your softened muscle, you realize that you’re holding her in the form of a human.

He’s so much like her. You recollect the way he tilted his head into your touch, join it to the memory of how she did it when you petted her head for the first time. And you test him—withdraw to pat his cheek and he does it. Leans into your touch, lingering there as you cup him.

He’s a God and a kitty. And you love him.

Hobi reaches for the bottle of vodka. Takes a sip as he locks his gaze with yours. Your hand slackens at the sight, dropping to the crook between his neck and his firm shoulder, and you can’t hold it. Like your limb, your eyes descend to the way his mouth is wrapped around the rim of the bottle, to the bottle of his throat as he swallows and doesn’t make a face. Lift back up to catch a glint bouncing off his wet lips and abruptly, you want a taste of that heady sting of your own.

He can read you, and fairly well—because he drinks again, but this time he doesn’t swallow. No, he pushes your head to his in one swift, brazen motion. Parts your lips by tugging your chin down with only his thumb while he cups your cheek and, sitting up so he can once again take advantage of the size difference, he pours the pungent liquid beyond the arc of your mouth. Remains there, a breath away. It seems as though he wants to feel you swallow, wants to inhale that sharp scent of the alcohol; wants to sense in his bones that principle of him giving it to you in a profound, private way.

And you swallow it, fixing your attention on the burn coursing down your throat, softened by his saliva. This—this was your first drink, a safe occurrence, watched over by your Father. The ones you had before in your past life didn’t have a sliver of the magnitude that you feel suffusing your lungs. This is your first life with him.

“That was so hot.”

You agree with him, liquid heat pooling low in your core, and you need that cigarette. And his dick impaling you as you take that deep, heavy drag that you haven’t inhaled in months.

And most peculiarly, there’s no panic, nor fear, as you snatch that pack of cigarettes from your bedding behind his head and look for the little flap that will help you open it. Hobi lifts his hand from your cheek, though, and steals it from you—finding the flap with ease and opening it as if he spent the last decade faithfully smoking.

Your panties are ruined, just like that.

Drenched when he pops the butt of the cigarette between his wet lips, rummaging in his pocket for the pink lighter that he got you along with the pack.

Soaking when he lights it up for you, blows the first smoke into your mouth, pecks you softly, and places the butt between your lips.

But he doesn’t place his hand back on your face—he keeps his thumb and forefinger on the body of the cigarette, the burning tip facing him, holding it for you as you take a drag. The thick smoke billows around his palm, milky blue in the golden light, and as soon as its heaviness caresses your lungs and you exhale it into the air, he returns the cigarette back to its original place. Puffs it one more time before he lets you have it, coughing a little, blowing the fume onto your bare breasts, lips opened halfway in a tiny circle. The warmth tickles and your body naturally curls forward in reaction, your arms pushing your breasts together. Hobi makes a sound that is a godly synthesis of a coo and a moan, uttered from his weakening grin, eyes gliding over your squished breasts.

Eyes that never darken when regarding your nakedness; eyes that remain full of that celestial, sea-kissed light.

Do they have the ocean in heaven? He must know, for he’d been formed by it.

And you want to be stuffed full in it.

Hobi must like the sight he sees because he takes a finger and drives it down the right side of your body. From your clavicle, down to your breast, your stiffened nipple that he stops at, pinching it, heightening the pressure until you squeak, the pool bursting in your core. At that sound, he continues on his path down your stomach and you let him feel the contraction of your muscles there as your body reacts to his touch. He ends his venture at the waistband of your panties and he tugs it towards himself, peeking inside.

“Someone’s wet,” he comments and you cough, embarrassingly, caught off guard, as you take a drag of your cigarette, not expecting him to say that. Hobi smirks and the growing moistness on that fabric becomes uncomfortable. He rubs your back, helping your lungs to quiet down, the waistband snapping back making you jump—and incredibly horny.

He steals the lung burner and you love it, your obsession with it construed by his apparent need to smoke in this heavily sexually-charged situation. You wonder if he’s holding himself back from breeding you right here and there.

He could, if you wanted him to do it here—all things are settled, after all. But you don’t. You don’t want to reach the peak in your bedroom, where Jungkook has been so many times.

You want it to happen at a place, where his footfalls never ventured.

“Someone’s wet from watching their man smoke,” you flirt, looking at him through your lashes, hips instinctually drawing closer to his crotch and beginning their dance. Back and forth, the rhythm of the sea.

“Don’t do that or I’ll fuck you,” he threatens, flicking his eyes to the rising peak of the cigarette ash and he bores them into yours with a challenge. “Be a good pup and get me an ashtray, please.”

Please?

Yes, Daddy.

Ashtray? No.

That would mean going to the kitchen and flipping it upside down in search of it. You stand up to your feet, your wetness flowing down your inner thighs with the movement, and you fetch the empty glass from your bedside table, lonesome and dust-scattered. You can’t really remember the last time you put it there.

Sitting back down, you straddle his thigh as you hold the glass for him to flick the ash there. And once he does, you start to move back to your original position, but he stops you.

“Stay here,” he says, enveloping an arm around your waist. “Ride it. Make a mess for me.”

You don’t hesitate to do so, your body begs you for a release, weakened yet enlivened by his command. But the question of why he doesn’t want to fuck you bothers you and you decide to voice it out, willfully. Unafraid, safe, comfortable.

You roll your hips forward on his thigh, which he flexes for you. The curves of his toned muscles hit the right spot and you throw your head back, using his throat for support, mewling little sounds that make him bite his lip, abandon his cigarette, let it fall into the cup that he forces away from your grip and sets it down. The smoke still billows out, twirling around your form, magnificently.

“Why don’t you wanna fuck me?”

Hobi sucks in a breath, leaning his head back against the mattress, hands following the movement of your hips. Drunk not on the alcohol, but on you.

“Because I’ve been nonstop fucking you and I don’t want your little pussy to be sore,” he says, truthfully, adding vigor to your dance with his words, even if he doesn’t realize it. “Which is why I want you to use me like this when you need me.” He breathes, raggedly, and you’re dazed. “And because—” He fists the front of your panties, squeezing the fabric between your folds, stimulating your clit with the pressure. “The next time I fuck you, we’re making a baby.” You cry out, your pleasure heightened, and, meeting your thrust, he slides the knuckles of his fingers down to your clit, letting you ride them, letting himself feel the swollenness, softness and wetness of your flesh. He moans along with you—the feeling divine. “You said you didn’t want it here. Tell me where.”

You can’t. Your orgasm quickens as do your grinding motions and you can’t see, you can’t speak, you squeeze your eyes shut—

“No, pup.” He stretches the fabric towards himself, essentially moving his hand away, and pushing your stomach back, your hips rolled forward, pussy throbbing and dripping in the air. You pant, gripping his hair at the crown of his head, eyes flung open, yet lidded. Terribly, terribly lidded. Sultry, dreamy, mesmeric. Despite the fact he ripped your orgasm away. “You don’t come unless you tell me where.”

He holds you in place, immobilizing you. You try to grind on him again, but to no avail. You expect him to click his tongue at your brattiness, but he doesn’t.

He does something else entirely.

“Take your time. I know. That was really intense.”

It’s a stark contrast to the restraint he has you in—your slowly sobering brain makes a note of that, only to dip back into the stupefying pool of your arousal.

And you whine, electrified by the pleasure that comes from all directions, that pushes forcibly against your neediness, heightening it.

You can’t take your time. You can’t tell him right now. You need to come.

“I can’t, Hobi.” Your breath shudders. “I can’t—”

“Breathe,” he rasps and you can see the way your neediness affects him, his chest heaving with almost identical staccatos, as though he was zapped with the delight he gets from it. His pupils are so dilated as his eyes melt into yours, a black pearl, but still enveloped by light. Cheeks flushed, mouth wet. The scent of patchouli, cigarettes and vodka, the remote corner of heaven.

You try to breathe, fluidly, as you take it in and Hobi helps you. Breathes with you, steadies the cadence of your recuperation. Doesn’t stop until he’s assured that your lungs are calm. And as a reward, he lets your panties slap back against your pussy, coaxing a moan out of you.

Doesn’t remove his hand from your hip, though.

A quid pro quo.

All right.

“I don’t want to get pregnant here. Not in Seoul, not in Korea,” you start, your lungs in a perfect rhythm. Hobi’s eyes enlarge as he listens, fingers spreading over your bum, just holding you there, squeezing the flesh every once in a while. The gesture soothes you, blesses you with tenderness that helps you continue with your words. “I want you to take me overseas, where I’ve never been.”

He hums, nodding, thinking for a mere moment, his eyes distracted on your belly button. And when he lifts them, he smiles. “Any particular place in mind?”

The country slips off your tongue, naturally, on its own, and you think that’s the one. Your heart spoke it, so it must be the place. You haven’t given much thought prior to it, just knew you didn’t want to conceive a child on this soil that remembers nothing but your pain and anguish. You held this within the chambers of your heart before you met Hobi—and way before you met Jungkook. And you figure that in the process it acknowledged itself with Hobi, studied his face, learned the ins and outs of his heart in such a short time, it riddled out the place, where the curse is meant to be broken in.

Once and for all.

“Turkey.”

You’ve seen the videos. Seen the dramas. The pictures. It met you and kept meeting you throughout your life, but you never gave much meaning to it. And now you perceive why.

You reckon that’s how life works. And it feels nice—to get to know life, to get to know its mercifulness.

“That’s a beautiful place, pup,” he whispers, taking his hands off of your body and cradling your face, pulling you closer and kissing you, lingering there for two, three, four seconds more. Your heart jumps, delighted to be validated, and you feel like weeping happily.

“You’ve been there before?” you ask, the wetness of your eyes gracing it with a glint that very seldom finds your usually saddened pools.

This is it.

“I’ve had business meetings with Turkish companies that do their job well. Good people, good atmosphere.” Hobi smiles, reminiscing on something private and his cheeks warm.

You wish, intimately, that he would tell you everything.

“Will you tell me about them when we get there?”

Hobi nods, pecking your chin. “Yes, and then I’ll fill you up.”

You grin as he lingers there beneath you, eyes so bright and big, becoming crinkly at the corners once he reciprocates the grin. He kisses the front column of your next, tasting the layer of sweat that has enveloped it during your oh so evident neediness and you dip your head in your pool of arousal all over again—as soon as he withdraws and slaps your thigh, signaling you to hump his thigh.

You can’t wait to get knocked up. Hope time passes quickly, transforms into a substance that lifts you up and carries you all the way to Turkey, mercifully, kindly.

It’s this notion that you focus on as your hips begin to roll forwards and backwards on his thigh, but this time, as Hobi watches you with intention, he pulls your drenched panties to your side, his hand coming over to your bum and doing the same thing there, so the fabric doesn’t get in the way.

You kiss him for it, hungrily, licking over his tongue, and he moans into your mouth, the sound traveling down your body until it roots in your clit, where it spreads and drums a hymn for your feminine titillation.

And the feeling is divine—the sparks of pleasure that shoot up your core while your bare pussy rubs against the fabric of his pants, darkening it ever so quickly with your wetness. The feeling that he enjoys it, even more so when he voices it out.

“This is what it does to me,” he murmurs so terribly close to your puffed lips, grasping your hand and leading it to the place between his outstretched legs that he speaks of. He presses it against his painfully hard imprint and your fingers automatically wrap around it as much as they can, as if they recognize it’s their own toy. “To see you get turned on like this. To watch you use me because of it. I’m crazy for you—”

His phone rings in his pocket and your heart stops—as do your motions.

And you fear, rottenly, that it’s Jungkook who’s calling him. That he somehow found his number and is back at it again, clutching the curse like a sword in his hand. Ready to ruin, ready to devastate.

The feeling paralyzes you enough that it dries up your pool of arousal and you can’t blink, you can’t breathe, you can’t move. Your mouth parts, but no breaths come out.

At the sliver of freedom and joy—

“Jung Hoseok speaking,” Hobi answers the phone, the device slender and way bigger than his monumental hand, gazing into your eyes. Unblinking, too.

He listens to the other side spilling information in and once you catch his mouth flattening, those dimples gouging something unpleasant onto the smooth surface above his top lip and the brightness in his eyes dimming ever so slightly, the cranberries of your blood crumble, uncomfortably, beneath the skin of your forearms.

You pull your hand away from his crotch, slipping out of his grasp. He stops you before you get up on your feet, holding your strayed hand as he listens some more.

It can’t be Jungkook.

Hobi wouldn’t listen to a word he said and that phone would’ve long been flung across the room, if it were him.

You sigh a breath of relief, your body relaxing and slouching. You run a hand through your hair, gripping it at the back of your head to will some feeling into your muscles—as there’s nothing to fear.

It’s over.

It’s fucking over.

No ruination. No devastation. No impending curse about to absorb your life.

Nothing.

“I understand what you’re saying and I appreciate your work and thought, but allow me to remind you that it’s Sunday and I don’t work on Sundays, neither do my employees—”

Oh, the big bad boss.

The person on the other side interrupts him and Hobi scrunches his brows, mouth parting at the disrespect. Then, a smirk crawls over his mouth and he rolls his eyes, directing that smile towards you as the brightness in his eyes blossoms back. Playfully, he rolls his eyes again now that he knows he’s got your attention—and silently, he mimics the words the other person is saying, mocking them.

You laugh, softly, your relief expanding in you and shifting you back into your comfort zone. Hobi’s eyes widen and, using his intertwined hand with yours, he presses his index finger to his lips to signal to you to be quiet.

And he shouldn’t have done that.

He refreshes your pool.

And he seems to be aware of it by the way his countenance grows serious. It does something to you—the way he’s listening, working essentially, while being attentive to your feelings and state of mind. It’s attractive, the splitting of his attention. And you don’t have to rock your hips first—he encourages you to do it by curtly nodding his head at your hips, untwining from your hand and guiding your pelvis to dance again.

Not for him.

For you.

And the pleasure is much bigger this time around.

You can’t stifle your noises.

“That sounds absolutely great,” he says, quickly, in order to camouflage the volume of your delight as you hump his thigh faster, more vigorously, your breasts bouncing and slapping against each other. Hobi watches them with a deep furrow of his brows and his bottom lip caged between his teeth. Tortured, absolutely tortured.

It only urges you on—and you find yourself in a vapor of horniness.

“Yes, Da—”

He clamps your mouth shut with his hand, your moan caught in his palm. That act alone drives you prematurely to the peak of your orgasm and you know, you know, that if your clit rubs against his toned, clothed thigh just once, you’ll be coming all over him.

But Hobi manhandles you, pushes you down, gently, onto the floor.

You’d think he was angry with you, hadn’t he smiled at you—and your vapor thickens, your hormones fucking with your brain. Hovering above you, he grips your throat, merely holds you there without any pressure, and he kisses the tip of your nose.

He fucking kisses the tip of your nose.

Your pool leaks onto the floor.

“Be quiet,” he mouths and does it again, more prominently, to make sure you understand what he’s voicelessly saying to you. “Yes, I have about five employees in that department who would be willing to work on that. Very diligent and dedicated. One of the best people I’ve ever had under me.”

He cringes, realizing the wrong string of words he used in that silence, and you burst out into laughter—one he has to silence by clamping your mouth shut again, looking away to focus on a fixed point somewhere in your bedroom while smiling himself.

And you get his attention right back at you when you lick his palm. You expected him to be repulsed by it, but his eyes enlarge and his mouth falls agape as strange feelings wash over him. Then, he ruts against nothing and plunges two of his fingers, index and middle, into your mouth.

Your slick is warm as it trickles down your flesh and onto the floor; your body hot all over from the situation, the secrecy, his dominance and his fingers alone. His eyes deepen when they slide over your full mouth and you can see, even through your thick vapor, the way he’s swallowing down his growls. He strokes your tongue, barely, softly, plunging them further until he hits the spot that makes you gag. It sobers him quite rapidly, the sound. Swearing—still voicelessly—he starts to pull out his fingers, but you wrap your hands around his wrist, keeping him there as you suck on those long, slender digits, focusing on not making a sound.

His eyes lid, heavily, at your diligence.

“Three months, you said?” He tugs his fingers out, that anger evident, but not towards you—towards the other person. And he lets it out by ripping your panties away from your body in a blink of an eye. “Can we make that two?” He caresses the silky skin of your mound with his knuckles, without venturing downwards, and you shudder, needing him there. “Rub your clit,” he mouths and you gasp, even though you don’t know why. You’re so overwhelmed by the respect he emanates, horny and sensitive that any word he’d throw your way would make you react this way. You feel like a schoolgirl; small, submissive, breedable. And you want to please him, make him proud, do as he says. But you don’t share the same hastiness as him—because before you can get to the end of your thought process, he takes your hand and places it on your pussy.

He must be getting the same thrill out of it.

You rub your clit, obeying him, and watching him watch the work of your fingers as you twirl them on that swollen, little flesh—it’s nothing you ever experienced before. Your pleasure quickens, as hasty as Hobi to get you to your peak, and you have to lift your fingers in order to not come quick, your lungs heaving, your mouth letting out short breaths that make him absolutely feral.

“Oh, pup,” he mouths, the wrinkles on his forehead divulging the depth of his torment and pleasure from the sight. “Good job. So good. Yes.” He nods, encouraging you—and you almost come right then and there, but you lift your fingers just in time. Fists clenched, you throw your head back, frustrated but pleasured just the same. And you can’t take it anymore.

Neither can he.

He runs his hand down the middle of your body, stopping at your thigh, wrapping your leg around his torso.

“If you can’t make that work in two months, then we have nothing to talk about,” he bites, panting, but he hides it well, his voice untouched by it. Firmness and respect coats it, strengthens it, gives a new instrument to the hymn of your clit. “I have things to do and places to be outside of Korea and I can’t afford to be held back by three months. I’m sure I can find business partners who’d be able to make everything work in just one—”

Seething, he leans over, grabbing your vibrator. He turns up the intensity, the sound growing louder and louder and you shriek, soundlessly.

You’re going to explode if he uses that on your tortured clit—

“Apologizes for the noise.” Hobi spits on your clit, the long string of his saliva plopping onto your flesh, making you quiver and moan, quietly. “There’s construction work outside. I guess you’re not the only one working on a Sunday.”

The bitterness, the snide comment—you feel like screaming, in the most delicious, exhilarating way. And you do, when Hobi places the vibrator down on your needy clit.

He moves it, rapidly, from side to side while he’s still talking on the phone, but his words are a blur that you fail to understand, your whole being fixed and concentrated on the adrenaline blended with fireworks of intense pleasure that create an orchestra of passion. His imaginary wings unfurl and beat in the air, opulent and dusky black. His eyes never falter their hypnosis as they bore into yours, coaxing your orgasm out of you, while his mouth keeps silently telling you to be quiet, praising you to motivate you.

And you do explode.

In his face when he explains something you can’t comprehend.

And you come again when he takes a deep breath, stopping short in the middle of his sentence, shocked, zestful, wet and ecstatic. You sprinkle his chin and his neck, ruin, most beautifully, his polo shirt and devastate, even more so, his pants.

And he’s grinning, so awfully pleased.

Lifts the vibrator. Doesn’t turn it off.

“I’m sorry. I’m getting an important call from a family member, who comes first on days such as these. Please, don’t hesitate to contact my secretary and make an appointment with me. We will discuss further on the matter. Have a nice day.”

And he’s smart.

Ending the call, he turns off the vibrator and tosses both things sideways. Props both arms beside each of your shoulders. And the flush that was stifled during the entirety of the work phone call now peeks through the surface, the petals of roses licking across his skin. Your own flush promenades hand in hand with him in this close proximity, your golden aura, gained from your exquisite orgasm, bathing you in holiness.

And you still can’t speak, tongue-tied.

He sweeps away your flyaways matted to your glistening forehead, brushing his knuckles down your face. And when he reaches your jaw, he cups your chin and kisses you, tenderly. Gives you a hundred more. Little, hungry, yet pure kisses.

“What did we just do?” He laughs, softly, in disbelief, shaking his head. You laugh along with him, your still lingering and heightened vapor causing you to nearly levitate underneath him.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, more slowly. Your nectar gets smeared on your cheek from his with each voracious movement of his mouth, his head. And it’s an element that makes this become real for you. That helps you fathom that you just experienced an adventurous event that wasn’t a part of the curse—that was good, through and through.

And it’s yours.

No one else’s.

And he makes it even better when he shares the details of his phone call with you. Lifting you up and carrying you into the shower, he tells you of the way the “motherfucker” tried to keep him from breeding you for three months. Was cocky enough to promise him he won’t find a better business partner to work on a project that Hobi’s been passionate about for weeks—a way to get older children better education in schools in terms of things that aren’t normally taught: surviving skills, basic medical skills, cooking skills and life skills regarding various of things that they will need during and after high school. His organization also offers a form of preschool and elementary babysitting, therapy, library, game activities, singing, dancing, language learning—anything to keep those kids busy and away from their phones. It’s a place of rest, a place of safety and comfort and Hobi works hard to maintain that.

The guy offered his premises and means of educational materials, even though Hobi makes do just fine—but it wouldn’t be available for at least three months. He explained that he needed them for the semester, wanted to elevate his ways, which is why he sent out a word.

He told you all this while washing you clean in the steamy, hot shower. And it wasn’t until a week later that you found out the guy truly wasn’t able to make it happen sooner, but upon talking with him in person, Hobi was so satisfied with him and his work ethic, that he was willing to risk it. What he didn’t tell him over the phone was that he specializes in a group of orphaned children, homeless, and those who live in children’s homes. And Hobi’s mind was blown, his heart moved and softened, enough to shake his hand and start working on this renewed, expanded project. He put the kids that weren’t his first—and you fell in love with him deeper than you ever had before.

And it wasn’t until spring came about and the first heat waves of the sun caressed your skin that he booked the flight, paid for a luxurious hotel resort in Antalya, paid for your mani, pedi, your Shein order and shopping sprees in malls, where he found you the simple dress he was apparently going to marry you in, and held your hand the entire way there. It took half a year to fulfill his longing and his biggest dream—and half a year to break your curse. You spent it visiting him in the office to bring him snacks, eye patches and face masks, distracted him with quick fucks, strip-teases, blow jobs underneath the table while he kept his suit on, smeared makeup and lipstick on his face and collar whenever you were in the mood to make out with him.

It took such a long time, but you didn’t mind at all—because at night, you and him would pretend. Hobi didn’t want you to get on birth control; cared enough for your well-being by not wanting to confuse your body for a few months. Settled for the play of pretending—for condoms and nutting inside, going through the motion that there’s no latex preventing his longing from erupting. And during the day, you got to know him on a more meaningful, profound level.

He loves to dance. Has danced with you in the living room on multiple occasions. Slow dancing, bachata, lambada. He wasn’t shy; enjoyed every minute of it and you watched him shine like the heart-shaped sunlight he is. You found the core of him, like a seed within a cherry, when you had your arms locked behind the nape of his neck and he led your hips into the rhythm of the sensual song.

He loves children because he was loved right as a child himself. Wants to pass that on. Wants the kids to know that love exists, no matter what they’ve done. You broke down when he shared that with you and wished a place, like his organization provides, existed in your forlorn girlhood.

Maybe you wouldn’t have been so broken. So prone to bad decisions, imbecility. So liable to the poisonous kisses of curses, to their tempting touches and their manipulative sounds of sweet nothing.

Hobi had given you a promise ring right after he told you that there was to be a long waiting period for the baby. And when the time came and spring opened their buds of flowers, Hobi proposed to you. A grandiose diamond ring on your finger; plane tickets and more wons that you ever held in your hand, safely tucked in a white envelope. That’s how he announced it to you. And he didn’t get on his knee on the beach, where you glued your heart together.

Not in Seoul, not on the island of Jeju.

He proved his devotion to you and his irrevocable love for you amidst the surrounding mountains in Juwangsan national park by the Yongchu waterfall, five hours away from Seoul. Scraped his leisure pants because for a while you were paralyzed before you burst into tears and started running around, your first reaction of shock dispersing and turning into a holy euphoria you never experienced before. He laughed as did many people who were witness to the engagement, his hands that still held the ring box shaking as the audience clapped and cried along with you. Your white, linen dress billowed in the warm, spring-breathed wind, but you didn’t care much for it—because when you gained feeling in your muscles and your hunger to kiss him overpowered you, you stole and drew all of his patchouli-filled breath.

You made it yours as he became yours, too, eternally.

And when you gave him your yes, the mountains glorified yours and his love, exalted your unified souls, worshiped your hearts that beat for one another. Sang the praises of your unborn child.

You inhaled it, with gratitude and great importance, and it swirled within you even as you continued on your hike. Even as you visited the Daejeonsa Temple, where you spent the most time, dwelling in that thankfulness. You took in the beauty of the greenery, fresh air and mountains differently, more thoroughly and tremendously because you sensed they were there for you. Flaunted their earnest opulence and fervency for your happiness, for they knew you were looking back.

Life gained feeling, too.

And Hobi wouldn’t stop fondling your ring while he held your hand.

It’s what he does now as he presses the hotel room card against the device by the doorknob, a half month later. And it’s not lightness that is intertwined in his shoulders, but immense heaviness. Your flight was delayed by two hours and you waited another two hours for your luggage. Hobi didn't have to say a thing—it was written all over his countenance and figure, the weight of his perturbation. From his solemn look, tense features, lack of speech to his slouched shoulders, slightly shaking hands and deep breaths.

You don’t want to poke the beast, but you do want to pet it—make it feel better. Because despite the misfortunes, you don’t consider them setbacks or ruination. You are here, with him, engaged and about to get filled with his baby. No troubles can take that away from you and they can try as hard as they want.

You are about to carry his berry baby, conceived from the orchard he built in you, in the middle of Antalya, Turkey.

Nothing could be better than this.

Thinking about it, it paints a smile on your face. Hobi plants your suitcases on your king-sized bed, paying very little attention to the swan, made out of towels, sitting prettily in the middle of it, surrounded by rose petals, the ones that live beneath his skin so joyously and most comfortably. Feeling pity for him, because you know why he feels the way he does, you take his arms and slink through them, hugging his torso from behind, nuzzling your face in his oversized shirt-clad back that he wore for the first time in your presence.

Hobi? Oversized clothes? Strangely, it works, even though you’re so used to his suits, his well-fitted classic clothes that accentuate his buff figure.

He sighs, running his hands down your sides like he always does. You kiss his spine, without fear as you chose to wear zero makeup for the flight, but then he clasps your hands in his—right there in the center of his chest—and you swoon, tender and in love, appreciating the gesture, even though he’s done it many times before.

It’ll never get old.

“I can’t breathe in this room,” he murmurs, sighing a little louder this time around, and you furrow your brows, a wisp of worry curling in your gut.

You’re about to let go and open the balcony doors to let some fresh air in, but Hobi acts faster. He swivels halfway, takes one step back with you, and turns on the air conditioning. Waits a little bit, stares at a fixed point on the ceiling—only to discover that it’s not working.

Hobi punches the wall, startling you.

“Hobi?” you call out his name, the wisp fading into a strong wind that moves your organs to and fro.

He pinches his forehead, seething, and your instinct is to put a stop to it. You take his hands, notice they’re trembling, and the wind is knocked out of you.

Trembling hands… What are they portraying? Anger? Anxiety?

You sit him down on the bed, coming to stand in between his legs, and you cradle his face. Even the muscles in it quiver. Feebly, but they’re there. Pity constricts your heart.

“What’s going on?” you ask, searching for his eyes, and when he meets you halfway, there’s unbelief that paints a murky landscape across his darkened pools. The brightness is dimmed. Your heart laments it.

“Everything is going to shit. I wanted this to be perfect for you, but the air conditioning isn’t working. We waited for hours at the airport—”

You kiss his forehead, silencing him, and you linger there, even as you reassure him. “I’m so happy to be here with you that I couldn’t even give two shits about that.”

The unbelief deepens and you figure he expected you to be as disappointed and as cranky as him. He doesn’t understand that the time you’d been graced with, the absence of your ex and the opportunity to be in a place your heart had quietly dreamed of conquers any obstacles that have tried to get in your way.

You can’t be shaken.

Not anymore.

“We’re not at the airport anymore, we’re here. You can make a call to the reception and they will send a guy to fix it. It’s already perfect because I’m about to hear your English, first of all. And second of all, you’re gonna—” Your tone lowers to a whisper, “—breed me. Do unspeakable things to me here. Are we gonna fuck in the ocean? Oh, my god. I want that so bad. We can go to the beach at sunset with very few people around and you can nut in me. We’ll have a sea baby.”

This time, his sigh is dusted with relief and he slides your thighs over his, making you sit on his lap. The brightness in his eyes begins to flicker, shining through the murkiness, making its way back, and you’re happy to see it—relieved just the same. Though, you note something else, something new appearing in those pools.

The moon. Night-caressed pearls. The waves of the turbulent, passionate sea at midnight as they wash out that terrible landscape.

The same moon he carved into your thigh on your first date. The same moon that you hope will be lining your skin once he smothers you in his longing.

“I’m so grateful to have you. I’m so grateful to have you as my wife. No one compares to you,” Hobi says, the moonlit pearls in his eyes wet as he’s overcome with emotion. He rests his head on your bosom, hugging you tight. “I love you, pup.”

You bury your face in his silkily soft hair, reveling in the fresh undercut he got for this baby-making vacation. He purrs, happily, like a kitten, when you gently scrape your long acrylics upon that gritty surface.

“I love you, too.”

It’s time for dinner by the time you both come out of the shower, sharing one humongous towel. You push him down onto the bed and massage his back, helping him unwind on a deeper level—until his body is light and soaring, his eyes drowsy and lidded. Arm shading the lower half of his face, he studies the way you make love to your body by lathering it in shea butter lotion, then dressing it in a skin-tight, pale green, sleeveless dress with a slit in the back, its hem almost reaching your ankles. You put on some Aretha Franklin and open your clear makeup bag, reciprocating the eye contact in the mirror in front of the bed as you squirt foundation on your flushed cheeks.

You didn’t realize he was watching you.

“No panties, no bra?” he asks, his tongue dry as he licks his lips, still naked, glistening in the sundown from your lotion. Your eyes wander to his lower regions and find him hard.

You smile, tapping in your foundation with your beauty blender.

“I made the mistake of accidentally ordering extra small instead of small, so it’s tight on my body,” you explain your lack of underwear, your mouth ends quivering as he just keeps looking at you with bottomless devotion. “So I don’t want any panty lines or straps.”

“I think that’s no mistake,” he says, his hand gripping his shaft for a moment before it relaxes, concealing his weakness for you. “I’m gonna rip it off of you with ease once your belly’s full. And I’m gonna make it fuller.”

You bite your lip, blending your concealer, feral. “Careful, or no dinner for you.”

Hobi chuckles, his body twitching, and you sink your teeth deeper into the pillow of your bottom lip. “Why?”

Cream bronzer—you suck in your cheeks, making him suck in a breath. “If you keep talking, we’re skipping dinner and I’ll force you to make good on that promise.”

He scoffs, the sound full of humor. “There’s no forcing when it comes to you.”

You put on cream blush for nothing as your own natural blush resurfaces under that layer of makeup. “Your game will never not get to me, Hobi.”

He hums in response, a tinge of embarrassment coloring that sound, and you coo, finishing your make-up with a thin eyeliner, mascara, brows and a brown lipstick. You brush out your hair, letting it cascade down your back. Put on some gold hoop earrings. Spray on your perfume. Crawl over Hobi’s lap to show yourself to him.

“What do you think?”

He fails to cup himself now that he’s turned on his back, with how long he is, and you pry his hand away, kissing his palm, marking it with that brown shade.

“Beautiful,” he breathes out and your smile aches. “I’m gonna fight anyone who looks at you tonight.”

You laugh, softly, leaning over to plant that same mark in the middle of his chest—just like he marked you all those months ago. “No need to fight for me. Are you gonna get dressed?”

His shyness comes through, his flush reaching his neck and collarbones, and you salivate.

“I’m hard,” he says, nearly pathetically, and you coo, endeared by him. Grasp him with your left hand, purposefully, and his eyes flick to your ring, moaning. “Oh, pup.”

“What are we gonna do with you? I just put on my lipstick,” you whine, pouting feignedly, and Hobi whimpers, enveloping your hand with his fist, leading you to fuck him in a fast rhythm, the left over lotion on your palm making it slick and easy.

“Just lick my tip and stroke me like that,” he croaks out and you feel your folds soak with your nectar. You were fine with him marinating your makeup, but this is better. “You don’t have to suck it. Just lick it with that tongue of yours, pup.”

You swear, moaning, darting out your tongue and kitten licking the ridge of his head like he asked, twisting your wrist as much as he lets you in the deathly grasp he has over your hand.

“That’s it, baby. You know how to do it. You’re my smart girl. My smart wife,” he praises, throwing his head back as he takes the pleasure you give him, going as far as hollowing out your cheeks on that sensitive part of him, despite the fact he told you that you didn’t have to. He groans, deeply, lifting his shoulders from the bed and gripping your hair, his hand trembling all over again. “Fuck, you make it so hard for me not to fuck your mouth.”

You moan around him and he pulls you away from his cock and smashes his mouth against yours, kissing you so devastatingly ravagedly that you can’t breathe and you grow slack in his hold, sinking onto your knees on the floor.

He holds your face as he lets you go, your foundation and lipstick smeared all over his chin, lips and cupid’s bow. You gasp at the sight, gulping.

“I’m sorry, pup. You’re gonna have to redo your makeup. I couldn’t help it. You’re just so good,” he apologizes and you can see it on his face, how serious he is about it. “You deserve to be kissed like that. Hm, you’re such a good pup for me.”

You mewl, missing his lips already, and you quicken your pace around him. He lets you, matching you, and his sounds rise in volume.

“I’m gonna come so quick for you, just because you look so good like this.”

You hiccup, squeezing him. “Like what?”

He hums, licking his lips, tasting your girlishness, and he grins, lopsidedly. “So pretty on your knees for your husband with your makeup ruined, knowing he did it because you sucked him so well.”

The third person. You die—you die a beautiful death.

“Oh, fuck, Daddy.”

“Yeah, baby. I know. So good. Like always with you.”

And you come back to life.

You moan, giving him your all through your motions, sucking him, licking him, going even as far as taking his balls into your mouth, spreading your noises all over them, divulging how much you love that part of him. And he warns you before he comes. Doesn’t want to ruin your dress. And you watch as he spurts his cum all over his stomach while you milk it out of him—bedazzled, in love, fucked out and absolutely mesmerized.

And you rub his cum into his skin in the way you’ve noticed he likes to do on yours. Dig a grave for all the negative things he had to go through because of you and for you. You didn’t do that all those months ago, focused as you were on forgetting. But now that you’re healed from it and so is he, you dig that grave deep. Throw in his rightful anger, your ex, the painting. Sweep the soil back over it. And never look at it again.

He thanks you for taking care of him. Tells you that it was all because of how beautiful you are. Cleans the little you left behind of his own nectar while you fix your makeup. Dresses himself in black pants and a shirt that makes you laugh so hard that your stomach hurts.

A black and white shirt with a pattern of condoms.

“What?” he asks, but laughs along with you. “We’re saying goodbye to condoms once and for all, pup.”

You blush, terribly. He leaves the top buttons undone, letting all eyes see the way you marked him with your brown lipstick.

And he gets stared down at dinner. Cares very little, as smitten as he is with you—can’t lay his eyes off you as you walk, even as you eat and drink your Turkish tea, as you sway your body to the live, foreign music while your cigarette smoke dances along with you. Can’t stop touching you either—has to have his hand on you under all circumstances. On your forearm, the back of your hand, your knee or your thigh under the table.

Your belly, after all that food.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he says after a long moment of balmy silence. The spring wind, drifting from the palm trees, chilly ever so faintly, brushes your hair away from your face, caressing so coolly your freshly washed body, and you’re obsessed with the feeling. With his reminder that he’s gonna marry you. With him. With the fact you’re here with him.

There’s no other place you’d rather be.

“I know,” you intone, shyly, grinning, so terribly happy that its sparks detonate on your face, your thumb mindlessly playing with your ring. “I feel at home here.”

He seems to be touched by that. But you didn’t understand the gravity of his words.

Not until later.

Two strong cocktails in, the night falls. The musicians gather their instruments to leave, but Hobi, with a mind of his own, pulls you up to your feet to dance with you to the song of that balmy, restful silence. And the ardent dance, filled with twirls and sways, catches the eye of one of the musicians. An elderly man, with ebony hair, mustache and tender wetness in his eyes, picks up his decades-loved violin from its case and starts playing a song unheard by the night. A song made, intimately and privately, from his own gentle, but kindled heart for you and Hobi. The fervid song, tied with the fire of a passion shared between a husband and wife, moves you to tears and once the man sees them, he weeps along with you.

With your face pressed against Hobi’s, he barely leads you in the dance as you still ever so slightly to listen to that expression of love and marriage, paying your full attention to it. And if there ever were any forgotten crumbs of cranberries in your blood, the man’s mastery and Hobi’s touch smooth it out, completely. Order it, wordlessly, to swim out of your tear ducts.

The man ends the song and you and Hobi clap for him, bowing in all respect and sincerity. He sends you a heartfelt kiss and a thumbs up Hobi’s way, pointing at his shirt and you wave him goodbye, laughing.

No need for words.

All was said.

And Hobi senses it, a changed man. Because when you walk up to your hotel room and he sets you down on the bed—he doesn’t rip your dress away from you like he promised he would. No, he takes his time, revealing your skin little by little, kissing and licking every inch that opens for him. He’s that embodied passion and he unravels himself on your body, sucking on your perked nipple as he holds the rim of your dress beneath your breasts. Sighing, humming. Circling the tip of his tongue around that sensitive trigger. Your moans echo around the spaciousness of the room and he answers each and every one of them with his own.

“Do you want it now? On your first night here?” he asks, pools whisked to yours, grazing your nub with his teeth. You cry out, spreading your legs as far as the tightness of your dress lets you while Hobi’s body compresses them down with his weight.

You want it every night, every day until you have to return back to Korea. Want to be so full of his nectar that you’ll still feel it, even at home.

“I want us to try every day,” you say, stroking his hair, shuddering as he rolls his tongue up and down on that nipple of yours, nuzzling his face in your breast as he sucks it. Makes your brain malfunction a little bit. “Do you think they sell pregnancy tests in that little shop? I should’ve brought some from home.”

Hobi grows serious, popping your nub free. His puffy lips search for yours, enveloping them in a deep kiss. And he spreads tiny kisses on your cheek and jaw as he responds. “We can say fuck it and take that test when we get home.”

The same seriousness closes down upon you. “What if we fail? What if there’s something wrong with me that I don’t know about?”

He cradles your face, his thumb fondling your skin, your black eyelashes, sturdier than they usually are due to your mascara. “You’re young, you’re healthy. You have nothing to worry about. I’m older. What if my swimmers are blind, hm?”

Your eyes wet at the thought, but a sweet reminder seizes you—the softness you saw wrapping around him when he told you about the renewal of his work project, the amount of poor children without parents or homes that have won over his heart. And your answer is ready on the tip of your tongue.

“There’s always the children from your work. We can adopt. As many as we want.”

Hobi looks into your eyes, deeply, for a long time. And you don’t catch the drenching of his pools, nor the tender glint, the wetness of the pearls. No, you catch a single rivulet trickling down on each of his cheeks, plopping down onto your chest. The hard sucking in of his breath due to that softness swathing him all over again. The tremble of his lip. The petting of his hand over your hair as he exudes gratefulness.

“I love you, you know that?” he whimpers and you burst, your own tears dripping down the sides of your face as you take him in. The raw, compassionate and humane version of him that only few, selected people are allowed to see. You, his mom, his dad, his sister and… little Luna. And you sob, your whole body warm from the amount of love that boils in you for him. “You’re my good little pup. I love you so much.”

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice broken owing to the intensity of your feelings. Hobi kisses your neck and your hand brushes down his back, scattered with myriads of condoms. Try to feel for his wings. Want them as sensitive as his heart. “Your swimmers aren’t blind. They have 20/20 vision.”

Your little joke causes him to chuckle, adorably, and he makes that sound travel down your throat as soon as he kisses you again. Slowly, carefully—as if engraving the shape and the feel of your lips deeply into his brain, into his system that he will give to you. You want more of him, the intangible things as well as the tangible ones. All of him, all that put his being together; all that helps him get up in the morning and lay his head down at night.

And it invigorates you, the knowledge that you will get just that—once he fills you up with his nectar and his swimmers find you, perfectly. Yours and his berry baby will grow amidst the orchard he will continue to take care of; and you will have him.

Eternally.

Beyond death. Beyond the end of time.

You will have him—and you will have a little him as well.

“I want you,” you whisper onto his lips, perking up your breasts for him by squishing them together and he sees you, sees what you’re doing and he licks your nipple again, both of them at the same time in fact, torturously slowly, humming. “And I want a little you.”

Lifting his head to kiss you, nastily, he groans. The smack of yours and his mouth, the ridding of your dress—still slow, still sensual. He studies your body for a moment, shuddering, full of longing for him and his nectar, ready for him with the way it’s glistening in sweat and arousal. And he sighs, differently this time.

The sound is coated with as much longing as your body is.

You love being looked at by him; love the knowledge that he’s looking at something that’s his. Always been his to transform, make new, clean and heal. Always been his to love.

And he kisses his pathway down your tummy as if he thought about the same thing, his hands following every inch of your skin, fondling the places he kissed, licked and sucked. Not hard enough to create a mark, but lovingly enough to moisten you even more, to make your heart swell—and something else, too.

He stops at your navel. Squishes the lower belly fat, biting it as he coos—and you can feel how much he loves that part of you; always has. Because of that, there’s no insecurity tightening your lungs or worrying your brain. Only balminess, the sound of cicadas, the dance of the palm trees as the wind blows through it, the faraway sea sloshing upon shore and his noises caked with yearning—for you, for the baby.

“Our baby is going to live right here,” he says, as if he was coming to terms with it, now that he’s about to make it happen, and you soften, running your hand through the tufts of his windswept hair. “It’s going to grow and feel our love. Feel how much I love him or her. How much you do.”

You nod, a liquified softness. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

He gazes at you through his lashes and butterflies zap your stomach. “I want a baby that looks like you.”

Your heart, too.

“So, a girl?”

He rubs his face in your tummy, breathing evenly against it. “Even a boy can have your features. Your hair. Your hands.” He takes it, the one closest to him, and drifts his fingers through yours. “I want to hold their hand and know I’m holding yours. And I want to give them the love I have for you.”

A film flashes through your mind. A little boy, sitting on a sofa next to resting Hobi, watching TV while his Daddy absentmindedly plays with his small fingers, kissing them, biting them playfully to make him growl in that adorable way. The same little boy growing into a young man, having been watered by the love Hobi has for you and the new, fatherly love he gained for him. One that does not cease even as he’s older.

A boy, a man loved by his Father—ceaselessly.

Something you never had, but your child will.

You don’t realize you’re crying until Hobi wipes your tears away. Your heart thumps so rapidly against your chest that you believe it could poke through the flesh.

And you fall for him, all over again.

“That’s the most beautiful thing you ever said to me,” you whisper, high on your heightened feelings for him, high on him. “Besides, ‘will you marry me?’”

Hobi smiles. Moves you so your head reclines on the pillows, knocking towel swan off the bed, making you giggle. And he sits on his legs, clutching your waist, thumb rubbing circles on your tummy, squished and overspilling in your position as you wrap your own legs around him.

Comfortable, safe, elated.

“Two days from now, I want you to wear that dress I bought you,” he says, his smile blossoming wider and your lips mimic the same movement for some reason, despite the fact your brows furrow in confusion.

“What dress?”

He slides his hands up your highs. “The white one. The one I told you I was gonna marry you in.”

A soft gasp leaves your lips and a mist of tears thicken in your waterline, understanding what he’s saying. “Are we—?”

“Yes, pup.” A stream, not a rivulet, cascades down his cheeks and you break, you break beautifully and happily. “We’re getting married in two days. I prepared everything. Your parents and mine are flying in. I paid for their plane tickets. A small wedding with the closest. My sister slapped me when I offered to pay for hers—”

An alarm rings loudly in your sternum and you don’t think before you voice it out. Hasty in a way you don’t like, but it’s due to a certain fear that you feel expanding throughout your body.

“What did my Dad say?”

Hobi’s smile doesn’t fade and it spurs a fragment of ease to shoot down your form.

“Your Dad gave me his blessing.”

A brand new shrub begins to grow in your orchard. The final one. A shrub of goji berries, healing, beneficial to your Father complex, the very means that will treat your scar caused from it, rejuvenate the skin that bears his ignorance, lack of love, care and attention.

And you can’t breathe.

Hobi lays the front of his body against yours, propping his chin against your chest, holding the side of your face in his hand, tracing your shock and unbelief with his thumb.

“He looked at me as if he wanted to kill me, but once he heard that I mean well with you and that I make good money at my job—actually, once he heard that I work with children, his whole demeanor changed—”

“He loves children,” you blurt out, your vision unfocusing. “He just doesn’t love me because I grew up. It’s some kind of block in his body, I don’t know.”

Hobi pauses for a moment, thinking about your words, his thumb now tracing your lost eyes—your eyelids, your eyelashes.

Your Father played with you when you were a little girl. Took you on walks around the city. Bought you McDonalds. Taught you how to count money when you were struggling, unsure if you had enough from the paper Wons he gave you. But once the sadness of your girlhood absorbed your life, his presence in it shifted and moved away.

And never returned.

“He does love you, he just doesn’t know how to express it. That’s what I sensed,” he whispers, his hand descending to your neck, and you wonder if he feels the twigs of those goji berries underneath that skin—that quickly they grow. “If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t have listened to a word I said. He wouldn’t have asked me if there’s anything I needed from him in terms of the wedding. And he wasn’t mad about the fact that it would be non-traditional and in Turkey, though your mom insisted she’d wear a hanbok anyways.”

You’re so overwhelmed that you can’t speak, the notion that your Father always knew you strayed away from your heritage and preferred the West sneaking into your heart. He accepted it; and he accepted Hobi.

You reach within yourself, pluck a goji berry and feed it to the emptiness that lived within you for too long. And you do it again and again—until there’s no hollowness that eats at your insides.

You’re whole.

“Thank you for telling me,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles down his cheek and Hobi leans into your touch like he always does. “That healed me. I can’t wait to marry you.”

Hobi mirrors your softness and kisses you with it. And it’s now that the dip of the scar in your skin replenishes—through each and every moment of his mouth against yours and through his shifting to the place between your legs once you coyly ask for him there. He eats you as if he were starving, and it has great meaning to you—the fact it’s someone you love that is consuming you and not your emptiness anymore. Your feet slide across the pattern of the condoms on his back and it quickens your orgasm in the middle of his sucking and finger-fucking, all owing to the fact that Hobi made order in your life; healed your Father’s complex and now is preparing you to impregnate you, only to marry you two days later.

You come so hard that you don’t sprinkle him, but drench him whole, your nectar painting him in glimmering light that becomes holy in the moonlight that streaks through the balcony.

He heaves, ferally, kissing your clit over and over again—so hard that he’s essentially sucking it and you cry out in overstimulation.

“Taught you how to squirt, didn’t I?” he growls, hovering above you as the drops of your nectar pitter-patter on your chest and within your shyness due to his words, you’re ready for him.

He did teach you that. Since the fateful day of his work phone call, before and during which you edged yourself so painfully that when he pleasured you with your vibrator, you exploded just the same, you aren’t able to have dry orgasms. He has triggered something within you, using his businessman voice and respect, that rains for him and it has changed your sexuality once and for all.

“You did,” you try because of your shyness, your hands instinctively popping the button of his pants open, and Hobi hums, wiping his face clean and pushing his soaked fingers inside your mouth.

You didn’t expect it and the loud moan that slips out of your throat comes as a surprise to you. Hobi’s length twitches beneath your hands and twitches again when you suck on his fingers, just as loudly.

“I love it when you squirt for me, but pray to God, pup, that you don’t squirt around my dick because I’m not pulling out, you hear me?” he rasps, his voice deep and solemn, causing your walls to clench tightly and your heat to reach a boiling temperature. Your hand, mindlessly, slinks to your pussy to rub your clit and he tips his head, noticing it. “Move your hand.” You do, your heart bouncing in your ribcage. Hobi begins to thumb your clit and you writhe your body against the mattress, following each circle with your hips, the pleasure faint but so good. “Do you think you can hold your orgasms for me once I fuck you, hm?”

You whimper, regarding the idea impossible, knowing how well he does it. Impossible and rapturous. “No.”

He chuckles. Stops his circles. Lets you use his thumb. “I’ll make you, then. I can stop anytime.”

You roll your eyes back, his dominance-tinged words better than the stimulation of your clit. “Can you?” you bite back, playfully, your shyness vanishing.

Hobi bites his lip, intoxicated by your new confidence. Pins your hands above your head, leaning his weight on them. Brushes his lips against yours. “Don’t go bratty on me now. Don’t do it to the baby.”

You choke out a curse and Hobi digs his half-moons into your forearms. The moonlight anoints them, purifying the atmosphere.

“I’ll be good for the baby,” you whisper, curling your hips to feel more of his manhood, eager for it. “And good for you.”

Hobi growls, kissing the skin beneath your jawline just once. “A good what?”

You know what he wants you to say and your eagerness lengthens. “A good pup.”

Shifting so he can hold both of your wrists in his singular fist, he glides the tip of his cock along your feminine flesh—up and down, up and down.

“That’s it. A good Mommy for the baby and a good pup for me.”

He buries himself in your heat and it’s the breaking of the curse upon your life, for the intention is there. The final installment to your healing of your Father’s complex because you’re not a little girl anymore, walking in the withering forest of your saddened girlhood.

You’re a tender woman and you’re being made love to.

There’s respect to the languid and dionysian movements of his love, no matter the hardness he uses. A breath is choked out of you and he inhales it, letting your hands free to cradle your neck, pressing his forehead against yours as he moans. Your mouth is parted and Hobi plays with your tongue without closing down his lips on yours, which causes you to mark your nails down his lats. Goosebumps decorate his skin at the feeling and he speeds up, beckoning out your whiny noises as you take it.

His cock, the healing, the respect, the love.

“I love you,” he murmurs, consuming your noises as soon as he kisses you. Doesn’t stop ramming into you. “I love you, my pup. You’re my life.”

You cry out and he rips the coil of your orgasm by filling you to the hilt and lingering there, stimulating your clit by giving you fast, little strokes that makes his mound rub against it. And the orgasm overtakes you, your whole body limp and delighted as the heavenly pressure courses down every nerve ending, spreading that healing, respect and love, sealing it there.

“God, that was beautiful,” Hobi comments, stunned by the explosion of your pleasure, and he begins to give you long, hard strokes that empty out your brain and try to push out your sudden guilt for coming when he wanted you to hold back your orgasm.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“No, pup,” he groans, the muscles around his eyes tightening as he pants. “You’re good. Just keep coming for me. I was only kidding, pup.”

He takes your nipple in his mouth, his back strong and monumental and you sink your nails into it, marking him with the same half-moons, blushing, joyful. Hobi returns to your neck, your jaw and lips and you whine at the principle of him returning.

The feeling of it is so enormous that you come again.

“Yes, pup, that’s it. Come for your Daddy. So pretty, yes. I’m so close. I’m right there with you. Gonna make you a Mommy.”

The words that are true, at last. Not a pretense.

And then he’s fast, fucking you into the bed. Changing his mind at the last minute and lifting your hips into the air, slamming into you so hard that you have to hold onto his forearms, scattering your half-moons there and you take it all, ravenous, yet tender as you are. The squelching noises, his growls melting into soft mewls as you squeeze around him and it’s him who can’t take it.

Who can’t take the distance.

Who places your hips back down and eats your mouth, plunging his tongue inside while keeping up his rhythm. Never once faltering, nor wavering. He kneads your breast, sucks on your lip, bites it. Holds you by your throat, pushing his thumb inside your parted mouth and you have a feeling, amidst the haziness of your mind, that’s your trigger. One of them, at least.

“Suck on it.”

You clamp down on his length, obeying. Your orgasm inches closer, your fourth one of the night.

“Good pup,” he husks, closing his eyes for a split second, slowing down, rolling motions. “Are you ready to become a Mommy for our baby? Daddy’s so close.”

The sound that leaves you is of such a desperate kind that he grunts, delighting in it. Buries himself inside you to the hilt, stopping there, giving you tiny strokes that scramble your brain, plays with the haziness. Your arousal and your yearning is so raging and feverish that the pain of his tip osculating your cervix feels divine. And all you can think about is how it’s going to widen over time for yours and his baby.

“Yes, yes, please. I want it. Give it to me, please, please, please,” you beg, your lungs and your pulse quickening, muscles taut and Hobi moans in a way you’ve never heard him before.

The longing at its peak, sensitive, delicate and frail—yet he still remains as strong and monumental as he is. His Achilles’ heel has been struck and he begins to twitch inside you.

“Oh my God, pup, I’m coming so hard for you.” Long strokes, whimpers. “Are you gonna take it like the good little wife you are?” The ultimate hard thrust—the blooming of his longing, your agreement, and it’s happening. He comes. “Fuck, fuck, yes. It’s all yours. It’s all yours, pup.”

He paints you anew with the warmth of his nectar, fucking it deeply into you. And the title you utter is not one construed out of your lack, but it’s a crowning of his new role.

“Daddy.”

The final breaking of the curse.

The conclusion.

He continues to ram into you, softly, his thumb finding your clit—and it’s over.

Everything.

You step into a new life with him while you’re still connected and he keeps coming for you, his swimmers antsy and desirous to find your egg. And crossing the threshold, you come—devastatingly intensely, your body trembling and his mirroring the same shakes while he gives you the last of his all and a kiss that lasts a lifetime.

A clean slate, a clean heart, a clean body.

A clean life.

An orchard, brimming with fullness and ripeness.

Ready for your berry baby.

He looks at you for a long time, then, grinning so widely that you can sense the entirety of his joyful heart in it. His eyes wet and his smile softens as the gravity of what just happened washes over him. You feel the same process collapsing over you, splendidly, and you think that you and him must have become one.

“We did it,” he whispers, a tear pouring down his cheek and another one following.

You nod, your cheeks stained with the same tears. “We did it.”

And the newness of your life and being feels natural—just as though it has been there the whole time.

On the day of your wedding, bright early in the morning—after Hobi woke you up with his sensual The Weeknd playlist and ate you out so calamitously that you had to give it back to him by riding him into oblivion—you sit down for breakfast and discover something about him that almost makes you call it off.

Hobi put strawberry jam on his butter toast with scrambled eggs.

The Turkish sun envelops him bewitchingly, makes his tanned skin glow in its light as he enjoys, provocatively, every bite of his strange breakfast, focusing all of his attention on it. His eyes never leave it and his mouth smacks so loudly that it as irks you as it makes you laugh.

Your unbelief towards that combination is so strong that it took you some time before you could speak up.

“What the fuck, Hobi?”

His eyes flick in your direction, innocently, cheeks full and squirrel-like, layered in sweat. His hands hold a half of the toast, despite the fact you and him just sat down. Does he really enjoy it that much? He inhaled it.

“What?” he asks, mouth full, and you chuckle.

“Jam and eggs?”

He swallows, making a sound that divulges just how much he loved that bite. “Pup, it’s so good.”

You widen your eyes. “I’m not marrying you today,” you say, but you don’t mean it. You’d marry him even if he forced that abnormal toast down your throat.

He’s not one bit perplexed by your sentence. Stares you down as he runs his tongue over his teeth, mouth closed. “Be quiet.”

Heat comes apart in your body and you blush, squeezing your thighs together under the table.

“How could a combination of eggs and jam be good?” you ask, standing your ground, despite your feelings.

Hobi smiles. “One time I accidentally put sugar instead of salt on my scrambled eggs and it changed my life forever.”

Your eyes might pop out of your sockets. “What?”

He laughs, extends his hand towards your face. The sweetened, yet buttery smell of the toast hits your nostrils and your repulsion towards it dissolves. “Try it.”

You don’t trust it, though. “I’d rather die.”

He tightens his lips. “Be quiet and take a bite.”

Taken aback, your instincts win and you don’t realize your head is leaning towards the toast until your teeth sink into the crunchy tastiness. You take a small bite and thoroughly chew, the mixture of sweetness and a little bit of saltiness, wrapped around the crispiness of the toast and the slight mushiness of the eggs creating something metaphysical in your mouth.

Hobi watches you with a proud, lopsided grin. Knows you like it before you say it.

“What the fuck?”

He bursts into laughter and lets you have it, places it on your plate before devouring his second one, your liking for it elevating his.

And you devour it just the same.

“Life changing, isn’t it?” he intones, smacking his mouth in all the pleasure of the world. “Expect this kind of breakfast every morning when we get home. After I eat out your little pussy.”

You choke on it and hide your feverish face in your hands, your stomach doing somersaults. “Oh my God, Hobi.”

He laughs again, tenderly, and the sound travels all the way to Cappadocia, where he marries you at sundown.

On the rooftop of a cave hotel, overlooking an immeasurable amount of kaleidoscopic hot air balloons that magnetically travel to the heat of the orange sun, the mountains and volcanic peaks darkened by its overpowering magnificence. It encourages the sleepy walk of camels and tightens the hearts of the witnesses below and the hearts of your parents, parents in law and Hobi’s sister.

The simple dress Hobi bought you ripples in the compassionate late afternoon wind. Silky, pearlescent like his eyes in a certain light, caressing your tanned skin. So very akin to the one you wore on your first date with him, but longer, sleek, homeric in its significance.

And he matches you, all white, in his tuxedo, a stark contrast against his bronze skin and black hair, a wispy strand softly being blown sideways from his forehead by the wind. He holds his tears back in the same way he holds your hand—with all his might. And you do the same.

You share your vows.

He shares his, intertwined with the first poem you recited for him.

“I’ll carry your heart with me ‘til my last day on this Earth and I will fear no fate because you are my fate.”

Through your tears, you can see the way he’s stifling his habit of saying your pet name. And when he catches your quivering smile, he breaks into more tears.

And when you proclaim that you do take him as your husband and when he proclaims that he takes you as his wife, your tears conjoin as do your souls in a kiss that makes the mountains quake. The heat of the Turkish sun perpetuates the act of love.

The audience cheers.

Your Father weeps.

And you believe no sadness, no ruination will ever come close to you again.

You and Hobi celebrate. Dance throughout the night to foreign, passionate music that your heart seems to know. Fly in a hot air balloon, where he gets drunk and kisses you until your lips get numb.

Almost throws up all the dark liquor he drank once he sees how high from the ground he is.

And you can’t stop laughing.

Not as he takes you to the Valley of Love the next day to look at penis-shaped rock formations that nature apparently formed out of the blue.

Not as you give birth nine months later and he makes his sound effects as you push out his child.

A baby boy that has your hair, your hands, your mouth and your chin—and a whole lot of Hobi’s pearlescent eyes and slender nose. A delectable, heavenly concoction.

And certainly not as you take the five-year old boy to the Yongchu waterfall, where his Father proposed to you, and he starts sputtering out uncontrollable giggles when Hobi tells him that you ran around when he popped the question and precisely, with utmost detail, shows him how.

On your way back, when little Hyeonwol’s legs hurt and drowsiness weighs him down, he surveys the mountain peak, transfixed by it. You and Hobi notice it at the same time and share a look that could never be described through any poetry, through any beauty of words, not even the ordinary kind.

And it’s automatic, a silent, collective and simultaneous decision to break Hyeonwol’s spell by kissing each of his cheek.

The dream came true.

All dreams have, even those undreamed.

And you believe that even as you grow old with Hobi, you’ll never stop laughing.

You’ll never stop eating strawberry jam toasts with scrambled eggs with him.

With Hyeonwol, too.

And you'll never stop feeding the berry boy the fruits from the orchard that Hobi continues to take care of within you.

HYEONWOL — HYE-ON-WOL

賢월

Meaning: worthy moon

This name is given to a worthy person who is as precious as the moon.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan.

145 notes · View notes

prettiestdolliestgirl · 9 months ago

Text

i blinked and suddenly, i had a valentine

pairing: Mike Schmidt x reader

tags: wholesome, fluff, short oneshot

synopsis: it’s your first ever Valentine’s Day having a valentine and Mike wants to make it the best day possible

-> inspired by valentine by laufey

A/N: i wrote this in a hurry because i really wanted to write a little something for Valentine’s Day so here it is! hope you’ll enjoy it! <3

Mike and you have been dating for a few months now, you moved with him and Abby a month ago, it felt like a dream come true. You never fell this hard for anyone before, you weren’t scared to picture a future with him and Abby. Abby loves having you around and you love playing with her, doing her hair, and making fun of her older brother together while he burns dinner in the kitchen.

Mike never saw Abby be this comfortable with an adult that wasn’t him before and it only made him love you more. He also knew Valentin’s day was approaching and he knows you love romance, Mike doesn’t have a lot of money but he really wanted to make this day special for you somehow. On the other hand, you weren’t expecting anything, you know Mike is extremely tired from working tirelessly, taking care of the house and Abby, he barely has any time to rest. So, because of that you weren’t expecting much, being able to spend the day with him was already more than enough. You’ve always been a hopeless romantic and knowing that for the first time in your life, you were going to spend Valentine’s Day with someone that you were head over heels for felt like the greatest gift you could have ever received.

You wake up to go to work with soft kisses all over your face, you open your eyes to see your lover and his sleepy brown eyes looking at you. You can’t help but smile widely, you don’t recall ever being this happy before. « Happy Valentine’s Day babe » he whispers, smiling back at you.

You get up to wake Abby up for school and you all eat breakfast together. You all leave the house and hop in the car, drop Abby off at school, and then Mike drops you off at work, you kiss him goodbye and get going.

You couldn’t help but think about him all day, you were so distracted that it made your coworkers smile, they were really happy to see you finally get the love you deserve.

Mike got to work and couldn’t help but feel anxious. He wanted to make this day great for you, he even called Vanessa multiple times for advice. She told him that he just had to make you feel special which confused Mike even more but he really wanted to make you feel loved so he decided to do as best as he could with the little money he had saved for the occasion, I wasn’t much but he’ll make it work he thought.

He even arranged his shift so that he could be home before you and surprise you properly and asked Vanessa to take Abby for the night for a sleepover which she was delighted by.

As his shift ended, he quickly got home and assembled a board with all of your favorite snacks on it, he rented your favorite movie and got you a pretty box he got at an antique shop you love. In the box, Mike put pictures of you two together and some with you and Abby, he also wrote a sweet note which was the hardest part for him, he has the hardest time when it comes to talking about his feelings but he always felt the need to tell you how much he loved you. He looked at the hour and got going to pick up Abby from school before that went to the florist to pick up a small bouquet of your favorite flowers and a tulip for Abby. She looked quite happy but she was even happier when he told her he was dropping her off at Vanessa’s for the night. He has a quick chat with Vanessa who reassures him that you were going to love everything he did for you.

Mike gets back in his car and goes to your workplace to pick you up. You wave your coworkers goodbye and hop in the car excitedly. As you enter the car you notice Abby isn’t in it and you ask « Where’s Abby? » Mike answers « At Vanessa’s, I dropped her off before coming.. I figured it could be fun for us to have the house to ourselves tonight » with a slight smirk. You were increasingly excited now, you hadn’t had time alone with Mike in quite a while now and you were undoubtedly looking up to it. Mike drove back home and you sensed that he was quite nervous. You head back home but as you turn around you see Mike with, in hand, a small but tasteful bouquet of your favorite flowers Mike had hidden in the truck. « Mike! You really didn’t have to! They’re so pretty, I don’t even know what to say! » you say. Mike smiles widely in response.

You enter the house and notice everything Mike had planned during the afternoon. You look back at him and can’t even function enough to word anything so you jump in his arms, hugging him tightly. Then you pulled away and kissed his face everywhere, « I love you so much Mike, no one ever did anything like this for me before » you say as you pulled away from his face. « One last thing, » he said getting the box, « I know it’s not much… but you hope you like it. ». You open the box and a single tear rolls down your cheek, « Mike… I… I love it… I really do » you say, your voice almost not coming out.

As you finished thanking Mike for the 13th time, you both got comfortable on the couch and enjoyed snacks while watching movies cuddled up against each other, you both felt safe and in love. You’re glad you waited this long to have to fall in love because would never want another person than Mike as your first-ever Valentine.

#fnaf movie mike #fnaf #mike schmidt #josh hutcherson #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt imagine #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt oneshot #josh hutcherson fanfic #josh hutcherson imagine #josh hutcherson x reader #mike schmidt fanfic #wholesome #valentines day #Spotify

146 notes · View notes

thenightfolknetwork · 7 months ago

Note

Let's say you need to take this really cute fairy girl out on a first date.

Where would it be?

She has fiery hair, lips like ripe pomegranates and her smile reminds me of the Hunt's gallop. When she says she wants to take a piece of me, I believe her.

Anyway, do you think an Italian restaurant is ok or?

My first piece of advice to you is to be wary of using “the f-word” to refer to a person unless they have already used it about themselves. The term is generally considered to be offensive, though it has been reclaimed in some quarters. If your potential paramour uses the term about herself, that's fine, but it's not something I would throw around willy nilly.

To your question, an Italian restaurant seems a perfectly fine choice, if a little passé. Italian cuisine has something of a reputation for being less liminal-friendly than others, largely due to the prevalence of garlic. Garlic aversion isn't generally associated with the fair folk, but it would be polite to check with your date anyway about any allergies, intolerances or dietary requirements.

I appreciate that I am opening myself up to a slew of nosy letters and questions and so say this while emphatically reminding all our readers that my private life is not up for discussion and I will not take kindly into enquiries as to when and/or with whom I might have had reason to gain this particular insight.

All that said, I feel I must note that, in my experience, people from these particular cultures tend to prefer a little more zing to their romantic excursions than your average dinner date.

Try thinking a little more outside the box. Don't do anything you'll be uncomfortable with, of course – it's important you feel relaxed enough to make a good impression, after all. But your date might respond better to more experience-based activities like taking an art class together, going antiquing, communing with the local river sprites, or exploring the abandoned catacombs that twist beneath the city streets in waiting, wanting silence.

Above all though, just remember: be yourself, have fun, and if she starts biting you, it's probably a good sign.

[For more creaturely advice, check out Monstrous Agonies on your podcast platform of choice, or visit monstrousproductions.org for more info]

#answered #the nightfolk network #monstrous agonies

73 notes · View notes

ladyinwriting18 · 1 year ago

Text

Traditions (Flip Zimmerman x Reader)

Summary: It might be your first Hanukkah with your boyfriend Flip Zimmerman, but you're determined to make it one you both remember.

Words: 4794 Warnings: PIV, Oral sex (female receiving), Sex on Hanukkah. Sex on the kitchen floor.

When you awaken that winter morning, you find that Flip has already left for work. If you're being honest, you’re glad he’s on the early shift, it gives you more time to prepare. You smile to yourself, excited for the surprises you have planned for tonight… The first night of Hanukkah. You’re sure that Flip doesn’t even realize the date, but it doesn’t matter cause you’re doing all of this for him.

After going undercover to infiltrate the KKK, he’s been more drawn to his heritage, though he hasn’t allowed himself to fully dive in. You know it’s because he feels unworthy… After a lifetime of feeling indifferent about being Jewish, he feels like he’s intruding on something that should have been close to his heart from the start. What right did he have to his Jewish roots when others had sacrificed, bled, and stood proudly for them? But to you, there’s no right or wrong way for one to experience their religion. Just because Flip hadn’t grown up going to temple or having a bar mitzvah didn’t mean he didn’t have a right to the Jewish religion now. That’s why you’d done research at the library and the local temple, reading up and asking a rabbi for advice on properly celebrating Hanukkah. You wanted to give Flip this, wanted him to feel comfortable to explore this part of himself. Especially with you. And perhaps, if tonight went well, it would lead to the two of you celebrating Hanukkah again next year. You had done everything in your power to ensure that nothing would get in the way of that. Starting off with ensuring that Flip wouldn’t get stuck working late. A quick call to the chief informing him that not allowing one of his detectives to observe a religious holiday would probably sound really bad to a union representative had sealed that deal. The chief had claimed to enjoy your “spunk” in calling him behind Flip’s back, but either way, he promised to send “your lover boy” home at a decent time. Now came the fun part…decorating and cooking. You hop out of bed and quickly wash up to prepare for the day before heading downstairs. There’s a lot to get done and you’re a mix of nervous and excited. Excited to see his reaction, but nervous to screw things up. You’ve never cooked these recipes before. What if they turn out horrible? You try to shake off your nerves. They won’t stop you now. You would do your best for him and that was it. The first thing you work on is making the dough for the challah bread since it has to rise multiple times before it can be braided and then baked. At least…that’s what the recipe book said. You say a silent prayer before setting the dough to the side to rise, and then you get to work on a less nerve-wracking task—decorating the house. You hang long white fairy lights along some of the walls, drape blue tinsel over the fireplace mantel, and lay out Hanukkah-themed table runners along the coffee and kitchen tables. But you don’t stop there. Multiple candy bowls filled with chocolate gelt and dreidels are placed around the living room, knowing that Flip has a secret sweet tooth. You still aren’t fully clear on the rules of spinning dreidels but you’re certain the both of you could figure it out. That or just enjoy munching on chocolate. Either way, that isn’t the most important part of tonight. After your conversation with the rabbi, you learned that menorahs are usually passed down through families and generations. Knowing that wasn’t an option, you had searched every antique shop in town until you found something perfect—a beautiful brass menorah with the Star of David under the middle candle. You polish it until it shined and place it in the center of the coffee table with white candles. With the rabbi’s help, you had written out the prayer that is traditionally read while lighting a candle each night. Alongside the prayer is a yarmulke, in case Flip wants to wear it.

With the decorating done, you head back into the kitchen to start on dinner. Following along with the cookbook you borrowed from the library, you fry potato pancakes, otherwise known as latkes, roast potatoes, prep the brisket for the oven, and braid the challah dough. It isn’t long until the entire downstairs is filled with the most wondrous smells. You’re more excited now, certain that the smells are a good sign that the food will be equally delicious. Knowing you don’t have much longer before Flip gets home, you head upstairs to change. You want to look good but not overly fancy, so you decide on a simple black knee-length skirt with a soft, white cashmere sweater, and black, heeled boots. Pleased with how you look, you head back downstairs to finish everything up. You end up cooking until the very last minute, barely having time to plate all of the food before the sound of Flip’s car turning into the driveway. “Shit!” you curse and hurry to put everything out on the kitchen table along with the good china plates and a bottle of wine. The front door opens and you freeze in your spot, wanting him to find the surprise on his own. You listen to the sounds of him making his way inside, taking off his boots and jacket before setting them aside in the hallway closet. He calls your name… Tells you he’s home… Comments on how amazing dinner smells… Then his breath catches in his throat and all goes silent. Flip stands in the entryway of the living room, taking in the scene before him. The room is basked in a romantic, and yet inviting, glow, from the lights to the menorah and the other decorations. He stands there, jaw slack and too stunned to speak. What a lucky bastard he is. “Sweetheart? Get in ‘ere!” You do as you're told without hesitation, but the minute he sees you, he wraps you in his arms. “Babygirl, did you really do this all for me?” You smile up at him and nod. “Happy Hanukkah!” If you wanted to say more, it’s cut off by his kiss. It’s passionate, fiery, and all the things you love about him. “Wait, Flip! Wait!” you protest against his mouth in between giggles. “I have more to show you!” He chuckles in amusement and releases you from his hold but instead takes your hand. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave.” “Good! Now, come on.” You take him into the kitchen and show him all the food you’ve made. “I followed the Jewish cookbook I got from the library exactly, so hopefully everything tastes good!” Flip cocks a brow in surprise. “They actually make Jewish cookbooks?”

“Uh-huh.” You blush, biting your bottom lip to try and stop the word vomit that’s building in your throat. Maybe you had misread the situation or done something offensive. “When…I spoke to the rabbi, he told me that menorahs are usually passed down from generation to generation, but…I know you didn’t have one.” You swallow hard, trying to gauge his reaction but still, you can’t seem to shut the hell up. “The one on the coffee table is an antique. Now you’ll have one forever, to pass on to your children.” You realize what you said a second too late and internally die a little. “That is…if um…you want to.” But Flip isn’t listening, because suddenly, he’s picturing the future. One where a four-year-old sits on his lap to help him light the next candle on the menorah while you watch with your belly filled with a second child. You squeeze his hand, he still seems to be in shock but you can’t be sure. “Is…Is this all okay? Did I…do alright?”

It’s the uneasiness in your tone that snaps him from his daydreams. He turns to you, cupping your cheeks in his hands.

He wants to reassure you, but he finds himself overcome with emotion. “I…don’t even know what to say. How did I get so damn lucky?” He tries to laugh to stop the tears that threaten to prickle his eyes. “Thank you…for doing all of this. Thank you for loving me enough to do all of this.” Your lips find one another again, but this time softer than before. His hands hold your face steady as you lovingly kiss. Your arms wrap around his middle, feeling more and more like melted butter by the second. “I love you, Flip Zimmerman. I just wanted you to feel accepted and safe to start your own traditions here with me.” “I do, Babygirl, I do.” He talks in between kisses as if it’s too painful to stop, “God I love you.” The kisses continue until the sound of his stomach growling pulls you apart. “Uh, Darlin’? Can we eat now? All I had was black coffee and cigarettes for lunch.” “Flip!” you scold and lightly smack his upper arm. He shrinks back, pretending to be wounded and holding his hands up in surrender, but all the while, he laughs. You glare at him with your hands on your hips. As wonderful of a boyfriend as he is, he’s still crap at taking care of himself. “Can you wait a few more minutes? We’re supposed to light the candles before we eat.” His laughter dies down, “Wow…you really weren’t kidding about researching this stuff.” His bewilderment and sincerity touch you, causing your hands to drop from your hips. “I had to make sure everything was perfect for your first Hanukkah.”

“You’re the one that’s perfect,” he states firmly before interlocking your fingers together. “Let’s go light our very first menorah.” Your heart swells at his words and the two of you walk back into the living room. The two of you sit in front of the coffee table where the menorah is set up. You hand him a yarmulke and a piece of paper with a prayer written on it. “The rabbi said this is the prayer to read while you light the candle.” Flip hesitates, not sure if he feels deserving of the honor. He hadn’t been the one who did all this work, you had. As if you can read his mind, you speak up. “If you aren’t comfortable, then we don’t have to. I know there’s a lot of new information here, but we can take it slow and make our own traditions. Don’t let the fact that I became a little overzealous with my research intimidate you. If you want to try this, then I’m right here with you.” Hearing you mention creating traditions together warms him. He leans forward and places a hand on your cheek. “You did more than I could possibly ask for. And yes…I want to try this. Just…don’t make too much fun of me mispronouncing the words in this prayer.” “I wouldn’t be able to tell if you did.” You chuckle and leave a kiss along the inside of his wrist. Taking a breath, he places the yarmulke on his head and does his best to recite the prayers. He stumbles over a handful of Hebrew words. It makes him feel self-conscious but you just smile reassuringly, nodding at him to encourage him to continue. With the prayer read and the candle lit, Flip takes your hand in his. You sit in silence together, watching the way the flame dances, causing the light to bounce along the walls. His gaze falls on you, his eyes sparkle with happiness at how peaceful you look basked in the candlelight. “I’m guessing tomorrow night, we light the second candle?” You nod before looking back at him. “Should we go eat now?” His back straightens fully at the mention of food. “I thought you’d never ask. My stomach’s been aching for a taste since I walked through the door.”

You playfully roll your eyes and stand. “Well then, we better go and get you some food. I can’t let my man go hungry.” You take him into the kitchen and tell him to make himself comfortable while you make him a plate filled with latkes, roasted potatoes, and brisket before making your own plate and sitting down. ‘Now, before we eat, you have to–” You hand him another piece of paper with two other prayers. “Read these. The first prayer is meant to be said before we cut the challah and the second before drinking the wine.” Flip reads both, doing so with a bit more confidence than before. A sense of pride fills him at repeating these words that have been said by countless generations of Jews. “That was wonderful,” you praise and then you both begin to eat. You watch him carefully, wanting to gauge his reaction to tasting the food. “Please be honest if something doesn’t taste good and I’ll practice to get better at it.” But the man sitting across from you is too busy moaning blissfully at the flavors filling his mouth. “Shit, babygirl, you’ve really outdone yourself.” You nearly dance in your seat from happiness. “I’m so glad! I was worried it wouldn’t taste good enough.” Flip extends his hand across the table and squeezes yours. “I’m not sure how I got so lucky in finding you, but I’m going to spend the rest of our lives showing you just how much you mean to me.” Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, beyond the point of euphoria. “Shhh, come on now, no tears. This is meant to be a happy occasion. Hanukkah is about keeping faith and miracles.” You raise a curious brow and he sheepishly chuckles. “You’re not the only one who’s been secretly reading up on the holiday.” The rest of the meal flows effortlessly, the both of you enjoying the food and one another’s company until he sits back in his chair with a contented sigh. It pleases you that you’ve made him so happy, but you have one more surprise for him. From your skirt pocket, you pull out a small black box and slide it over to his side of the table. “Flip?” The sound of his name catches his attention and he looks back to find the gift box. “Little One? What’s this?” “Open it and find out,” you reply in a sing-song voice that has him chuckling. He opens the box and finds a simple gold chain with the Star of David hanging from it. A small gasp of surprise leaves his full lips. He gapes at you, unsure of what to say. “I know you mentioned that you misplaced your old one while you were undercover because you had to take it on and off so much. I hope you like it.” He doesn’t have the words to express his gratitude as a swell of emotion starts to overcome him, so instead, he kisses you—hard. The kiss steals your breath away. So much so that you’re left dizzy. “Thank you, my love,” he whispers hotly against your mouth before sitting back down. Still dazed, you giggle slightly. “You’re welcome. Let me start cleaning up so we can spend the rest of our night relaxing.” Not waiting for a reply, you stand and carry a stack of dirty dishes to the sink.

Flip watches, slipping the yarmulke from his head and putting his gift around his neck before following you over to the kitchen sink. “Can I do anything to help you clean?”

You brighten at his offer, thankful for the help. “That would be great!” You hand him a dish towel with a cock of your hip. “I wash, you dry?” He agrees and the two of you get to work. Every once in a while, Flip playfully splashes you with sudsy water, laughing every time you huff in irritation. You’re adorable and he just can’t help himself. With the dishes done, you move on to wrapping up the leftovers and even pack some for his lunch tomorrow. “I’m going to be the envy of every guy in the squad room. They're all going to be wishing they had the chance to taste your cooking.” “I can pack you extra to share!” His hands find your hips, lovingly gripping them in his large hands before pulling you forcefully against him so your ass is pressed to his crotch. “Not a chance, Little One. It’s all mine…and so are you.” Without warning, he spins you around and crashes his mouth onto yours. You aren’t sure what’s got him so worked up, but truthfully? You don’t care. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in for more. Which he gladly gives by slipping his tongue into your mouth. A tiny moan leaves you from the sensation. Flip grins at the sound. You want more but he breaks the kiss. “Does my girl want more?” You nod, your pupils blown wide as you search his. “Please, Flip.” Your plea is enough for him, so he drops down to his knees before you. Grabbing your skirt, he bunches it up at your waist, pleased to see the damp spot that’s already started to form at the front of your panties. He runs the tip of his finger over it but avoids your clit. “Seems like you have something else for me to eat.” You whimper, now realizing what he means to do. “Hold your skirt up for me. I need my hands free.” You do as you're told but it feels so taboo to be standing here in the middle of the kitchen, exposing yourself to him. But you don’t have much time to think about it because he starts ripping off your shoes and panties. He looks up at you, looking incredibly smug, which only makes your cunt drip more. The moment you're bare, he pushes his nose to the cleft of your cunt, breathing in deep. His groans, eyelids fluttering as his cock jumps within the confines of his jeans. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet but rough, “You’ve done so much for me today. Now, you deserve to be worshiped.” He brings his hands to your ass, gripping it tight and pulling you close so he can drag his tongue through the folds of your cunt. The flat of his tongue makes you whine, your hand reaches for the counter ledge that’s just behind his head while the other keeps ahold of your skirt. “D-Don’t stop. Feels good. Y-Your tongue feels so good!” You're grinding into his mouth now, chasing more pleasure for yourself. Watching you sends shockwaves down his body. His cock throbs in his dark denim, aching for release. He reaches down to unzip his pants, moaning into your cunt as he frees himself. Precum drips from the tip of his cock down onto the floor. His fingers find their way to your slit, slowly pushing one…and then two fingers inside. You cry out, head tilting back as you moan into the ceiling at being stretched out by his thick digits. The legs holding you up begin to shake, but luckily, his other hand holds you at the base of your spine. You look down at him and catch sight of his hard cock, jutting up from the front of his jeans. “Oh. Oh fuck, Let me take care of you, Flip. Let me take care of your cock.”

But he only growls and picks up the pace of his fingers. He doesn’t want to hear your words, he only wants you to cum. The mixture of his tongue flicking at your clit and his fingers filling you up has you forgetting everything else. Your peak steadily starts to roll through you. “Right there! S-So close! I’m so close!” You can barely finish speaking before you’re cumming. The hand that had been holding your skirt shoots out to take hold of the counter, needing it for balance as your orgasm rocks through you. Your skirt falls over Flip’s head, but he doesn’t stop the movements of his tongue and fingers until your body starts to relax. He moans low in his belly at the taste of you, only removing his fingers and sitting back on his heels so he can check on you. Pushing your skirt off his head, he holds your gaze while fucking his fingers clean. Your cheeks burn with color and Flip chuckles with a grin. You just came all over his face while standing in the kitchen and you still have the decency to blush. You’re just too adorable and perfect. He pushes himself off the floor and grabs your face to claim your mouth again. You cling to his shoulders, body molding against his so you can feel his cock pushing against you. You start unbuttoning his plaid shirt, tugging at it aggressively to get him naked. “Take me? Right now. Right here.” “Naughty girl wants to be fucked on our kitchen floor that badly, huh?” You whine at his teasing but go quiet when you realize he’s guiding you both to the floor. He settles between the apex of your thighs, aligning his cock with your sopping hole. You wiggle against him in anticipation. “So needy for it. Here then—take it.” And with that, he plunges inside, groaning at the way your walls hug him tight. He gives you a moment to adjust, your toes curling at how deep even his first thrust is, but that moment doesn’t last forever, and soon he’s picking up his pace. You cry out and Flip revels in the sound. Gripping your hips, he slams into you until he’s certain he’s hitting your g-spot. Your back arches off the tile floor and you screw your eyes shut against the overwhelming pleasure. Usually Flip took his time to work you up to the point of total abandon. Sometimes even edging you so you’d beg, but not tonight. Tonight, he fucks you hard and fast like it’s the last time he’ll ever have the privilege of watching you cum. Your moans are drowned out by wet skin slapping together. Your cunt is so wet that you’ve managed to drip onto his balls and inner thighs. “Look at me,” he commands, using his authoritative ‘cop voice’. You do so and find his eyes blown black with lust and his face flushed with sweat. The sight takes your breath away. He looks positively feral. “I want to watch you fall apart. Want to see your soul leave your body just so it can come crashing back while you scream my fucking name.”

Your cunt clenches around him at his words. You love it when he talks like this. Filthy and possessive. His nostrils flare as he huffs hot breath across your skin. How he’s able to keep his stamina up is a mystery, but still, his thrusts are unrelenting. You can’t deny how much you love him laying claim to your body. “Yes! Fuck, Flip, yes!” you continue to moan a string of curses and pleas as you wrap your legs around his waist so you grind into his thrusts. With the change in the position of your legs, he too rearranges himself. He places his palms flat on the floor on either side of your head, completely leaning over you and driving his cock even deeper into your aching cunt. You didn’t think he could fill you up any more, but leave it to Flip Zimmerman to find a way. A pressure builds in your lower belly, tightening and threatening to crack open. However, your gift dangling from around his neck comes very close to hitting you in the face. He immediately notices and makes a move to pull back but you’re faster. Your hand reaches and presses the Star of David to Flip’s chest…directly over his heart. “I love you,” you breathe out, holding eye contact with him. “I want this forever. With you.” You swear he whimpers, emotion softening his features but all the while bucking harder into you.

“I want this too. Every Hanukkah. Every year together with you.”

A smile breaks out across your face and you use the chain around his neck to tug him to your mouth.

You both moan into the kiss, movements becoming sloppy.

He stumbles over your name before telling you how close he is. You echo his words back to him, knowing you’re moments away from being driven over the edge.

But that’s not good enough for Flip when he wants you to crash and burn beneath him. He brings one of his arms between your bodies to find your clit and strokes it just right.

Your body starts to shake.

You leave rational thought behind and all that is left is the primal need flowing through your limbs.

“That’s it. Come on baby, cum for me!”

You wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself even if you had wanted to. Your inner walls close in around him as you cum, holding him in place and hugging him tight.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” he grunts repeatedly until he’s tossing his head back in a howl and filling you with his cum.

You both rock against one another as you come down from your highs. Eventually, Flip slumps down to rest in the crook of your neck. The kitchen falls quiet except for the panting you’re both doing in an attempt to catch your breath.

He recovers before you and lifts his head to kiss your forehead before meeting your gaze. “You alright, sweetheart?”

You respond with a dreamy ‘uh-huh’, earning you a chuckle from the man still on top of you.

Carefully, he detangles himself from your legs and the heat of your cunt so he can lay beside you on the cool tile floor.

“Mind if we lay here for a bit? You wore me the hell out.” He chuckles and extends his arm so you can rest your head on his bicep.

“Wore YOU out? I’m the one who’s lying on the kitchen floor feeling like jelly.” You only mean to tease but his other arm finds its way around your middle.

With a playful growl, he hauls you to him, smashing your back into his chest. His large hand sprawls across your stomach, tickling you. You squirm, giggling, and look over your shoulder to kiss him.

The kiss halts his movements and instead has him humming against your lips. When the kiss is broken, he turns his attention to the junction of your neck. Pleased that he seems too preoccupied to continue tickling you, you finally rest your head on his bicep and close your eyes.

You relax within his embrace, enjoying the feel of his lips and facial hair as he leaves soft kisses along your flesh.

He whispers your name, causing your eyes to flutter open. You look over your shoulder at him again.

“I want to say thank you for everything you did for me tonight. You could have simply said ‘Happy Hanukkah’ to me and I would have been over the moon…but the fact that you did all this just for me blows me away.”

You can feel tears watering up behind your eyes but you hold them in so you can continue listening to what he has to say.

“And I…meant what I said before about wanting to spend every Hanukkah with you. Well…any holiday really. I want to spend them all together and make our own traditions, like you said.”

You can’t hold back for a moment longer. Twisting in his grasp, you turn over so you’re facing him and throw your arms around his shoulders.

“Oh, Flip, nothing would make me happier!”

He wraps his arms around you, hugging you tightly to him, and whispers that he loves you.

Another calm silence falls between you. To an onlooker, the scene would look peaceful if it wasn’t for the fact you were both half naked, lying on the hard kitchen floor.

But the two of you are too content to care about anything other than snuggling.

Time passes, and within the quiet, a devilish question comes to your mind.

“Flip?”

“Hm?” he responds.

“If we’re going to create our own traditions, does this mean you’ll fuck me on the kitchen floor at the end of every Hanukah meal?”

His back straightens as he looks at you in alarm until laughter emanates through his entire frame. “Naughty little slut,” he teases, giving your ass a swift smack.

You squeal and try to wriggle away, but he easily pins you down and tickles you until you’re breathlessly begging for mercy.

Eventually, he relents, but still keeps you pinned down to kiss you one last time. “Happy Hanukkah, babygirl.”

#lady in writing #adcu community #flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x you #flip zimmerman smut #flip zimmerman x reader #adcu smut

116 notes · View notes

leclerced · 9 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/enchantecafe/743306649427705856/am-going-to-need-a-sugar-daddy-if-oscar-releases

sugar daddy max being very proud of the fact that he pays for everything for you. he just likes the way you blush and smile and thank him. and the great sex after doesn’t hurt!!

🩰

all i want in life tbh!!

sugar daddy max would be the best! he has so much money he could never spend it all on his own, he honestly needs help spending it. he shows up to pick you up for dates and has the back seat full of gifts to unload before you can leave, new clothes and accessories he bought you in the last city he’d visited. sometimes he buys random appliances, like an extremely fancy coffee machine that can make lattes or a new kitchen aide mixer. a full set of le creuset cookware when they release a new color you like. one day, your fridge goes out and hours later, while you’re still complaining to everyone about the inconvenience of throwing away all of your groceries, delivery men show up with a new fridge. an hour after you thank max for the surprise, groceries are delivered to fill it.

flies you out to race weekends and gives you his card to go shopping while he works, fully intending on having you give him a fashion show once he’s back at the hotel. you always end it showing off the lingerie you bought for him, saving it for last because you know he’s going to interrupt it.

he comes home from a race weekend with a pretty sapphire necklace, insists that you try it on right then and there. so, after he’s clasped it on for you, you sink to your knees to suck him off while wearing it to show him how much you appreciate him and his gifts.

you passively mention wanting to go to the beach and he’s booking a vacation for the next time he has a few days off, sending you to a local spa to be pampered in the meantime. you’d of course show him how grateful you are every single time, letting him do whatever he wants to you and thanking him for every bit of it.

anything you want, he gets it for you. it does not matter the cost. a vintage ferrari there were only 200 ever made of? he knows someone who has one, he’ll reach out and see how much they want for it. rare art or antique furniture? he has a dealer he can reach out to. custom designer clothing? he’ll ask lewis for the designers number, or maybe charles knows them? you warn him not to take fashion advice from charles.

#ask #🩰 anon #mv1

73 notes · View notes

secretdestinypainter · 8 months ago

Text

Traveling the most beautiful places this 2024:

“Visit to Europe (Vienna)"

In my opinion, traveling is the most interesting thing that is liked by almost half of the people on Earth. Traveling is an adventure that broadens horizons, opens minds and enriches lives. It makes the person happy and fresh of any age, whether it’s about exploring exotic destinations, immersing oneself in different countries and cultures, or simply seeking relaxation in nature and embrace.

Traveling to different countries in a very short time is very difficult to memorize, and making all the events perfectly fully organized or managed is a big task, but having something that makes us memorize about our events in advance is a big support, like tinyti.me website makes this problem easier in today's world by making their website available for us to create events which help in perfect management.

I think Vienna is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. The historic core of the city is a massive UNESCO Heritage Site brimming with incredible museums, beautiful galleries, and sprawling Baroque palaces.

The city is a history buff’s dream. There’s an incredible café culture, a nearby wine region, tons of amazing eateries, awesome live music (including world-class opera), and much more.

I’ve been coming here for years and I never get tired of visiting. Technically speaking I love the city so much that I used to run tours here!

Naturally, I’ve stayed at countless hotels during my visits. Here’s my list of the best hotels in Vienna:

1. Hotel-Pension Wild

This two-star hotel is one of the few affordable lodgings in the city center. It has simple but bright rooms that feature comfortable beds, plenty of space, and large windows that let in a lot of natural light. The design is a bit dated (the carpeted rooms don’t look particularly stylish) but everything is clean and functional. Rooms include basic amenities like a flatscreen TV, desk, and free Wi-Fi. The bathrooms are pretty small, but they’re clean and the showers have good water pressure. The hotel offers a hearty continental breakfast and the owner is friendly and welcoming. If you’re on a tight budget, there are small, no-frills single rooms with a shared bathroom available as well.

2. Hotel Domizil

This boutique four-star hotel has small, clean rooms with décor that makes you feel like you’re back in Vienna’s imperial past. The rooms have plenty of light and lots of antique touches, such as wooden desks and tables, and upholstered armchairs. Rooms also have free Wi-Fi, a flatscreen TV, and a coffee/tea maker. The bathrooms, while not particularly fashionable (the tiles are kind of ugly), are very spacious and the showers have excellent water pressure. The breakfast, which can be included in the price, has tons of variety, including lots of different fresh breads and cheeses.

Located in the city center, I think this is one of the best value places to stay if you want to be in the center of it all.

3. Hotel Mozart

One of the few hotels in the Rossau neighborhood (just northwest of the city center), this budget-friendly three-star hotel boasts large rooms with lots of natural light. Rooms are spacious and decorated in light colors and feature hardwood or parquet floors. There are lots of other wooden touches too, such as desks/tables, and large wooden headboards. Free Wi-Fi is included, as is a flatscreen TV and AC (a must if you’re visiting in the summer). Some rooms include coffee machines. The hotel boasts a filling breakfast spread each morning with lots of fresh fruit and pastries. There’s also a bar on-site and the staff are always happy to share their tips and advice too.

4. Hotel Johann Strauss

Located in the Wieden neighborhood, this stylish four-star hotel is named after the eponymous 19th-century Austrian composer. The hotel is set in a historic Art Nouveau building that’s been entirely renovated, with rooms that have lots of natural light and a soft, welcoming color palette. Rooms include a flatscreen TV, minibar, coffee/tea maker, desk, and sofa. I really like that there’s a lot of art around the property, including in the rooms (naturally, much of the art is music centered). The tiled bathrooms are huge, with lots of light and great water pressure. I especially like that the breakfast buffet is enormous and features a lot of variety. The staff is exceptionally friendly too and happy to help you make the most of your stay.

5. Hotel Am Konzerthaus Vienna

Located in Landstrasse near the iconic Belvedere Palace, this luxe four-star hotel feels more like a five-star property. It has a chic lobby and large, bright rooms with super comfy beds. Everything is fashionable and trendy, with lots of rich colors from a darker palette. The large bathrooms are bedecked with dark tiles and are well lit, featuring plush bathrobes and relaxing rain showers. Rooms also include a flatscreen TV, desk, and coffee/tea maker. The breakfast buffet is huge and has a lot of options, but I especially love that the on-site restaurant has a Michelin star (it does amazing modern takes on traditional Austrian dishes).

The hotel is a perfect choice for travelers who want some luxury without breaking the bank.

6. The Ritz-Carlton Vienna

This is arguably the fanciest hotel in town. A five-star property right in the heart of the city, this hotel is spread across four historic palaces (yes, actual palaces). While the hotel feels palatial, it has understated décor with a chic minimalist design (think lots of white space with touches of color or artwork). The marble bathrooms are huge and the showers have perfect water pressure. The rooms are also massive and have big, comfy beds (as well as desks, AC, sofas, and electric kettles).

There’s also a gigantic breakfast buffet offered each morning and a free glass of champagne when you check in. The hotel also has a pool that plays music underwater, a fitness center, sauna, steam room, and three different spas on-site. In short, it’s the pinnacle of luxury in the city and the best choice for travelers looking to splurge on an elegant stay.

I hope this blog helps you a lot when traveling next time to Europe (Vienna), So, whether you're embarking on a solo adventure, a family vacation, or a romantic getaway, This spirit of travel guides you on a journey of exploration, discovery, and adventure.

#europe #travel to vienna #travel #travelling

44 notes · View notes

tumbleweed-writes · 5 months ago

Text

Scorned: Chapter Five. Chibs Telford X Reader

Chapter Five: Obligations and Pleasures

Total smut towards the end. 18+ only.

Previous Chapter Found HERE

==========

Something that Y/N had quickly discovered that seemed to be a requirement when it came to dating the King of SAMCRO was her place as the confidant for every ol lady. Although there weren’t many ol ladies remaining in the inner circle of SAMCRO nowadays.

It felt more often than not that one SAMCRO ol lady in particular came to Y/N for guidance.

Brooke Putner seemed to find herself at Y/N’s antique shop more often not not seeking the older woman’s advice when it came to navigating their world.

Y/N had been a bit thrown off at first. In her opinion, she knew very little of how to navigate in this world, as she’d not exactly been involved in it as long as Brooke seemed to have been.

She’d told herself that perhaps it was just that Brooke was so young, in her very early twenties, and that was a confusing time for anyone, especially when you added on the odd environment of SAMCRO.

Her hesitation to be some kind of guiding light to Brooke had been quickly squashed by one Venus Van Dam.

Venus had broken the cold hard truth to Y/N pretty soon after Brooke had begun coming to her for advice, and Y/N had found herself admitting that she felt as though she was not the best person to seek out for advice to Venus.

Y/N could still remember the words that had been said to her by Venus Tig’s ol lady breaking it all down for her over a glass of wine and a shared joint. “You, My dear, are the First Lady of SAMCRO. I’ve told you before, you are the Queen rather you want it or not. Dating Dear Chibs, means that you are his partner in this life. Don’t forget that you two are not just the typical SAMCRO couple. You don’t get the luxury of sinking into the background and doing your own thing in this life. Chibs is very much the face of SAMCRO. He’s club president and that means eyes of other charters and even eyes within this charter are all on him. Other charters look to Chibs to know how to navigate any business related to the Sons as a whole. Don’t get me wrong the other charters have their own things going on, but if SAMCRO makes a big call on something related to club business as a whole then other charters tend to follow in suit, especially if it's related to coexisting with other clubs and big business like the gun running the boys used to be tied up in. The Sons are watching. That means eyes are on you too. Ol ladies and any hopeful ol ladies look to you as guidance on how to navigate being an ol lady. You are a shining example of how to love a man in this life. You have to get comfortable being a mother superior of sorts to the ladies around here. You may even have to be den mother to the Sons. These boys are going to come to you too looking for that guidance in areas Chibs might not be inclined to provide a woman’s touch to. You have to accept the role you’ve agreed to even if you aren’t certain of it..”

Y/N had realized that Venus unfortunately had a point.

Dating Chibs Telford was not without its strange obligations.

If she loved him any less she knew that she might not be so inclined to take on all the roles she was meant to fill in the life she’d begun to build with him.

So, she’d done her very best to be mom to the other ladies in the club and occasionally provide guidance to the men of the club as well, usually on matters concerning the women in their lives.

That meant that she once again found herself standing behind the sales counter on a lazy Sunday listening to the latest issue Brooke seemed to be having with her boyfriend.

In Y/N’s opinion Ratboy was not often the most mature man at least when it came to Brooke. Though she guessed that was to be expected at his age. He was still young and still probably had a little growing up to do when it came to dealing with the romantic aspect of his life.

Y/N had gotten to know the Sons who shared a patch with her boyfriend during her time in Chibs’ life.

Ratboy was loyal; it was something Chibs had praised him for. The young man knew when to shut up when it came to club business. He was intensely loyal to the point that he went above and beyond for the club. When he did speak up when it came to club matters he proved that he was able to provide an insightful bit of analysis and ideas that could be beneficial. She had a feeling that the intense loyalty he showed had played a crucial role in earning him a full-patch.

Y/N felt that Ratboy was honestly a little too serious; a little too concerned on behaving how he believed a Son should. Y/N found him to be too moody at times and sometimes high strung. The other Sons seemed to enjoy poking at that uptight part of his personality. Tig in particular enjoyed giving him a hard time.

Y/N had noticed that the moodiness and uptight parts of Ratboy’s personality could create friction between Brooke and him.

Y/N more often than not had found herself feeling like a relationship counselor for the pair.

She tried to keep a sympathetic ear as Brooke whined she toying with a few bits of loose change that had landed on Y/N’s salescounter. “I just don’t get why he’s being such a jerk about this. He was just fine with me working odd jobs when it came to club. He had no problem with me being around Diosa even doing odd jobs around the office for Nero . He said nothing the entire time I was working around the clubhouse and being childcare for the Teller kids, but now that I’ve taken this waitressing job, me serving someone is suddenly a big problem.”

Y/N sighed knowing exactly what the issue was. She knew how Ratboy probably viewed this waitressing job Brooke had taken at a diner on Main Street. He didn’t like his ol lady serving anyone. It was all about stupid male pride. He most likely viewed the waitress gig as a signal that he could not take care of his ol lady if she was taking a job serving the locals of Charming. He most likely saw it as shameful for him not paying any mind to how beneficial it could be for Brooke to earn her own way.

She decided to be blunt enough about her observations. “It’s pride. He views the job as being beneath you.”

“That’s stupid. How is it any different from me babysitting. I was serving someone then and being paid far less for it.” Brooke exclaimed Y/N shaking her head at the comment.

She held back the desire to point out that Brooke’s babysitting had served the club. She was being a good ol lady then. Now she was doing something that Ratboy felt did not exactly benefit the club.

She held back this observation knowing it would only create more drama for the couple and possibly in result drama for Chibs.

She decided to take more neutral approach. “He’s young. Trust me, guys are full of so much testosterone that they don’t know what to do with it.”

“Are older men filled with less testosterone?” Brooke dared to ask Y/N smirking at the question almost certain Chibs might not appreciate that observation.

She bit back the desire to state that: yes on occasion they were. She spoke knowing that Chibs and most of the male population would highly disagree with her observations. In fact they’d most likely cry sexism as though most of the guys in the club weren’t quick to make broad generalizations about women. “Older guys just know how to manage it better. Trust me, young guys are filled with too much ego,unearned pride, cum, and fragile masculinity. It takes a bit for them to mellow out and grow the hell up. It’s a curse, they say men mature slower than women. I don’t know if that’s true, I think they’re just socialized to be less mature. They get coddled by mommy and told that they can just sow their wild oats and be boys. Girls have to grow up and be responsible. We get told to take care of everyone and be maternal. Guys get to enjoy youth. It’s just the way of the world. Doesn’t make it right, but it’s the lot we were stuck with. Once Rat is Tig and Filip’s age he’ll maybe have caught up to you emotionally…or he may never outgrow it, just look at Montez and Happy. Either way it’s just how young guys are. Most women only put up with the machismo because we know it makes the guys we like happy. We tend to humor the bullshit. Doesn’t mean you can’t call him out. It takes work though. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“So, what you’re saying is it’s hopeless and I’ve got however many more years of his bullshit unless I work to make him grow up.” Brooke groaned, still fidgeting with the small stack of coins on the salescounter.

Y/N sighed the words leaving her before she could stop them. “I’ll talk to Filip about it. Let him have a heart to heart with Rat, maybe if Rat hears that he needs to mellow the hell out from an older guy he respects he’ll chill out.”

“Because hearing it from me isn’t enough?” Brooke asked her already wide eyes growing all the wider another overdramatic groan leaving her lips.

Y/N shook her head suddenly realizing she did not miss being in her early twenties for anything.

She could admit that Brooke reminded her of herself, or the girl she’d been back when she’d married her ex husband.

She’d been willing to take a lot of bullshit becasue she’d lacked the experiance to call it out.

Ezra had married her when she was barely eighteen. It was not until she was older that Y/N had realized that a man in his twenties had zero place sniffing around her back when she was only seventeen and still in high school.

She had realized that Ezra had gone for her because women his own age had been wise enough to call him out on his crap.

Y/N had been young, pliable, and desperate to get out from under her grandfather’s thumb. She’d foolishly seen Ezra’s attention as a sign that she was mature for her age. She’d been so desperate to be seen as a mature adult that she’d ignored red flags.

She saw that insecurity she’d been brimming with back then in Brooke. She’d also spotted the less than happy homelife. Y/N just hoped that perhaps Brooke did not make the same mistakes and missteps Y/N had taken to get out of an undesirable homelife.

She cringed as Brooke spoke a heavy sigh leaving her. “And he’s started sprouting off that if I need money that bad I could move in with him. I don’t know maybe he’s right.”

“Get your own money first. Get yourself a studio apartment and live alone first. Learn to stand on your own feet before you rely on him.” Y/N was quick to exclaim cringing at the sterness in her own voice.

“You don’t think we’re ready for it?” Brooke asked, her eyes growing all the wider. Y/N grimaced, spotting a hint of defiance in the young woman’s eyes.

She resisted the urge to roll her own eyes, familiar enough with girls Brooke’s age to know that the second an older person told them they weren’t ready for something it just pushed them to do it to prove that they were totally mature and grown enough for it. “I just think that it’s never wise to jump into anything without carefully considering if it’s something you really want or if it’s just an easy solution compared to all other options. Trust me, there’s no race to some finish line. You aren’t going to get a medal if you jump right into moving in with him. Take your time and if he gives a shit about you then he’ll be mature enough to realize that you have to prove you can take care of yourself and not just rely on him to do it for you.”

She paused before Brooke had a chance to push the issue and make any claims that she was not mature enough for whatever Rat seemed to be insisting was a good relationship move. “I will talk to Filip about what Rat’s been pulling. Rat probably just needs a good firm kick in the ass, at least verbally. Trust me, Filip won’t say anything that isn’t deserved. He takes care of everyone, you know that. If he knows this is upsetting you, then I’m sure he’ll have a talk with Rat and get him to stop being such an ass. He cares about you and he’s going to want you to be taken care of and treated fairly.”

She paused fast to offer her own services. “And if it doesn’t work then I’ll do it. Rat won’t give me shit if I say anything; I’m an extension of Chibs Telford. I don’t get sass.”

The comment seemed to mellow Brooke out just the slightest her shoulders losing tension and a small hint of a smile crossing her features.

The two women did not have much of a chance to continue the conversation, the bell above the entrance to the shop ringing as it opened one of the men they’d been discussing entering the shop.

Chibs made a beeline for the sales desk giving Brooke a fond smile as he spoke. “Hey, Sweetheart, are ye doin alrigh?”

“I’m fine.” Brooke remarked the expression on her face not exactly matching the comment about being fine.

Chibs’ eyes met Y/N’s and she sent him a look that read I’ll tell you later.

Brooke gathered her purse, her voice sounding drained, though the tension in her shoulders loosened. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later, Chibs. Thanks, for everything Y/N.”

Chibs did not speak again until Brooke was long gone leaving the pair alone. “Girl trouble shite?”

Y/N smirked fast to comment unable to stop herself from pushing his buttons just the slightest. “Not girl trouble as in her period if that’s what you’re asking.”

Chibs groaned at the comment he fast to speak. “Not what I meant by girl trouble and ye know it, ye brat.”

Y/N shook her head grabbing the spare change Brooke had been fidgeting with and shoving it in her register knowing even if her drawer was long it would only be by a few cents. “Relationship drama.”

“Aye, again? Shite, don’t miss bein young. Did ye tell her young lads are fuckin idiots?” Chibs remarked leaning against the counter causing Y/N to roll her eyes slightly, clearly able to spot that he was attempting to slyly peek down the navy blue sundress she was wearing and admire her cleavage. Although, Y/N knew if she called him out on it he’d only try to exclaim that he was only admiring the pearl necklace she was wearing…after making an innuendo filled pun about pearl necklaces knowing it would make her let out a disgusted groan and claim he’d been hanging around Tig too long.

She sighed remembering the promise she’d made to Brooke knowing she would have to coax her man into it. “Yes, I did. I also maybe possibly told her that you might maybe be willing to give a good talking to to Rat for her.”

“For fucks sake, what I am fuckin Dr. Phil?” Chibs exclaimed, Y/N letting out a small chuckle at the comment not shocked by it.

“No, but you care about her. If he’s making her sad then I know you don’t like it. You’re protective of the women in your life. I know you, Filip.” Y/N pointed out knowing the exact reason Chibs was the slightest bit fond of Brooke.

Chibs had explained Brooke’s background to Y/N soon after Brooke had begun coming to her for advice.

Brooke had a troubled background and mental health concerns that had made her lash out at SAMCRO a few years before. The entire saga behind it was a mess and Y/N felt for the girl. Jax Teller had shown the young girl mercy when she’d wrecked the storefront to Scoops and Sweets as well as Tig’s bike, and had let her work off the damage she’d done to the Scoops and Sweets storefront that operated as the Sons clubhouse.

Losing Jax, Bobby, Gemma, and having Wendy, Nero, and the Teller boys move away had been rough for Brooke. The girl had already struggled with her mental health so the loss was not easy to bear. It had been a lot of loss in quick successions and a lot of hard truths to take all at once.

Y/N knew that Chibs perhaps saw his own daughter in Brooke. Brooke and Kerrianne were close to the same age after all.

Y/N also got the sense that perhaps Chibs had maybe felt kinship with the girl over her troubled background. He’d known more than his own share of heartbreak. He’d come from his own troubled homelife both as a young teen and as a young adult.

So, he’d taken a bit of a paternal role in the girl’s life after all the loss that had happened over the past year and a half.

Chibs let out a small huff as he spoke. “What’s the lad doin that’s got er so bent out of shape?”

“She took some waitressing job and he’s being a jackass about it, plus he’s started throwing around the idea of moving in together as some sort of way to talk her out of the job. I know how you guys are when it comes to ol ladies. He thinks the job is beneath his ol lady and poorly reflects on him, but he needs to shove it and realize it’s not all about him. The job will be good for her. She needs to learn independence instead of relying on some guy.” Y/N explained busying herself with straightening out the merchandise below the counter she almost feared that Chibs might share Ratboy’s opinion on the job being beneath an ol lady.

She was not sure she would have a shining opinion of the man she loved if he shared Ratboy’s opinion on the job being beneath an ol lady of SAMCRO.

Chibs frowned, spotting the passion in her voice when it came to speaking about learning independence and not relying on a man.

He thought back to what he knew about his ol lady’s divorce and just how young she’d been when she’d married.

He had a feeling his ol lady had not known how to stand on her own two feet before she’d married. She had to learn that lesson on her own after her divorce in an environment where she feared the man she’d relied on at one point.

The past decade of his ol lady’s life had been filled with hard fear tinged lessons on independence. She had failed more times than she could count.

He sighed, it hitting him that this fight between Rat and Brooke had struck a nerve in his ol lady. It had maybe brought up some memories she’d sooner rather forget concerning her past. The situation Brooke was in had reminded her of the young woman she had been prior to her divorce.

In her mind she was protecting Brooke from making the same choices she had made and finding the same pain she’d endured.

He made a quick choice, nodding his head. “Aye, I’ll talk to the lad, Love. Yer righ Mo chridhe. It’s important fer her to be able to look out fer herself instead of relyin on Rat. I’ll break it down fer him. Let him know he needs to back off and let her grow into herself. I’ll point out that if he loves her then he needs to let her learn to take care of herself. Yer right, this job’ll be good fer her even if it aint…glamorous.”

He paused, remembering something Gemma had used to say to Sons when they weren’t quite treating their ol ladies right. He spoke although fonder memories of the former Queen of SAMCRO made his heart feel heavy and worn given what he knew about her now. “I’ll remind him ye don’t get the ol lady ye think ye want. Ye get the ol lady ye deserve. I’ll let him know ye get what ye give and if he acts like a wee prick then he’s goin to get nothin but what he deserves in return.”

The comment eased the tension in Y/N’s body; a soft smile crossing her features the sight lifting the worry and irritation right out of Chibs’ frame.

She managed to lean across the counter standing up on her tiptoes to meet his lips as she spoke. “You are a sweet man, Filip Telford.”

He snorted at the comment, his lips pressing to hers before he reluctantly allowed her to pull away. “I told ye before, I am only sweet to ye. Don’t fuckin tell anyone. Gotta keep my reputation as the mean biker president.”

She rolled her eyes, tempted to point out that he was sweet to more people than he realized. She’d not been lying to Brooke, Chibs took care of those in his life. If he cared about you then you were taken care of.

She knew of course that that care only went so far. He had a loyal heart but if you betrayed his trust and proved yourself to be disloyal then you might as well be dead to him.

He’d been betrayed more times than he cared to admit by more people than he cared to think of. He’d had his trust broken more times than he could count.

Still though it seemed that he was not totally hardened by the experiences. He might appear to be standoffish and intense to those outside of SAMCRO’s inner circle, but those who knew him understood that Chibs was the constant father of SAMCRO. He was loving but unafraid to be stern when he needed to be. He was reliable and sturdy both physically and emotionally. He was able to follow his heart when he needed to but was practical enough to realize that in certain situations he could not let his heart overtake his reason.

She knew the man she’d fallen for enough to understand that he was complicated. She knew him well enough though to understand that Chibs Telford took care of his own.

He leaned in, pressing another kiss to her lips, a content hum leaving him. “Ye know, I came ere hopin to talk my ol lady into closin up shop early so I could take er on a bike ride and have some lunch, ye know a wee picnic out in nature, but now she’s talkin bout how sweet I am. It’s makin me want to say forget the bike ride and take her upstairs so I can show I can be jus as filthy as I am sweet.”

She smirked at the comment, it making a warm flush of lust wash over her. It was a sensation she was familiar with when it came to Chibs Telford.

She did find that she loved bike ride with Chibs and he seemed to know it. She had never been on a bike before him but one ride in and she was hooked. Chibs seemed all too aware that she was hooked for life.

This was the same man who had gone out and gotten a bike with a rear seat just for her, trading in the Dyna he used on a day to day basis, a few months into their courtship. Of course the action had gotten him more than a bit of shit from his brothers, but having her on the back of his bike had been well worth it.

Prior to the trade in he’d had to rely on the bike he took for longer runs when he wanted her to ride with him. That meant no spur of the moment bike rides with his ol lady given that he usually left his other bike at home.

The trade in for a bike big enough for more than one rider had been a big step for Chibs. He’d ridden a oneseater for years having zero interest in taking any woman for a ride, not even a croweater. The trade in had been a signal to everyone that Chibs Telford had found himself an ol lady. To those who knew him, the purchase was a sign of commitment.

It was not quite marking Y/N with a crow, but it was still an obvious sign that he was serious about what had been building between them, even only a few months into their romantic relationship.

Y/N found the words knowing just what to say in response to his offer. “We can always do a raincheck on the ride and lunch. I think your ol lady likes to be reminded of just how sweet and filthy you are. I did call you a dirty old man that one time and you loved it.”

She paused a thrill rushing through her at what he was promising, her voice lowering to a more seductive tone knowing just what to say. “Do you want to skip lunch and have me for dessert, Filip?”

“Aye, think I need to taste jus how sweet ye are.” He was fast to reply, a low growl leaving the back of his throat at the seductive tone of voice she’d taken.

She smiled up at him quick to respond. “Let me close up shop then. Go upstairs and get ready for me, Baby. I think I might need to take you for a ride before I get on your bike.”

He gave her backside a swat as she rounded the corner to the lower region of his body filling with a familiar heat at what she was promising him.

She shook her head as she watched him leave the shop heading around hte corner to the iron staircase leading up to her pathetically small apartment.

She had a feeling she was going to ride Chibs Telford a little harder than she might ever dare to ride his bike.

—-----------------------------------------------------

The room smelled like a hint of the lavender incense she’d lit and the distinct odor that could only be marked by those who were well aware enough as the scent of sex.

Chibs Telford was certain he was in heaven, or at least as close to heaven as a man like him ever might be lucky enough to get.

He laid back on her bed fully nude his cock standing at attention longing for the heat of the woman who he had proudly sitting right on his face.

He kept a tight grip on her thighs holding her over him as she squirmed above him intelligible cries of his name leaving her along with a few broken choice curse words.

He moaned against her soaked center, his cock throbbing at the distinct taste of her; sweet, musky, and salty. There was no one who tasted quite like her as far as he was concerned.

Before her he might have claimed that pussy just tasted like pussy. There was no need to wax poetically about it.

His girl though had a taste that was so distinctly her. It was a taste he was eager to indulge as many times as she would allow it, occasionally diving back in multiple times in one session until she was so overstimulated she was a gasping crying mess.

He could remember the first time they’d made love. How she’d told him that it had been close to a decade since she’d last taken a man to bed.

She’d tried to take a man to bed after her divorce, the very few times she’d attempted to form a romantic relationship after her ex husband.

It had never quite lasted though. Ezra Whitlock did not let his ex wife find new partners. He scared the guys off back when she’d remained in Alaska.

Then when she’d finally realized she had to run from him he’d made it known to her that no matter where she moved, no matter where she tried to disappear to, Ezra would find her.

She had trouble letting men in with the realization that her life was constantly one where she was forced to be on the run.

She’d admitted that most men sensed that she was always looking out for danger, always waiting for the bottom of the basket to fall out.

She came across as paranoid and damaged. In her experience no one liked damaged goods.

Chibs Telford had been quite determined to show that he did not mind any neurotic tendencies nor did he view her as damaged.

He’d told her that it was a damn shame no man had her in so long.

When she’d confessed that the very few experiences she’d had had left her feeling disappointed, Chibs Telford had proudly told her that he was not going to leave her longing for a thing.

He had told her that she’d been relying on men who didn’t know what they were doing with a woman’s body. She’d let boys entertain her instead of men.

Chibs Telford had shown her that he knew how to please her.

Their first time had left her breathless, shaking with the intensity of what she’d realized was probably her first real orgasm, and longing for Chibs Telford to take her again and again and again as many times as he wanted.

Much to her relief, Chibs Telford had been keen to take her again. He had seemed just as addicted to her as she’d been to him.

She could remember the words that had left her upon the first time she’d cum against his tongue and fingers. “I’ve never felt that before…that’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

She could remember the smug smile he’d given her his lips and facial hair damp with her thoroughly soaked pussy.

He’d spoken to her, that smug tone so clear in his voice. “I jus got started with ye, Love. Wait till ye see what my cock can do.”

He’d proven to her that he was capable of drawing more than one orgasm out of her that night.

It was once again becoming obvious that Chibs Telford was going to draw more than one orgasm out of her before the day ended.

She managed to speak her voice a squeak as she wrapped her hands around the spindles of her metal headboard, her thighs trembling. “Fuck, Filip. Oh my God, please. Fucking eat my pussy, Oh, Baby.”

He moaned against her; she almost certain he was giggling against her but she did not have a chance to focus on it as his sinful tongue slid over her aching clit circling the sensitve bud.

She whined at the action, her thighs trembling all the more certain if she was in any other position she would have snapped her thighs shut from the overstimulation.

She had a feeling that was part of why Chibs Telford seemed to love her sitting on his face. He could keep her spread wide open for him and bury his face against her wet pussy.

She’d been hesitant the first time he’d asked her to try out this position. She could remember the hesitant words that had left her, her cheeks flushed bright pink. “I won’t crush you?”

He’d smirked at her looking all too devilish as he’d laid back on her bed motioning for her to come to him. “Bein crushed by ye will be a pleasure, Love. Can’t think of any other way I’d rather go out than bein suffocated by yer pussy.”

She’d not been amused by the reassurance, but she had long ago realized that Chibs Telford had a way of coaxing her into situations she might be far too shy to try prior to him.

He had taught her quite a bit about her body. He was an eager teacher. When he realized she had only ever owned one vibrator, a small pathetic thing that she’d only pressed to her clit on occasion, he’d bought her a much more intimidating looking thing soothing her anxiety about trying it out and even showing her how to get herself off with it.

He’d happily shown her a few new positions she’d never dared to try out, encouraging her to bring up any she was curious about, eager to try it with her.

Needless to say she’d found herself opening a few incognito tabs on her laptop looking up a few positions that had struck her curiosity and maybe sharing those with him.

They had tried out doggy style, which was not entirely new or groundbreaking but was still new to Y/N.

He had shown her that missionary was far from boring, proving that there were far more variations of the position than she’d been aware of.

So far she’d discovered that a favorite for her was something called the butterfly position where she laid down and he rested over her on his knees thrusting into her. He very much seemed to enjoy it when he leaned down enough for her to place her legs over his shoulders when they did this position. She had quickly discovered that this position definitely gave him much deeper penetration and never failed to hit her g-spot which made things quite intense.

He had taken her in a few more creative locations than the bed. She’d had him take her over several counters, on a few sofas, and in the shower more than once.

She had even sweet talked him into sharing a bath with her which had resulted in water making its way outside of the tub as she rode his cock in the bath.

Needless to say, sex with Chibs Telford was never boring and it was always pleasurable.

She whined her fingers tightening along her headboard the words broken and needy. “Gonna cum, oh, Fuck, Filip.”

He groaned against her not letting up on his treatment of her, sliding his tongue between her slit, stroking her walls, dipping his tongue into her opening, and sliding it along her clit at an expert pace.

She whimpered more cries of his name leaving her as the tell tell signs of an impending orgasm began to creep up in her.

She felt her legs tremble, her heart beating all the quicker, her skin flushing, a coil beginning to tighten in her bound to snap at any moment.

She whined grinding against his face fully lost to lust the cool of the room and the stimulation washing over her body making her nipples pebble at hard peaks that Chibs would be entranced by if his eyes weren’t shut, his brain fully focused on pleasing her.

The coil in her snapped, her head falling back, her mouth opening cries of his name leaving her lips as her release washed over her.

She whined, he not letting up on her for even a second keeping up his treatment even as she came hard above him, he moaning against her clearly enjoying her release loving that he was pleasing her.

She whimpered, shuddering against him as her orgasm wracked through her body, she always feeling breathless at the sensation.

Each time she thought it could not get more intense or feel any better and each time she was left feeling brainless and boneless at the intensity of how hard Chibs could make her cum.

He seemed to thrive off of making her cum as hard as possible. It was obvious that Chibs was not a selfish lover by any stretch of the imagination.

He could admit that even back when he’d been seeking out release in the croweaters that he had never been the type to not care about his bedroom partner's pleasure.

Sure on occasion he might get a quick blow job from some nameless croweater who did not seem to care if she got anything out of it.

If he did have full on intercourse with one of the croweaters though he made sure they came at least once.

Now that he had a woman who he wanted to take to bed more than once and only wanted her in his bed, that need to make his bedroom partner cum had grown to not being satisfied if he didn’t manage it more than once.

He knew he was getting older. More and more silver seemed to overtake his otherwise darker hair and he had noticed far too much silver on his pubic hair, something he’d been embarrassed that he even gave a shit about. He’d noticed he needed reading glasses for a few years now. He felt his knees and his back creak on occasion especially after long rides. He’d noticed a hint of heavy bags under his eyes and fine lines along his forehead. His skin could look better, especially around his neck. Then there was the belly that he’d not managed to drop since he’d hit forty.

He knew that people looked at him and the sweet young thing he’d taken as an ol lady and assumed that he was some kind of dirty old man who had robbed the cradle, never mind the fact that Y/N was in her thirties. He had a feeling that outsiders probably assumed he probably couldn’t keep it up without a little blue pill.

He would be lying if he tried to claim that he feared the day where it might be a struggle to get it up for her without medical intervention.

He could admit that his fears and anxieties around aging and what it meant for them, only made him more determined to make her feel as good as possible each time he had her.

He was not shy about trying anything he could think to please her. He was not one to shy away from overstimulation or some dirtier acts if he thought it might get her off.

He was relieved she seemed to blossom under his treatment. She was a world away from the seemingly innocent frigid woman he’d taken to bed the first time months and months ago.

She was far more of a temptress than she was aware. She ran way hotter than anyone probably gave her credit for.

Any iciness in the bedroom she may have admitted to upon their first encounter had been based on a lack of opportunity to find a man worthy of her.

He could admit it got him off. She looked so sweet, so feminine, and adorable in her little dresses and quirky accessories. No one had any idea how filthy she would get with him in the bedroom.

He gave her backside a swat making her squeak as he slumped against him, her orgasm tapering off her body growing slack.

She managed to find the strength in her lazy limbs to roll off of him scooting down to rest at his side. He stared over at her a lovesick smile crossing his features at the sight of her looking so serene and well loved all thanks to him.

She glanced over at him, a small smirk crossing her lips though her cheeks did flush. “You are a mess.”

He wiped at his face a giggle leaving him. “Ye made the mess. I feel like a fuckin glazed doughnut.”

She groaned at the statement, a whine leaving her as she buried her face against his shoulder. “Gross.”

“It ain’ nothin to be ashamed of, Lass. I’m pretty fuckin proud of it myself.” He teased another groan leaving her.

She peeked up at him, her voice teasing her cheeks still so pink. “You’re unreformable, just absolutely a fiend, a wicked man.”

He snorted at the comment, reaching down and giving her backside a squeeze. “Ye did say I’m a dirty old man, Lass. Jus tryin to live up to my reputation.”

He turned pressing his lips to hers, she letting out a soft moan at the taste of herself on his lips.

He reluctantly allowed her to pull from the kiss she gazed down at his still erect cock a small smile crossing her lips. “You’re going red, Baby. Think you need some release or you’re going to burst.”

He snorted at the comment, quick to agree. “Aye or at least have some fuckin serious blue balls.”

She pressed her lips down his neck sliding them along his chest making her descent down his body it clear she had one goal in mind and that was getting his cock between her lips and hopefully down her throat.

He moaned as she spoke, her lips pressing against his hips. “You are such a dirty old man, but I love it.”

He moaned as he let himself sink into the pleasure she was offering him, his head falling back soaking up her treatment.

He was certain this was heaven on earth.

This was no romantic bike ride and picnic, but he was not complaining.

=====

Mo Chridhe = My Heart

#chibs telford #chibs sons of anarchy #chibs telford fanfiction #Chibs Telford smut #Chibs Telford x reader #scorned #sons of anarchy fanfiction #post season seven chibs #soa fanfiction #sons of anarchy x reader #Filip Telford #soa #sons of anarchy

39 notes · View notes