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namfinessed · 4 months ago

Text

go around - j.hs.

genre: angst, fluff (childhoodcrush! brother'sbestfriend!) (8.2k)

summary: to everyone else, he was the sun but to you, he was always the moon, the light you grabbed onto when you could see nothing.

note: grief is something very close to my heart, i've always struggled with it but i'm slowly starting to learn to live with it, i hope everyone who's experienced loss feels like some kind of relief through this, thank you for reading <3

masterlist

hoseok was sixteen years old when it happened.

you were thirteen.

and he had thought he was too cool for you then.

you were sitting on the other side of the mary-go-round to him, it was the last but one day of the summer camp you were part of, and you looked at him as if he hung the moon in the sky.

and hoseok felt as high as the moon that night.

but he was also sick to his stomach.

"i like you," you didn't look at him as you said it but hoseok could feel that you meant it, that it took a lot for you to get on that mary-go-round with him, spin with him, build the moon in his eyes and then say the words that he believed were stuck in your throat since when you first saw him.

he knew that your brother wouldn't like that you were saying this.

but he knew, even as a kid, that this was the most honest thing anyone's ever told him.

but he was so cool and so close to your brother, who would kill him if hoseok said anything back.

so, he didn't say anything back.

hoseok pursed his lips and looked away. he swears that, to this day, the tears shining in his eyes were nerves and not the frustration that came with not being able to hold you to the moon too.

the silent rejection didn't yet hit your soft eyes and bare heart.

you kept looking at him, hands gripping the handles so tight that your knuckles changed shades between white and pink and your cheeks puffed, excited and nervous breaths still left your lips.

and hoseok didn't want to be cool for a second there, he didn't want to care about your brother at all, maybe he would just let you take him for a bit, just a bit.

but in your thin eyebrows, he saw your brother.

in your veiny hands, he saw your brother.

in your coily, curly hair, he saw your brother.

so, he got off the mary-go-round, he walked away quickly, not pausing to look at you and he sniffed his tears away, he hugged his jacket closer to his body.

tomorrow, he would be fine.

tomorrow, no one would look at him like he was the moon and he would be okay with it.

but hoseok turned around.

the biggest mistake of his life.

the moon you thought him to be, cast a glow on the tears gathering on your chin and his heart wrenched.

he would fix this, he told himself, he would fix all of this.

but the next day, your brother, his best friend, died.

and you never spoke a word to hoseok again.

everything was vibrant when hoseok stepped into your home.

the unkept gardens were now blooming with flowers.

the closed windows were now open and giving a glimpse into the light inside the house.

the home was back to being a home.

he’s seen the transformation take place with his own two eyes over the years and he could confidently conclude that the ten years that cloaked your family and home in darkness were finally nowhere to be found.

and hoseok felt both delight and unease at the development.

“oh honey, you came,” there were few people hoseok could recognize with how they breathed, and your mom, his second mom basically, was one of them.

he didn’t even get to greet her before he was wrapped in a hug that surrounded him with the scent of cinnamon, musky perfume, and somehow, still his best friend.

“of course i did, ma” he kissed the top of her head, his arms not letting her go even if he knew the time for an appropriate hug was up, and she knew it too but she stayed as long as hoseok held her.

and when he let her go, he had to look away from the tears touching her eyelashes.

he probably brought back memories of his friend, maybe he still smelt like his friend too, he doesn’t know but he’s glad if he does.

his best friend’s family was unlike hoseok’s, his own family was distant and cold, and when he became an adult, he cut off all ties with them, he simply couldn’t accept them as family and your mom never let him feel as if he didn’t have one.

“the place is really packed,” hoseok whistled, looking at all the new faces and your mom nodded, “she invited a lot of her friends, i don’t know them but it’s okay, they’re having a good time, you’re here, so it’s all good,” hoseok stiffened at your mention.

you didn’t see him once in the last ten years.

slammed the door on his face.

ignored him even when your mom screamed after you.

locked yourself in your room and never got out if it meant seeing him.

and hoseok learned to accept it, he wouldn’t hang out with him either, especially after what happened.

but it was your birthday and he was invited, by your mom or you, he has no idea but hoseok steels himself to see you at some point in the night.

then, he walks around, introduces himself, ignores the pity that people eye’s throw at him, ignores the sympathetic touches on his arm, ignores the pats on the back and the ‘he must’ve been wonderful to have as a friend’ and he nods because he can’t say that yes, his best friend was an incredible friend until he fucking died.

and suddenly, hoseok wants to punch his best friend, for leaving him with this room of people who didn’t know him but somehow had all the sympathy in the world to shove in his face, for leaving him with no option but to mourn and miss him.

but hoseok was never a good mourner, he was good at going about life normally, good at laughing, good at ignoring his feelings, hoseok wasn’t good at gathering tears in his eyes when he thought of his dead best friend.

after a while, hoseok excuses himself to the bathroom and finds himself in his friend’s room, which remains frozen in time. every poster he hung up, though peeling at the edges on the wall, still stayed, every photo he stuck on top of his bedpost was yellow and faded but again, they stayed.

he doesn’t know how long he stares at their photo, the one they took in the summer camp where hoseok’s head is too small and his arms too thin and wrapped around his friend.

when he ran his fingers over the photo, he didn’t feel anything, he was grazing over hazy memories that he was desperately trying to remember as he got older but they were all slipping away or holding on too tightly at times.

“what the fuck are you doing in jay’s room?”

and he snatches his fingers away from the photo.

as he turns around, he swears he feels his heartbeat in his feet, and no amount of time could ever prepare him to face you.

you’re standing at the door with your arms crossed so defensively over your chest that he’s scared to take a single step forward but something about you, as a sixteen-year-old back then and now, a twenty-six-year-old, always takes his breath away.

and you look so much like jay, from the eyes to the hair to the hands, that he has to look away to breathe again.

“hey,” is all that comes out of hoseok’s mouth and he knows he deserves it when you roll your eyes at him.

“you’re not going to slam the door on me?” he asks and to his surprise, you shake your head, “not this time, my mom might just kill me,” you say while entering through the door and hoseok awkwardly steps around the room to reach where you sit on the bed.

he’s not sure how to feel about your mom having to force you to meet him.

and he’s not sure if he will ever be ready to see you again.

maybe you should’ve slammed the door one last time.

“happy birthday, big numbers now,” hoseok sits five feet away from you on the same bed and he watches your face soften the slightest, “thank you, and yeah, twenty-four doesn’t feel real,” you weakly laugh, falling on the bed and letting your feet dangle off the edge.

“your friends seem fun,” he stayed alert on the edge of the bed, and you nodded half-heartedly, “i guess so, did you meet them?”

“yeah, i said hi and stuff,” hoseok played with his fingers as you sat up again, “they brought up jay?”

“um yeah, they seemed to be very...empathetic about it,” he said, he didn’t know how else to say that your friends' reactions almost made him want to leave the party.

“yeah, they don’t know how to react to dead brothers or best friends, they’re not too bad though,” you laugh again and hoseok just nods, looking away.

for a moment, there’s only silence.

there’s only your breath and his.

there’s only your heartbeat and his.

and hoseok had missed this, he had missed you.

“can you believe it’s been ten years?” he asks because he can’t, he still feels as if it was yesterday that he got the phone call from you.

“i can,” you whisper, “time has been slow for me, so i can,” you’re the one looking away this time and hoseok catches your eyes roaming on the photos stuck above jay’s bed.

“do you want to go downstairs?” you get up from the bed and meet his eyes properly for the first time since you entered the room and he can do nothing but nod.

just before you step out the door, hoseok grabs your hand, immediately dropping it as you stop, “a-are you okay?” he didn’t want to ask you the question that he knows everyone else did but he also wouldn’t sleep that night without asking.

but when you laugh and disappear downstairs, hoseok ends up not sleeping anyway.

“thank you so much for coming by,” hoseok shook his head at your mother with the broadest smile and sweat coating his forehead, “of course ma, you can call me whenever you need help,” he pressed a kiss on the top of her head as he passed her and she pushed her face into his arm.

your mom owned a local restaurant and usually, handled everything from deliveries to cooking to serving and hoseok had chastised her multiple times about it.

even now, looking at the full restaurant, hoseok knew he couldn’t leave her to it.

so, after pushing her into the kitchen, he manned the counter for a while and made light conversation with whoever came by.

it felt strange, after so many years, being back around jay’s family, being back in this restaurant where he spent many days and nights.

he shook his head, refusing to let the memories creep back in.

he was used to this, this was just a routine to him, he always helped out, and he knew jay would do it if he was here.

“she loves you a lot already, you don’t have to do all this,” your voice isn’t something he’s used to though, not here, and hoseok’s palms start sweating immediately.

fuck.

he didn’t even put on a good outfit today.

or even perfume, now that he thinks of it.

and he curses himself when you come into view.

“i do this because i love her a lot,” he says with a smile and you roll your eyes, “yeah i know, it’s annoying,” and he frowns, “why?”

but you just wave a hand at him and go into the kitchen.

and hoseok’s left with ten people waving their bills and money at him, so he plasters a smile on his face and continues working.

after some time passes, you come back out from the kitchen with a scowl on your face and hoseok knows this because he hasn’t stopped his eyes from flickering between the kitchen door and the counter in front of him.

“i’ve got it from here, move,” you bark at him as you reach him and hoseok’s frown deepens at you, “it’s only a couple of people, i’ll finish it, don’t worry,” he reassures you but it only seems to irritate you.

“this isn’t your job, hoseok, just move over,” the glare on your face makes hoseok throw his hands up in the air and step away from the counter.

and he goes to the kitchen, he hugs your mom goodbye and he doesn’t bother with saying anything to you while he leaves because he’s sure you will only curse at him. he’s too exhausted today.

but imagine his surprise when the clock strikes midnight, you are at his door with a few soju bottles, snacks, and a sheepish smile on your face.

what the fuck were you doing at his home?

“um, hi?” he adjusts his t-shirt as he greets you, suddenly too aware of his messy hair and pajama pants as his heart once again beats away from his body.

“can i come in?” you ask sheepishly, and he immediately moves away. as you look around his apartment, hoseok still finds it hard to believe that you’re here.

even as you set up the table with soju glasses and food, he can only follow you in a daze.

“come, sit,” you say as if it wasn’t his home, his table, and his chairs but hoseok obliges and sits down.

a few minutes pass with both of you just fidgeting, looking at and away from each other, scratching your necks, and rubbing your fingers together.

until you finally grab the soju bottle and inch toward him.

you take a deep breath in and hoseok lets one out, “i shouldn’t have been so rude at the store, it’s just,” you speak as you pour soju into a shot glass for him and he sits up in his seat, “jay used to be there all the time.” you swallow, moving the bottle away from him and pouring one for yourself too.

“i was there all the time too, you know that,” hoseok says gently, as if to a child and you nod, “yeah, but it was always you and him, not just you.”

always you and him.

not just you.

and the memories that hoseok tried so hard to keep in his head, started creeping their way onto his sneakers and jeans and slipping away like sand.

the nights they snuck in to steal the leftovers.

the days he spent munching down on snacks that your mom generously gave him and jay.

the evenings where they both fanned each other with rolled-up magazines.

the days he spent admiring you at the counter.

but he couldn’t remember the dates, he couldn’t remember the details like what he was wearing that evening when jay hit him with a wooden fan, what was jay wearing when he got dumped by his girlfriend and cried to hoseok, what would jay think of this moment right now, you in front of him with a couple of soju bottles that were bound to be empty soon?

he shifted in his seat, “i won’t come over anymore, i didn’t know you felt like this,” and you purse your lips, “don’t do that, hoseok.”

“do what?” his eyebrows draw closer and you put down your glass to stare at him straight, “be so understanding and nice, just tell me to fuck off and deal with my shit instead of taking it out on you, hate me a little bit because this isn’t fair to you and you know that too.”

hoseok is stunned to silence for a second.

and he has a feeling that these words weren’t just some sudden outburst, you never spoke without letting your thoughts settle so he knows you’ve felt this for a while.

when he catches your wobbling lip and the way you shove food into your mouth to stop the movement, he knows he’s right and his heart softens even more.

“i’m not going to hate you for missing your brother, y/n.” is all he says before he slides your glass towards him and pours you a shot too.

and for a second, you just eye the glass and then look at him with tears so heavy in your eyes that hoseok is surprised they haven’t rolled down your cheeks.

“i think you’re the only one who doesn’t,” you suck in a breath and take the shot, you barely feel the liquid burn down your throat or the tears that finally release from your eyes.

when he raises his eyebrows at you, you shrug with a sniff and look away.

for the rest of the night, hoseok tries to forget that this was exactly how you looked on the mary-go-around ten years ago.

tears on your jaw.

flushed cheeks.

the same coily hair.

for the rest of the night, hoseok stops himself from falling in love again.

“again!” your mom threw her hands up in delight after winning one more game of ludo that hoseok had brought over.

you groaned and complained loudly to her, face held up by your elbow and hoseok watched with warm eyes as you and your mom argued about the win.

but he also felt acutely, the empty cushion next to him.

“you’re just a sore loser, learn a thing or two from hoseok,” your mom brought him back to the world, unscathed from his best friend’s haunting.

and hoseok nods proudly, dissolving into giggles when you scoff at him and your mom high-fives him.

“you’re letting her win,” you stare pointedly at him as your mom leaves to bring more snacks and hoseok shrugs happily, “guilty as charged,” and ducks with a laugh when a shower of peanut shells gets thrown in his direction.

“i knew it!” you screeched and he fell onto the floor with a belly full of joy, “mom, i told you, he was letting you win,” you stomped into the kitchen and hoseok heard more sounds of an argument from the kitchen, he rolled his eyes in endearment.

that night, you drop him in your car, and the entire ride, you’re laughing, he’s laughing, you’re speaking nonsense, he’s speaking nonsense, you’re falling on the seat to cover your face and he’s pulling his hands over his eyes to cover his face.

and at his door, you look at him with a face so free of everything.

no lines of worry on your forehead.

no frown between your eyebrows.

no hesitance to smile.

just a hint of moonlight falling over the right side of your face and some of your hair.

and hoseok wonders if he looks the same, if he looks just as beautiful and calm.

but when you keep staring at him with those curious, those tender eyes that he feels you reserve just for him, as if he has the answer to everything, as if he was the answer to everything, hoseok’s heart races in panic and buried love.

both of you realize at the same time, that ten minutes had passed and you were about two inches closer than you were at the beginning of the ride.

he stumbles out of the car, you stutter a goodbye to him and he nods hastily, urging you to leave.

that night, once again, hoseok begs himself to stop falling in love.

you only called him once in the many years that he’s known you and it was to tell him that jay had died, it was a freak accident, no one could’ve done anything and hoseok had thought that it was all a dream but your voice, as always, rang true in his ears and he knew that his life, as it was, would change forever.

“hoseok, i-it’s jay, someone hit him with a bike, i don’t know what’s going on, they’re saying they can’t read his pulse, please just come here, p-please.”

your sobs had shaken him so badly that he stumbled out of his camp cabin in his pajamas and he held your mom’s hand the entire time they tried to resurrect jay in the emergency room but once jay flatlined, your mom crumbled in his arms and you ran out of the hospital, you refused to look at him after that night.

and he understands why, he should’ve been there for jay, he should’ve made sure that his best friend didn’t go out for a walk that night or he should’ve gone with jay and been the one to get hit instead.

but it was all over now, and all hoseok was left with was a heavy heart filled with enough guilt for all the years he would live.

so when hoseok’s phone rang in the middle of the night with your name flashing on his screen, his brain unearthed the entire tragedy, the entire night with its roots pulled out of him and he was gasping for breath as he answered.

could it be that something happened to your mom?

did something happen to you?

did something happen to him and everyone else knew but him?

“she’s not letting us call her mom but she said your name, can you come to pick her up?” and twenty minutes later, hoseok pulled up to the only nightclub in the neighborhood to pick you up.

he struggled to hold back a laugh as he saw you draped over your friend’s arms, blissfully drunk, giggling, and utterly exhausted. when he started walking over to you, all of your friends began groaning and complaining to him about you which only made it harder for him not to laugh until your entire weight was shifted onto him and hoseok closed his eyes when you buried your face in his neck, savoring the tender moment.

just like every other minute that he’s alone with you, hoseok can’t believe this minute either.

“i’ve got her from here,” he says, carefully shifting your body to make you more comfortable and you hum in your drunken state, pushing your cheeks further into his collarbones and hoseok tries not to freeze.

“you should join us next time!” your friends all chime in together, their enthusiasm and kind intentions bleed around them and touch hoseok’s heart, maybe he had been too quick to judge them and hoseok gives in, nodding unsurely and they all erupt in cheers which makes him smile.

you had good people around you.

and that made him the happiest person in the world.

as he waves goodbye to them, his hands hold your body closer to him when you start to slide off and all of them exchange looks which hoseok ignores.

he carefully puts you in the passenger seat and pulls off the sidewalk.

he turned up the air conditioner, feeling his body get warmer and warmer as the seconds passed and he forces himself to look at the road and not you.

“hoseok?” the red light glowed on your face when he looked towards you, “yeah, it’s me, just taking you back home,” he doesn’t stop his hands from moving your hair away from your face and caressing your temples with his fingers.

how many years have passed with him missing you?

how many years of loving you has he missed out on?

he doesn’t know how jay would feel about this, maybe he would gag at hoseok’s tender eyes at this moment, perhaps he would tease him but he knows jay wouldn’t hate it.

hoseok pulls back almost immediately as you start to shift, only to relax when your face melts into his fingers.

if it didn’t feel so wrong, hoseok would’ve sat the rest of the night just looking at you and letting the rest of the world pass by.

“don’t take me to mom’s,” you whine and he laughs at your scrunched-up face, “okay, where do you want to go?”

“your’s,” you mumble, and hoseok’s face goes red, it takes him a few minutes and several cars honking at him to come back to earth.

when hoseok carefully lays you on the side of his body and takes you to his bedroom, he bears the torture of your arms tightening around his neck and the torture of your lips accidentally brushing on his skin.

“you like me, right?” you whisper into hoseok’s ear as he covers you with blankets on his bed and he freezes.

when he doesn’t respond, your eyes flutter open, still soft and fuzzy from the alcohol and you ask again, “hoseok, you like me, yes?”

and he’s taken back to the you that asked him out on a mary-go-around, the you that gave him the most honest confession of love in his life, the you that looked at him as if he ripped your heart out.

he nods, “of course i do, we’re family.” and you frown at him.

then, you sit up on the bed and lean forward to hold his face in your hands, hoseok starts sweating under the thin t-shirt he wore, and your fingers touch his face in places that he’s sure didn’t exist before, and every nerve of his melts and burns.

“i’ve always wanted to ask you something,” he says, now that there was no distinction between his breaths and yours and you nod, urging him to go on, “i thought i was always the one who had something to say,” you giggle, falling on his shoulder and hoseok laughs with you.

“why did you start talking to me again? after all this time? it can’t just be because of your mother,” and your laughter vanishes from the air around him, your touch too lifts from his shoulder, and hoseok’s confusion and curiosity grow.

he knows he’s asked the wrong thing, and said the wrong thing, he always does, but why would this question make you so upset?

he just wanted to know why after so many years of ignoring his entire existence, you suddenly chose to come to his home, and suddenly back into his life.

but he also loves that you’re back in his life.

“you don’t have to tell me, go to s-“ he gets up from the bed but is stopped by a hand grabbing his wrist tightly and he sinks back down beside you.

“my reasons are selfish, hoseok,” your tears come back and hoseok is rushing to wipe them away before they ever leave your eyes which only makes them gather faster.

“i don’t care,” he shakes his head and he really doesn’t.

“you should.”

“but i don’t.”

use him, don’t use him, throw him away, or keep him, he’s okay with it all.

your eyes search in his face, any trace of a lie, any trace of dishonesty and you find none that urges you to say, “i need you.”

a strange rush of warmth and bashfulness washes over hoseok as your words run him over.

“it hurts so much and i can’t do this alone, i need you, i just want it to stop hurting,” and hoseok’s heart stops at your broken voice because he knows what’s hurting you and nothing in the world can fix that kind of pain, “i don’t know how to live anymore, every time i come home, i miss him in the space next to my mom, i miss him in the counter that you stand at now, i miss him everywhere and i can’t say this to anyone.”

hoseok barely feels your hands grabbing his as your sobs climb up your throat, “except you, hoseok. no one knows what i feel, it’s pathetic that i miss him still but so do you, i know you feel this too, right?”

and he knows, he knows exactly what it feels like and he also knows that this was building in you since over the past ten years, the same way it’s been building in him.

that sense of loss that never goes away.

that sense of waiting for the relief that comes with moving on, that never came.

that sense of having nowhere to go and cry it out because the rest of the world doesn’t see what it’s lost, only he can and only you can.

“i do,” he finally choked out and your cries grew louder, hoseok winced at the volume and tapped your arms to calm you down but he was barely calm himself.

years and years of his grief catch up to him, run him over, trample over him and his mind ignites with every single second he spent with jay, every single he spent missing jay and then ignoring his memory.

all of it grabs him by the throat and chokes him but he lets your head fall onto his shoulder, and keeps his own tears away from his eyes as your body breaks on him.

when you were kids, hoseok had held you when you were laughing, he had felt your joy go through him, spread onto him, he could feel your happiness as if it was his own.

when you laughed in the car with him, the sound jogged his memory on how to laugh, on how to feel happiness again, he felt it go in and out of him in waves that he couldn’t control.

it was a miracle to him that just by touching someone, you can feel what they feel.

but now, holding you when you were crying, feeling every tear on his own skin, the burden of it all sunk him deeper than he could pull out of but he held you, he wrapped a singular arm around you and buried his head in your hair.

if anyone was going to know that he cried about jay, it was you and if anyone was going to miss jay with you, it was him.

and that night, he let himself fall in love.

the next morning, hoseok woke up with swollen eyes but a happy heart, a less lonely heart, he got up from the couch and entered his bedroom where he spent several minutes just staring at your face and stopped himself from kissing your cheek.

he stepped out of the bedroom quietly, padding his feet as gently as he could on the floor, and started preparing pancakes, hot chocolate, and everything else he could remember as something you liked as a kid.

hoseok couldn’t keep the smile off his face the entire time he whisked the batter, stirred the hot chocolate, and put out the plates. every moment that passed reminded him of you in his bedroom, it made him feel fuzzy and warm and ticklish, as if the sun had come to sit on his shoulder.

finally, his life was falling into place.

he almost jumped in excitement when the sound of his bedroom door creaking echoed throughout his apartment. he peeked around the corner to see you dragging your feet with even more swollen eyes than his and he stifled a laugh.

“good morning, pretty,” hoseok sang and giggled when your groan came as a reply.

“what’s all this?” your eyes barely opened to see the spread of food in front of you and he shrugged, “just some breakfast for you, did you take the aspirin beside the bed?”

you nodded and stood unsurely until hoseok got up and pushed you to sit down gently, “sit down, it’s all still hot, have it soon,” he kissed the top of your head and you stiffened under him.

hoseok quickly stepped away, laughing uncomfortably, and sat down as well.

for the next few minutes, he waited as you took in everything in front of you and his heart raced the entire time.

did he do too much?

was he moving too fast?

but he had already wasted so much time over the years, he wasn’t going to make the same mistak-

“why?”

hoseok frowns at your question, leaning forward to see if he heard it right but when he looks up, he sees your tear-filled eyes and he knows he’s fucked up somehow.

“w-what happened?”

“why are you doing all this?” he doesn’t know if you’re asking him or accusing him of something.

“what do you mean?”

“why.are.you.doing.this?” you punctuate every word with quick breaths and hoseok knows he’s pissed you off.

why or how he’s done that, he has no idea.

“i thought some food would be nice in the morning, especially with your hangover,” he stumbles over his words because he didn’t think he would ever have to explain why he made breakfast for someone.

you stay quiet.

he says your name.

once.

twice.

thrice.

then, you get up from the chair and look at him with both the most anger he’s felt in someone and also, the most pain, “i can’t do this,” you mumble and in the next minute, hoseok’s door is left wide open and your seat is empty.

he watches the food go cold and tries to hold himself together as he clears everything up, all the warmth he felt in the morning disappeared down the same drain that his food went.

and all he could was watch and let it happen.

weeks passed and hoseok dipped in and out of the restaurant, trying to see you, catch a word with you, and try to fix things, but whenever you saw him, you ran away.

whenever he waved to you, you would hesitantly lift your hand and then look away, engaging yourself with someone else.

whenever he called you, you wouldn’t pick up.

his messages remained on delivered.

and hoseok’s heart broke little by little as he saw you intentionally pull away from him.

he couldn’t understand why, you had such a beautiful night together, you had poured your heart out to him and he had done the same to you but somehow, it was as if that night didn’t exist to you.

maybe he read it all wrong?

maybe you just needed him as someone who felt the same as you, who experienced the same grief and here he was, his heart growing wings and the love he buried blooming again.

but you had loved him ten years ago.

and that confession was still fresh in his mind, still the most honest thing he’s heard in his life.

maybe he was stupid for ever thinking that you still felt the same love from ten years ago?

but as his mind replayed your words, ‘i need you’, it didn’t make sense to him that suddenly, you wanted to push him away.

“take these when you go home,” your mom packed him multiple boxes of side dishes and rice and everything else she could cook throughout the day and he nodded, thanking her with a kiss on her head, and headed for the door.

until he heard your voice.

his entire body froze at your presence.

but he’s had enough.

hoseok turned around and started walking with loud steps towards the kitchen, and when you came into his vision, he didn’t feel the warmth or the love or any of the good stuff.

he only felt the hurt that blinded him that morning, he only felt the pain spearing his heart as he threw everything away, he only felt the loneliness that played with him until the late hours of the night.

hoseok knows he’s not the best person but he also knows that he didn’t deserve that.

“you asked me that day, why i was doing all that. let me ask you now, why are you doing this?” he glared right at you, and in the corner of his eyes, he saw your mom glance between the two of you and then duck out of the kitchen.

he will apologize to her later.

in front of him, you tilted your head at him and tried to appear tough by crossing your arms across your chest and staring back at him.

but hoseok is past this, he’s tired of being lonely but he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to feel lonely when he’s in love.

“look, i don’t know what’s going through your mind and i never will until you tell me, but you can’t do this to me, you can’t push and pull whenever you like, i know you’re hurting somehow but i am too, so figure yourself out and then come to me because i know that i’m not alone in this feeling, i know you feel it too.”

with that, hoseok marched out of the kitchen, hugged your mom on the way out and went back to his empty home, where he might’ve felt lonely but he at least didn’t feel miserable.

you will hopefully find your way back to him.

but if you don’t, hoseok’s just going to have to find a way to be okay with that too.

days passed again and hoseok tried to move on.

you didn’t call or message or try to reach him and he took it as a rejection, which was still okay, he would still be okay.

he busied himself with his work, with your mom’s restaurant, and tried to learn how to cook, tried to liven up his apartment with knick-knacks, he took up arts and crafts.

hoseok did everything he could think of and for the most part, he really was okay.

but he also really wasn’t that okay.

he drifted through the days, pushed you out of his mind, and drank a bit from time to time to forget you only to hover his finger over your contact every night, he still kept the blanket you slept on in the corner of his room and not in the laundry basket where it should’ve been.

but still.

he was okay, he told himself, he would go back to some version of himself which was okay.

hoseok walked to the restaurant with his head down, earphones in and counted his steps because he had nothing else to do.

when he reached, he still didn’t look up, he continued to his counter where he removed his hoodie and put on an apron, humming to himself and cleaning the counter up.

until your mom’s shoes came into his view and by the time he looked up, she had grabbed his arm and started shaking him which made him frown.

he looked up to see her tear-streaked face and echoes of her sobs that traveled from her hands to him and the desperate shouts he could only see with his earphones in.

his hands shakily reached up to remove his earphones and then he heard it.

the heart-stopping cries and yells.

hoseok’s eyes went round with panic and he immediately grabbed her body as she fell onto him, he tried his best to soothe her but seeing her tears, was already choking him up.

he tried to keep his panic at bay as he patted her back and tried to make sense of her babbling.

what if something happened to you?

he couldn’t deal with that kind of grief; he wouldn’t survive it.

“she hasn’t picked up a single call,” something did happen to you, and hoseok bit the inside of his cheek to hold back his sobs.

“ma,” he grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look into his eyes, “please breathe with me,” she nodded, timing her inhalation and exhalation with him and when her sniffles subsided, she told him, “she ran away this morning, i’ve looked everywhere and i’ve called everyone, no one has seen her, i don’t know what to do and the police aren’t doing anything until she’s gone for a day but you know her, she never does this.”

she rambled endlessly to him and hoseok held onto her the entire time, feeling only a bit hurt that she never called him but that wasn’t a concern right now.

at the end of it, he offered her a glass of water, removed his apron, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before heading straight for the door.

“hoseok,” he stopped at her voice, “i only didn’t call you because i know you two aren’t doing well right now, otherwise you know you’re like my son.” and hoseok melted, he smiled and took her hands as he said, “don’t worry about that ma, we’re family, you keep calling people and i’ll try to find her.”

he didn’t know what to feel once he stepped out of the restaurant.

in the restaurant, he could focus on reassuring and comforting your mom, he could place all his energy into caring for her but now, he was alone and he didn’t know what to feel.

hoseok got into his car only to realize he didn’t know where to fucking begin, you could be anywhere by this time, even a different city but he has a feeling that you were not too far.

but he didn’t know that with certainty either.

every thought he had only put him in a chokehold as his mind reeled with every worst-case scenario.

nevertheless, he put his fears aside and started the car.

the next few hours, he drove in every street, looked in every club and café, kept checking his phone some one million times, and stopped at the entrance of his summer camp where his life seemed to begin and end.

jay would’ve had a panic attack if he was here with hoseok right now, hoseok smiled as he thought of how worried jay would’ve been and how he probably would’ve cursed you out after finding you, how he would’ve hugged you and hoseok in relief, how he would never let it happen again.

jay would’ve been so many things if he was still there with hoseok and that killed hoseok every day.

he kept staring at the entrance where he ran out of the day jay died, where he held back his tears and shook his head and told himself that it was all a lie, that his best friend was still alive.

hoseok threw his head back on his car seat.

grief was so unfair; it took away so much and left him with so little.

if it was so hard for him, he couldn’t imagine how much more angry or sad grief would’ve made you over the years.

and just as he blinks back tears, his phone rings and he runs his hand over his face to answer it, “ma, i’m still out, don’t worry, we’ll find her,” he starts reassuring only to hear nothing on the other end.

“hello?” he frowns.

“hoseok?”

and he almost drops his phone in relief.

“god, are you okay?” he immediately sits up, starting the car again, “where are you? i’m coming to get you right now, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“why aren’t you home?”

“huh?”

“why aren’t you home right now?”

“are you at my place?” hoseok frown becomes even deeper and he knows your silence only means one thing, he sighs out, “stay there.”

and he’s turning the car, calling your mom to tell her the news, and feeling a hundred different emotions as he reaches the lane of his apartment.

right by his door, he finds you, sitting on the floor with your knees to your chest and the rocks slid off his shoulders, he feels air enter his chest at the sight of you, unharmed and safe and breathing and…alive.

he doesn’t know why he’d even thought as far as you being dead but he couldn’t help it.

it was midnight but the moonlight, as always, found you and your tears, and hoseok sat right next to you and stretched his legs out in front of him.

“why didn’t you say anything back?” he hears you mumble and he frowns, “when?”

“that day in summer camp, when i told you i liked you, why didn’t you say anything back?”

and hoseok sighs, the secret he’s held in his heart for as long as he remembers, starts crawling up his throat, “i like you too,” and his lack of using the past tense has you sitting up straight, tears now reduced to sniffles.

“you do?” and the way you ask it almost has him hitting his own head, how did he ever let you think otherwise?

“i would be crazy if i didn’t,” he smiles weakly at you, his heart suddenly exposed and raw and beating louder than it ever has before, and you fall back on the wall, “but you just walked away then.”

and hoseok knows he can’t hide it anymore.

“i didn’t say anything because i went to jay,” hoseok recalls how cold the night was, how quick his steps were to reach his best friend and he watches your face light up and fall, all in just seconds.

“i needed to ask him if it was okay, i needed to tell him that i liked his sister and that i wanted to take care of her, and he didn’t like it,” hoseok shakes his head, a strained laugh leaving his lips, “we fought all night, but i guess he saw how much i meant it, so he gave me his blessing,” he looks up at you and you’re closing your eyes, letting your head fall back.

“he gave us his blessing, y/n, he did and that’s why i’ve never given up on you, he was so dramatic about it, you would’ve hit him if you saw him say it,” he laughs, the memory still so fresh of jay hugging hoseok and whispering to him that he would be dead the next second if he ever hurt you, how jay stopped himself from smiling as he thought of you with him.

he kept that close to his heart and never told anyone about it, it was for him and jay until today but now, it was for you too.

every time he felt bitter over the years that you avoided him, hoseok reminded himself that he loved you and he always will, and jay would love that hoseok loved you.

and you’re holding back sobs that still escape and tear into the world.

“i’m sorry,” he hears you say and he hums before placing your head on his shoulder, he tries not to cry when he feels your sobs, he sniffles and looks at his feet.

“i was so scared that morning, i told you everything i’ve never told anyone the night before and you still treated me with love, i thought you would tell me to leave, that you would finally have had enough but you didn’t and it still scared me. you shouldn’t be in my life hoseok, i will ruin you,” his heart sinks and hoseok moves closer to you because he doesn’t know where he belongs if it’s not beside you.

“i don’t want to be anywhere else,” he says and presses his hand to the side of your head.

“i can’t stop missing him, hoseok, i don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you shake your head and he sighs, feeling his throat close up.

“i miss him too.”

“but it’s been so long and i feel like i should move on by now, i don’t know,” you mumble, your tears falling into his shirt and skin.

“jay’s not some ancient history but i think he would hate both of us for being stuck like this.”

“i don’t know another way to live.”

“neither do i,” he shrugs, he knows how lonely he’s felt, how solitary his life was but, “but it will always hurt, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, you lost a brother, a companion for life, i lost a best friend, my soulmate and it’s always going to hurt. but i don’t want either of us to be alone in that pain, we don’t deserve that.”

life can take everything away from him but if we had a few good people and he could love those people, that was enough for him.

“it’s about time we start living for jay, do everything he would’ve done, feel everything he would’ve felt, and keep him alive, don’t you think so?”

and when you nod, fall on his shoulder, and whisper your love to him, it’s just like the first time, the most honest words he’s heard in his life.

hoseok knows his life can sometimes feel empty but sometimes, like right now, it can feel so full that he wouldn’t know what to do with all the love he gave and received.

he whispers his love back to you.

until dawn, you cried on his shoulder, and in the morning, hoseok made breakfast for you, you kissed him and whispered your thanks, he kissed you and whispered his love again, and you smiled and ate the food he made.

and it was calm, normal, another day but everything had changed once again for hoseok.

because this time, he had you and you had him, and in both your hearts and minds, you had jay.

and you learned to live life again, with love, and not just regret, with happiness, and not just guilt.

you lived, not just to grieve and mourn, but to actually live and build a life, with hoseok right by your side. he lived, without

taglist: @blissingtaehyung @cuteipat @hobicorewhore @yoongleskitten @mrjeonghan @greenie-frog @avawants2havefun @an-ever-angry-bi @alyenorgondorwarrior thank you all so much for liking the preview, i hope you enjoy the full fic <3]

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luvismenu · 8 months ago

Text

Three Way || Maknae Line (VMinKook)

[completed] - no taglist

summary: never did you imagine you'd end up with three fuck buddies. they fucked you so good making it impossible to choose just one. so, they devised a plan; they would take turns fucking you, and you couldn't say no.

a/n: this was my second fic so... it's kinda messy !!!

genre:

smau

implied + actual smut

fluff + crack

angst?

warning: maknae line can get pretty... competitive, might get toxic sometimes, mentions of alcohol, smoking, jealousy issues.

m.list

note: this was supposed to be a texting scenario but it was too good to not be a series!!!

Index ♡ 30/30

➷ 1 (wannabes)

➷ 2 (monday)

➷ 3 (details)

➷ 4 (sus)

➷ 5 (kisses and cuddles)

➷ 6 (nice guy)

✎ 6 pt.2 (perfect man)

➷ 7 (effort)

➷ 8 (chill out)

➷ 9 (friends)

➷ 10 (friends pt.2)

➷ 11 (new)

✎ 11 pt.2 (frustrated)

➷ 12 (phase)

➷ 13 (confused)

✎ 13 pt.2 (missed you)

➷ 14 (time)

➷ 15 (move on)

➷ 16 (gifts)

➷ 17 (tomorrow)

➷ 18 (joking)

➷ 19 (dry)

➷ 20 (talk)

➷ 21 (complicated)

➷ 22 (explanation)

➷ 23 (silly break)

➷ 24 (scammer)

➷ 25 (butterflies)

➷ 26 (addiction)

➷ 27 (boba)

➷ 28 (you and me)

➷ 29 (oop)

➷ 30 (my you) / end.

Extras —

• how you and jungkook became friends (with benefits)

• after they agreed to the sex schedule

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anotherbtsffwriter · 1 month ago

Text

innocent | jimin x reader

→ summary: y/n has always been the quiet, studious type—content with her textbooks, her best friend jimin, and the comfortable routine of high school life. but everything changes after a strange, unsettling dream that leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about herself—and about jimin. what begins as a harmless friendship soon becomes a tangled web of desire, confusion, and self-discovery.

→ genre: 50% smut, 50% fluff

→ warnings: sexual content, cursing

→ wordcount: 12k

Y/N, a studious senior at Westbridge High School, leaned against her locker, flipping through the pages of her statistics book. Her thick-rimmed glasses slid down her nose as she mumbled to herself, trying to memorize a particularly pesky theorem.

Her unruly hair, a dark brown tangle of unbrushed locks, fell over her eyes, which she brushed aside with an impatient hand. Her skin was the color of sweet caramel, a stark contrast to the dull beige hallway that surrounded her. Despite her academic dedication, Y/N's social life remained as bland as the cafeteria's meatloaf Mondays. Her outfits were simple, often picked out by her mom, and she had yet to master the art of makeup. Her frumpy cardigans and loose pants did nothing to highlight the slight curve of her hips or the swell of her chest that had just begun to emerge.

The hallways cleared out as the final bell rang, signaling the end of another school day. Y/N felt a hand at her shoulder."Hey, Y/N, wait up!" It was Jimin Park, her best friend since kindergarten. He had undergone a glow up that had transformed him from a shy, slightly chubby kid into a lean, handsome young man. His jet-black hair was always impeccably styled, and his piercing dark eyes could make even the toughest jocks squirm under their gaze. But it was his confidence that had really skyrocketed. He'd lost his braces and picked up a smirk that made the girls swoon.

Jimin was the complete opposite of Y/N in almost every way. While she was buried in her books, he had been out exploring the social jungle of high school, navigating through the labyrinth of relationships and parties with a finesse she could only dream of. He had a way with words that could charm a teacher into a passing grade or convince the popular crowd to give him the time of day. But he and Y/N were hardcore best friends despite their stark differences.

"What's up, Jimin?" Y/N said, snapping her book shut and stuffing it into her bag. "You're energetic today."

Jimin's smirk grew wider. "Just had a good day, I guess," he said, shrugging. His eyes darted around the hallway, taking in the aftermath of the school day. "So, you wanna go to Panera?"

Y/N nodded, her eyes lighting up at the mention of the cozy bakery-café. It was their usual spot to grab a bite and talk about their days. "Yeah, sure," she replied, her voice filled with excitement.

They made their way through the emptying hallways, their footsteps echoing off the tiles. The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and the faint lingering odor of teenage angst. The two friends stepped out into the cool fall evening, the leaves rustling under their feet as they walked. The setting sun painted the sky with shades of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over their faces.

Inside Panera, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee greeted them. They found a quiet corner table and settled in. Jimin's eyes scanned the menu, while Y/N immediately knew she'd order her usual: a chai latte and a cinnamon crunch bagel.

"So," Jimin began, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, "How's stats going?"

"It's fine," Y/N said, "How's it going with the latest...what's her name again, slut?"

Jimin rolled his eyes playfully. "Her name is Lisa," he corrected, "and you say that about every one of my girlfriends. Jealous much?"

Y/N pretended to be offended, "How dare you excuse me of such," she said with a smirk, "but honestly, I have no idea what you see in dating a new girl every week. It's pointless."

Jimin chuckled, "Well, someone's a little innocent," he teased, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Y/N felt a blush creeping up her neck, but she met his gaze defiantly. "Hey, I know a lot about dating."

"Oh, really?" Jimin's eyebrow arched in disbelief. "Like what?"

Y/N stumbled over her words, "Well, I know that...that people kiss when they like each other." She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "And, uh, they hold hands, and...sometimes they go on dates?"

Jimin's eyes widened, and he couldn't help but laugh. "Wow, Y/N," he said, shaking his head, "You're so smart!"

Y/N's cheeks burned even hotter. "Shut up," she mumbled, trying to hide her embarrassment. "I know more okay, I'm just not saying it."

Jimin's laughter subsided, and he leaned in closer. "You're such a prude, Y/N," he said with a gentle tease. "You need to get out more, loosen up. I can talk to one of my friends for you."

"I don't know," she said, fidgeting with the zipper on her bag. "It seems like a waste of time. Hanging out with you is all the socialization I need, mentally and scientifically."

Jimin couldn't help but laugh as their food came, "You're so full of it," he said, passing her the bagel.

Y/N took a bite, the sweet cinnamon and sugar crunching between her teeth, and felt a strange warmth spread through her chest. She'd always felt safe with Jimin. He was like a brother to her, someone who knew all her quirks and didn't judge her for them.

"Come on," Jimin said, sliding his chair closer to hers. He pulled out his phone and opened his Instagram. "Let's read my DMs today."

Y/N's eyes widened. "Again?" she said, feigned horror in her voice. "I don't know if I can handle another round of love-sick poetry and eggplant emojis."

Jimin nudged her playfully, his arm brushing against hers. "You love it," he said, swiping through the messages.

"Oh my god, what does that even mean?" Y/N said, peering at the screen. "Jimin, why is some random Rachel telling you that you can...release inside of her?"

Jimin facepalmed, trying to hide his laughter. "Y/N, that's slang for something intimate," he explained, as if it was normal. "It's a bit...forward, but it's just how people flirt these days."

Y/N's eyes went wide. "What?" she sputtered, a piece of bagel flying from her mouth. "But that doesn't even make any sense."

Jimin sighed, placing his phone face down on the table. "It's not literal," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "It's, uh, it's about sex."

Y/N's eyes grew even wider. "Oh," she murmured, her cheeks flaming. Sex was a topic she had only ever read about in the most clinical of terms, and the thought of someone discussing it so casually made her squirm in her seat.

Jimin noticed her discomfort and decided to change the subject. "So, how's the bagel?" he asked.

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to push the images out of her head. "It's good," she said, taking another bite. The sweetness helped to mask the bitter taste of embarrassment that lingered in her mouth. "You want a bite?"

Without waiting for an answer, Jimin leaned over and took a huge bite from the exact spot where her teeth had been. Neither of them batted an eye. It was a silent declaration of their closeness, a bond that transcended the typical boundaries of friendship. They'd shared everything from toys to secrets, and apparently now, they shared food.

Y/N watched him chew and swallow, a slightly bewildered look on her face. "That was a huge bite!" she complained.

Jimin just shrugged, a playful grin dancing on his lips. "You offered," he said, reaching for the bagel again.

Y/N slapped his hand away. "You're such a pig."

"Says the person who ate more than half of the bagel in under a minute," Jimin shot back, though he couldn't help but smile. Their banter was comfortable and familiar, a dance they had perfected over the years.

The following week, life at Westbridge High trudged along with the same mundane rhythm that it always had. But that all changed for Y/N on a random Thursday night. As she lay in her twin-sized bed, surrounded by the comforting scent of her favorite lavender candle, she slipped into a dream unlike any she had ever experienced.

In her dream, she found herself in a dimly lit room, the soft glow of a desk lamp casting a warm light across the tangled sheets. She was nestled into the crook of someone's arm, and the warmth of a body pressed against hers was surprisingly comforting. When she turned to look, she saw Jimin's face, his features soft and relaxed in sleep. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized she was wearing nothing but a thin tank top and panties.

Panic began to set in as she felt something foreign between her legs. A hand, warm and firm, was cupping her, and she realized with a jolt that it was Jimin's. She tried to sit up, but his grip tightened, pulling her closer. Her body responded in ways she didn't understand, a warmth spreading through her core that made her feel both terrified and excited.

Y/N's eyes flew open, and she found herself alone in her own bed, the sheets tangled around her body. Her heart raced as she looked down to find her panties soaked with arousal. She had never felt this way before, and was completely confused. Why the fuck was Jimin in her dream?

Her mind raced as she slipped out of bed, avoiding any contact with the sensitive flesh between her legs. She knew she had to wash away the feelings from the dream that clung to her skin like a sticky residue. Y/N padded quietly into the bathroom, the cold tile sending a shiver up her spine. She turned on the shower, letting the water warm up as she stared at her reflection in the steamy mirror. Her cheeks were still flushed from the dream, and she looked...different.

The showerhead spat out water, the droplets hitting the tiles with a rhythmic patter. Y/N stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her body. She tried to focus on the sensation of the water, the heat washing away the chill from her dream. But as she reached for the soap, her hand accidentally brushed against her swollen clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. She gasped and quickly jerked her hand away, her eyes wide with shock. What the fuck was that?

Her mind raced with thoughts of Jimin's hand on her in the dream, the way he had touched her with such confidence and familiarity. It had felt so...right. But it couldn't be right, could it? They were just friends. Best friends, even. Y/N had never thought of Jimin in that way before. She had always been too busy with school to think about boys or sex. And now, here she was, her body betraying her with these new, confusing sensations.

The next day, Y/N met Jimin in the crowded cafeteria, her heart pounding in her chest as she approached their usual table. She tried to play it cool, but her cheeks were still flushed from the thoughts that had plagued her all morning.

"Hey," Jimin said, his eyes flicking up from his phone. He was already digging into his turkey sub, mayo threatening to ooze out the sides. "How was your night?"

Y/N took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Fine," she said, setting her tray down with a clatter. Her plain salad looked unappetizing compared to Jimin's food. "How was yours?"

Jimin shrugged, his eyes never leaving his screen. "The usual," he said, his thumbs flying as he texted. "Did you finish that calculus assignment you were talking about yesterday?"

Y/N nodded, her voice slightly shaky. "Yeah," she said, trying to keep her cool. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

Jimin looked up from his phone, his dark eyes meeting hers. "What's up?"

Y/N took a deep breath, her heart racing. "Do people who like each other, you know, romantically...sleep together?"

Jimin swallowed a mouthful of his sandwich and nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah," he said casually, his gaze never leaving hers. "It's normal. You should know this, you're too innocent."

Y/N felt her face heat up. "I knew that," she lied, her voice a little too defensive. "I just...wanted to confirm."

Jimin studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Is there something you want to tell me, Y/N?"

Y/N's heart skipped a beat, and she quickly looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the mundane task of unraveling her plastic silverware. "No," she said, her voice a little too high. "It's just...for a project. I'm writing a paper on modern relationships for psychology class."

Jimin studied her for a moment, his eyes searching hers, but then he shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich. "Well, if you need any help with that, I'm your guy," he said with a smirk.

Y/N's stomach did a flip. The way he looked at her made her feel like he saw right through her lie, but she pushed the thought aside. "Thanks," she murmured, focusing on her salad.

But as she picked at her limp greens, her thoughts strayed back to the dream. She couldn't shake the feeling of his hand on her body, the way it had felt so natural and...right. Before she knew it, she had set her fork down and was eyeing Jimin's sandwich with a mix of curiosity and craving.

"You don't like your salad?" Jimin asked, noticing her lack of appetite.

Y/N shrugged nonchalantly. "It's fine," she said, "but can I have some of your sandwich?"

Jimin looked at her with a raised eyebrow, a smear of mayo on his cheek that she had the sudden urge to wipe away. "Ok."

He tore off a piece of his sandwich and held it out to her. Y/N leaned over, her mouth opening slightly as she took the offered morsel. His hand was warm, and the bread was surprisingly soft. She chewed slowly, her eyes staring off into space as she tasted the blend of turkey and mayo.

Jimin watched her, a smirk playing on his lips as he took a sip of his drink. "Taste good?"

Y/N nodded, the taste of the sandwich a revelation on her tongue. She had never tasted anything so delicious, so...sensual. OMG SHUT UP WEIRD ASS BRAIN, she mentally slapped herself.

"It's good," she murmured, her voice muffled by the food. "I'm gonna get a sandwich, too. This salad sucks."

Jimin chuckled, handing over the rest of his sandwich. "You can take mine," he said, his voice low and teasing. "I'll get a new one."

After school, Y/N's legs practically carried her to the nearest bathroom, her mind reeling from the same confusing sensation that had visited her the night before. She locked herself in the stall, her heart racing as she reached under her skirt. Sure enough, she felt the same wetness between her legs, confirming her fears. She was so lost in thought that she barely noticed the sound of the cafeteria doors slamming shut or the fading chatter of her classmates.

Her fingers touched the slick fabric of her panties, and she felt a mix of embarrassment and fascination. She had read about arousal in her biology textbook, but experiencing it firsthand was something entirely different. It was confusing and overwhelming, and she couldn't shake the image of Jimin from her mind. Why him? They had been friends for so long, and she had never felt this way before. It had to be the dream, didn't it?

Y/N leaned against the cool metal of the stall, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to make sense of her body's traitorous response. Her breathing grew heavy, and she felt a strange tension building in her stomach. Stop it, she told herself. She hastily wiped her hand on a piece of toilet paper and flushed the evidence away. When she stepped out, her pent up desire only increased.

For the rest of the month, Y/N found herself glancing at Jimin more often than usual. The way his shirt hugged his shoulders, the way he tucked his hair behind his ear, every little gesture seemed to hold a new allure. She tried to ignore it, burying her nose in her books, but every time she heard his laugh or felt his presence, she couldn't help but think about their shared moment in the dream. It was as if a secret part of her had been unlocked, and she didn't have the key to shut it away again.

One evening, as they were leaving the library, Jimin playfully shoved her into a deserted hallway. "You're so jumpy lately," he said, his eyes searching hers.

Y/N's heart hammered in her chest, her breath catching as she stumbled against the lockers. "I'm just tired," she said.

Jimin's gaze lingered on her, his smirk fading into something more contemplative. "You okay, Y/N?" he asked, his voice softer than usual.

Y/N nodded, trying to compose herself. "Yeah," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jimin leaned closer, his eyes searching hers. "You sure?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern. "I didn't wanna say anything earlier, but you've been acting weird for over a month now."

Y/N felt her throat tighten. She hadn't realized her feelings had been so transparent. "I'm fine," she said, her voice normal now. "Just a lot on my mind."

Jimin nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Well, if you ever need to talk," he said, "you know I'm here. I have and will always be here."

Y/N felt a strange flutter in her stomach. Did Jimin know? Did he feel the same way? She pushed the thought aside and forced a laugh. "Thanks," she said, "but it's just school stuff. You know how it is."

Jimin nodded, but his gaze remained intense. "Okay," he said, his voice filled with doubt. "But if it's something more..."

Y/N's thoughts raced. What if he did know? What if he had felt the same way in the dream? Her mind was a whirlwind of what-ifs and butterflies, and she needed to get out of there before she did something stupid. "It's nothing," she said, taking a step back. "I should get going. It's late."

Jimin studied her for a moment longer before nodding. "Alright," he said, his voice still gentle. "But if you need anything, just text."

Y/N nodded again, her cheeks still burning. She turned and practically sprinted out, her heart racing. As she stepped out into the cool night air, she took deep, gulping breaths, trying to calm herself down. What was happening to her? She had never felt this way about Jimin before. He was just her best friend, her confidant, her...She didn't want her stupid sexual horniness to be the reason for the end of their perfect friendship. It was the only thing perfect in her life.

For the next few weeks, Y/N researched ways to remove sexual thoughts from her mind, diving into psychology books and articles late into the night. She tried meditation, visualization, and even considered talking to the school counselor, but fear of embarrassment kept her tongue-tied. The more she tried to ignore her feelings, the stronger they grew. She found herself daydreaming about Jimin in class, imagining his hands on her, his lips against hers. It was all she could think about. It was so annoying.

One afternoon, they were in Jimin's room, studying for their upcoming exams. The air was thick with the scent of his cologne and the faint hint of sweat from their last-minute cramming session. Y/N's heart raced as she pretended to focus on her textbook. She could feel the heat of his body beside her, and every time their elbows brushed against each other, she felt an electric jolt.

"Hey, you okay?" Jimin asked, looking up from his notes.

Y/N's eyes snapped to meet his, her cheeks aflame. "What?" she squeaked.

Jimin frowned slightly. "You just zoned out there for a second," he said, concern etched into his handsome features. "You're not getting sick, are you?"

Y/N took a deep breath and hoped the flush in her cheeks would be mistaken for exertion. "No, I'm fine," she lied, trying to keep her voice steady.

But Jimin wasn't fooled. He set his pencil down, his eyes searching hers. "You don't look fine," he said, leaning over to place a hand on her forehead. "Maybe you're coming down with something."

The warmth of his hand was like a brand on her skin, setting off a chain reaction of sensations that made her body ache. She couldn't take it anymore. "I'm okay," she whispered, pushing herself off the bed. "I need to go to the bathroom."

Y/N practically sprinted down the hallway, her heart racing. She locked herself in the bathroom, her breaths coming in short gasps. She leaned against the cool porcelain sink, staring at her flustered reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were wild, her cheeks a fiery red.

With trembling hands, she pulled down her panties and sat on the edge of the tub. She had never done this before, but the need was overwhelming. She spread her legs slightly and tentatively touched herself, her fingertips brushing over her clit. It was like a live wire, sending bolts of pleasure through her body. She couldn't believe she had never tried this before. She began to stroke herself gently, her eyes fluttering shut as she gave in to the sensation.

Her breath grew ragged, and she leaned back against the cold porcelain, letting her head fall back. She didn't know what she was doing, but it felt so good. Her hips began to rock slightly, the pleasure building with each stroke. Without thinking, she moaned Jimin's name, the sound echoing in the small room.

And that's when she felt it-a sudden pressure against her back, a hand replacing hers between her legs. She froze, her eyes flying open to see Jimin standing right behind her. His hand, strong and sure, took over her trembling fingers, stroking her with a confidence that sent waves of shock and pleasure through her.

Y/N gasped, her body stiffening in surprise. "Jimin," she whimpered, but his name came out as more of a plea than a protest. "I'm sorry."

Jimin's eyes searched hers in the mirror, his expression unreadable. "Don't be sorry," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I've been watching you for months, Y/N. I knew something was up."

Y/N's heart hammered in her chest, her mind racing. "W-what do you mean?" she stuttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jimin leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "You've been so...distracted," he murmured, his hand still moving rhythmically between her legs. "I know you better than anyone. And I know that when you get like this, it means something's bothering you."

Y/N felt a mix of emotions-fear, excitement, and confusion-swirl within her. She had never been so exposed, so vulnerable, in front of anyone, even Jimin. But his touch was like a balm, soothing the ache she had been carrying around for weeks. She didn't know if she should stop him or if she even wanted to.

"Jimin," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What are you doing? What's happening to me? I'm so confused."

He leaned in closer, his hand still working between her legs. "It's okay, don't panic," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I'm going to help you."

Y/N's eyes remained fixed on their reflection in the mirror as Jimin's long, deft fingers continued their exploration. His touch grew bolder, slipping a digit inside her, the feeling so foreign yet surprisingly welcome. She bit her lip to stifle a moan as his hand moved in a slow, rhythmic pattern that mirrored the pulse of the blood in her veins.

"You're feeling this because you're growing, Y/N," he said, his voice calm and soothing, as if explaining a complex math problem. "Your body is changing, and so are your desires."

Y/N couldn't believe what was happening. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. But at the same time, she had never felt so alive. Jimin's fingers slid in and out of her, the sensation of his knuckles brushing against her clit with every stroke making her tremble. His touch was gentle, yet firm, as if he knew exactly what she needed without her having to say a word.

"Does it feel good?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet bathroom.

Y/N's eyes remained closed, her chest heaving with every breath. "Y-yes," she admitted, her voice shaking with each new wave of pleasure.

"Good," Jimin murmured, his eyes never leaving her face in the mirror. "You're doing great. Just let go, Y/N. I'm right here."

Y/N nodded, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. She felt the tension in her body slowly dissipate as she allowed herself to succumb to the sensations he was creating. His touch grew more insistent, his thumb circling her clit with precision. She couldn't believe she was letting him do this, but she was too lost in the moment to care.

"Jimin," she gasped as the warmth grew, her voice barely a whisper. "I think...I think I'm going to...Oh god!"

"It's okay," he murmured reassuringly, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. "That's it, Y/N. Just let it happen."

Y/N's body tensed as the warmth grew more intense, and she couldn't hold back a whine of panic. "Jimin," she choked out.

"Shh, it's okay," he soothed, his voice calm and steady. "Just keep breathing."

Y/N's eyes remained squeezed shut as the sensation grew stronger. She was on the precipice of something she didn't fully understand, and she was both terrified and exhilarated. She could feel her body tensing up, her muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap.

"Jimin," she gasped, her voice filled with a mix of fear and pleasure. "It's too much."

"That's good, Y/N," he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face in the mirror. "It means you're close."

Y/N's eyes squeezed shut tighter as the warmth grew into a crescendo. "I don't know if I can handle it," she whispered, her voice shaking.

"You can," Jimin assured her, his voice a soft rumble in her ear. "Just breathe with me, okay?"

Y/N nodded, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to follow his instructions. His hand never stopped moving, the pressure building until she couldn't take it anymore. "Oh god, Jimin," she moaned, her body writhing in his grasp.

"You're so close," Jimin whispered, his voice low and soothing. "Just let it happen."

With a loud gasp, Y/N came, her body convulsing in pleasure. It was a sensation she had never experienced before, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating. Jimin watched her in the mirror, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and fascination as he felt her pussy clench around his fingers.

"You're okay," he murmured, his hand slowing as the aftershocks of her orgasm rippled through her. "Just breathe."

Y/N nodded, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. "W-what was that?" she managed to ask, her voice trembling.

Jimin's hand remained between her legs, his thumb gently stroking her sensitive flesh. "That, Y/N," he said with a knowing smile, "was your first orgasm."

Y/N's cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she couldn't deny the intense pleasure that had just washed over her. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Jimin turned her around to face him, "For what?"

Y/N's eyes searched his, filled with confusion and a hint of fear. "For...for that," she said, gesturing to the space between them, still trembling from her climax. "What we just did...I...I was feeling, for lack of a better word, sexually deprived, for the past few months, and I needed that. I was slowly going insane. I guess my body was tired of being a virgin." She chuckled a bit to diffuse the tension, if there was any. Then, to hide her embarrassment, she hugged him, burying her face in his shoulder.

Jimin held her close, his arms strong and reassuring around her. "It's okay, Y/N," he murmured. "It's totally normal to explore your body and your feelings. And if you need help with that, I'm happy to be here for you. You didn't have to hide this from me."

Y/N pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a mix of embarrassment and relief. "I just didn't know what was happening," she said, her voice still a bit shaky. "I thought I was going crazy."

Jimin chuckled and brushed a stray hair out of her face. "You're not crazy, just growing up." He leaned in, his eyes searching hers. "If you ever need anything, you can always come to me."

Y/N felt a warmth spread through her at his words, but she was also scared of what that might mean for their friendship. "So like a friends with benefits kinda deal?"

Jimin couldn't help but laugh at this, "I'm surprised you even know what that is."

Y/N's cheeks flushed even deeper, "I've heard people talk about it in school."

Jimin's smile grew more gentle. "We're not exactly friends with benefits. It's more like, I help you whenever you need it. You should be paying me really."

Y/N's eyes widened in horror. "No, no way!" she exclaimed, pushing him away slightly. "You can't charge me for this!"

Jimin chuckled, his grip on her not loosening. "I'm just kidding, Y/N," he said, his voice low and warm. "I'd never charge you for anything."

Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. She'd get over her romantic feelings for him, as long as their friendship remained intact, she was okay.

"Okay, let's do it," she said, her voice stable now. "But you can't tell anyone, okay? There's gonna think I'm a lame, inexperienced virgin."

Jimin chuckled, "I'm not going to tell anyone. Pinky promise." He held up his pinky, smiling reassuringly.

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. She linked her pinky with his, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. "Okay, pinky promise," she agreed.

The next time Y/N was in need of 'Jimin's services' was Wednesday of the following week. After school, Jimin noticed Y/N was walking awkwardly to his car.

"Is everything okay?" Jimin asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Y/N looked up at him, her cheeks a deep shade of red. "I'm...wet."

Jimin raised an eyebrow, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Ah," he said, his voice gentle. "Let's go to my place then."

Once they were safely in his room with the door locked, Y/N couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves. She sat on the bed, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "Are you gonna do the same thing as last time?" she asked, her voice genuinely curious.

Jimin sat beside her, chuckling, "I was actually thinking of something else."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. "What is it?" she asked, her eyes searching his for an answer.

Jimin's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Something different," he said, his voice a seductive whisper. "Lay back."

Y/N did as she was told, her heart racing as she felt him push her back onto the bed. His hands slid down her hips, deftly unbuttoning her pants before tugging them off along with her panties. She couldn't believe this was happening again, but the anticipation was too intense to deny.

"Jimin," she gasped as his mouth moved to her navel, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin. "What are you doing? That tickles!"

He looked up at her with a grin, his eyes filled with mischief. "You'll like this, I promise," he said before lowering his head again.

Y/N felt his warm breath on her skin as he trailed kisses down her stomach, her body shivering with anticipation. He paused for a moment at the top of her mound, his nose nuzzling her clit before his tongue darted out to taste her. She moaned, her hands gripping the bedsheets.

"Oh god, Jimin," she gasped as his mouth fully latched onto her.

"Mm," he murmured against her, his tongue swirling around her clit with practiced ease. "You taste so sweet."

Y/N couldn't believe this was happening. Jimin's mouth was between her legs, his tongue expertly navigating her folds as she lay there, writhing with pleasure. She felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment, but the feeling was quickly replaced with a delicious heat that spread from her core to the rest of her body. "Oh, fuck," she moaned, her hands fisting in the bed sheets.

"You like that?" Jimin's voice was muffled against her skin, but the smirk in his tone was unmistakable.

Y/N's body arched off the bed as his tongue swiped over her clit, the sensation making her eyes roll back. "Y-yes," she managed to choke out, her voice strained with pleasure.

Jimin's eyes flickered up to meet hers, a smug grin on his face. "I knew you'd like it," he murmured before diving back in.

Y/N's hips bucked, her body no longer her own as Jimin's tongue danced over her sensitive bud. "Oh my god," she moaned, her voice hoarse. "I never knew it felt like this."

Jimin's eyes twinkled with mirth as he watched her reaction in the mirror. "You're so responsive," he murmured, his mouth still full of her.

Y/N's cheeks flamed even more, but she couldn't argue with the pleasure coursing through her. "I've never...oh...fuck," she panted, her hips bucking against his mouth.

"Shh," Jimin murmured, placing a hand on her hip to hold her in place. "Just lie back and let me taste you."

Y/N's body responded to his touch, her legs falling open wider as his tongue delved deeper into her wetness. She couldn't believe the sounds coming from her own mouth, the whimpers and gasps that filled the room. Her body was a symphony of sensations, each stroke of his tongue a crescendo building towards something unimaginable.

"Oh Jimin, oh my god," she moaned, her voice growing more desperate. His mouth was insistent, his tongue relentless as it flicked against her clit. She felt her body tense, her muscles tightening as she approached the precipice of climax.

"Mm, you're so close," Jimin murmured. He slid a finger inside her, his mouth still working its magic on her sensitive nub. The dual sensation was too much, and with a sharp gasp, Y/N's body convulsed as she came.

Her eyes rolled back, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming his name as she felt the warmth of his mouth on her, drinking her in. It was a strange sensation, one she hadn't anticipated, but it only added to the intensity of her orgasm. Her body trembled as she rode the wave, the pleasure crashing over her like a tsunami.

"Oh, fuck, Jimin," she moaned, her hips bucking as she reached her peak. She felt his tongue delve deeper, lapping up her juices with a hunger that surprised her. As she came down from her climax, she watched, her cheeks burning, as Jimin pulled back, his mouth glistening.

Jimin plopped next to Y/N in his bed, his cheek propped up by his hand as he studied her face with a smug smile. Y/N, on the other hand, was a flustered mess, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath.

"Why did you do that?" she finally managed to ask, her voice still shaky from the intensity of the orgasm.

"Do what?" Jimin asked.

Y/N felt her face burn even hotter. "You...you drank it," she whispered, her eyes unable to meet his. "It probably tastes bad."

Jimin leaned in closer, his smile growing more mischievous. "Why don't you tell me?" he suggested, his eyes gleaming with challenge. He held his wet finger up to her lips, the taste of her own arousal still lingering on his skin.

Y/N's eyes widened with shock, but there was a flicker of curiosity in them as well. She didn't know what to say, but she didn't pull away as he brought his finger closer. She could see her own juices glistening on him, and she felt a strange sense of power in knowing that she was the one who had made him taste that way.

"Open up," Jimin urged, his voice a gentle command. Y/N's heart was racing, but she did as she was told, parting her lips slightly. He traced his finger along the seam of her mouth, leaving a trail of wetness that she couldn't help but follow with her tongue."Mmm," she murmured, the taste of herself foreign and yet oddly intimate. "It's not bad," she admitted, a hint of surprise in her voice.

Jimin's eyes danced with mirth. "Told you," he said, his voice low and teasing. "It's fucking amazing."

Y/N's cheeks were on fire, but she couldn't deny the curiosity that had her leaning in closer. "You're just saying that because you have to. You're my best friend," she said, kicking him with her leg.

Jimin chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I'm not just saying it."

Y/N looked at him skeptically before getting up and putting her panties and pants back on. She had to remind herself that Jimin was only teaching her, not her actual lover. "Okay, okay," she said, trying to regain composure. "I'm gonna head to my place. I'll see you later."

That night, Jimin found himself tossing and turning in bed, his thoughts consumed by Y/N's sweet taste and the sounds of her pleasure still echoing in his ears. He had never expected his friendship with her to take such an intimate turn, but the way she had responded to him, the way she had looked at him in the mirror, had stirred something within him that he couldn't ignore.

As he drifted off to sleep, an image of her flitted into his mind-her soft, plump lips parted in a gasp, her eyes wide and filled with wonder as she came for the first time with his mouth on her. He felt his cock stir, and before he knew it, he was lost in a sea of sensation.

The dream began as most of his sex dreams did: with the girl of the moment, her body writhing under his. But as he sank into the warmth, the face above him shifted, morphing into Y/N's, her dark eyes meeting his with a vulnerability that was so raw it took his breath away. The setting changed from a faceless hotel room to the library where they studied together, the books forgotten as their bodies entangled on the cold, hard floor.

Her skin was soft, her touch tentative, and her kisses were gentle-so different from the rough, passionate encounters he was used to. The way she whispered his name, the way she looked at him with a mix of fear and desire, it all felt so...real. In the dream, he could feel the weight of her emotions, her innocence, and it was intoxicating. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before, and it was terrifying.

Jimin woke up in the middle of the night, his heart racing, his sheets a tangled mess around his legs. His cock was rock hard, and he was covered in a sheen of sweat. He looked around his dark room, trying to shake off the images of Y/N that still lingered in his mind. It was just a dream, he told himself, but the ache in his chest didn't agree. He had had wet dreams before-about his past flings, about the girls he had dated-but none had ever left him feeling like this.

In the dream, Y/N's eyes had been so wide and full of wonder, her body responding to his touch with an innocence that was almost painful to watch. It was as if she was discovering a new world, and he was her guide. He had felt a strange sense of protectiveness, a need to be gentle with her, to show her all the wonders that sex could bring without scaring her away.

The intimacy of the dream was what had really thrown him off. In his past relationships, sex had been more about the act itself, the chase and the conquest. But with Y/N, it was about her. It was about her pleasure, her reactions, the way her body moved with his. It was about the connection between them, the unspoken bond that had grown over the years. And as he watched her come in his dream, her face contorted with pleasure, something shifted within him. Did he...like her? Like, really like her? Not just as a friend?

Jimin sat up in bed, his heart racing. He had to get out of there before he started thinking about it too much. He threw on some sweats and a t-shirt, and grabbed his phone. Maybe scrolling through memes would help. He opened his door and almost collided with Y/N, who was standing in the hallway, looking just as flustered as he felt.

"H-hey," he said, his eyes wide with surprise. "What are you doing here? It's midnight."

Y/N's cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. "I had a...a question," she stuttered, holding up her phone. "I couldn't sleep and I didn't know who else to ask."

Jimin leaned against the doorframe, his heart thumping in his chest. He couldn't believe she was here. "What's up?" he asked casually, trying to hide his nerves.

Y/N fidgeted, her eyes darting to the floor. "You already know this but...I've never been kissed before. And I was wondering if...you're okay with it...if you could maybe...kiss me?"

Jimin's eyes widened in surprise, his mind racing. He had never seen Y/N like this before, so vulnerable and exposed. It was jarring, and for a moment, he didn't know how to respond. "Kiss you?" he echoed, his voice sounding unnaturally high.

Y/N's cheeks grew even redder, and she nodded, her eyes pleading. "Yeah, I know it's weird, but I had this...this dream about you, and it was so intense, and I just want to know what a kiss feels like. Just one. It's not a big deal, really. You don't have to if you don't want to," she rambled, her voice speeding up as she tried to fill the awkward silence. "I just...I need to know what it's like, you know? Oh my god, did I just tell you about the dream? That's so embarrassing. I'm sorry, I'm just really confused right now. I'll just go."

Before she could turn and leave, Jimin reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Wait," he said, his voice low and gruff. He pulled her towards him, and she stumbled slightly, her eyes widening as she looked up at him.

"What are you-" she began, but her words were cut off as Jimin's mouth crashed down onto hers. It was a kiss that took her by surprise, a kiss filled with passion and need that she had never felt before. His lips were soft and insistent, his hands sliding around her waist to hold her against him as he deepened the kiss.

Y/N's mind went blank with shock and pleasure as she felt his tongue slide against hers. It was nothing like she had imagined, nothing like the chaste pecks she had seen in movies or read about in books. This was raw and real, and it made her heart race in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.

Her arms wound around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as she kissed him back, her inexperience shining through in the way she clung to him. But Jimin didn't seem to mind. He kissed her like he had been waiting for this moment for a long time, his hands roaming her body as if he was trying to memorize every inch of her.

Y/N felt herself melt into him, her body responding to his touch in a way she never thought possible. She had never felt this kind of desire, this kind of need before. It was overwhelming and exhilarating all at once.

As they broke for air, Jimin looked down at her, his eyes dark with lust. "Is that what you wanted?" he asked, his voice thick with want.

Y/N nodded, her breathing ragged. "Yes," she whispered, her eyes still closed. "Thank you."

Jimin's thumb traced her jaw, his gaze intense. "You liked it?"

Y/N nodded again, her eyes still glued to the floor. "Mmhmm," she murmured shyly.

"Look at me," Jimin's voice was firm, his hand sliding to the back of her neck and tilting her face up. She reluctantly opened her eyes, her cheeks still stained with a deep blush.

The intensity in his gaze took her aback. His hand on her ass was possessive, but his touch on her neck was gentle, almost tender. "I want to see your face when you tell me you liked it," he said, his eyes searching hers.

Y/N swallowed hard, her eyes fluttering open. The sight of him so close, so intense, made her heart race even more. "I liked it," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Jimin's grip on her neck tightened, his eyes searching hers for any hint of doubt. "Good girl," he said, his voice gruff.

Y/N felt a thrill run down her spine at his praise. He leaned down again, his hand sliding down to cup her ass. This time, she didn't flinch. Instead, she arched into him, her body craving more of his touch. Jimin's eyes darkened at her response, and he took it as an invitation. He pulled her closer, pressing her against the length of his body.

With a swift movement, he deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping into her mouth. Y/N gasped, and he took full advantage, pushing his tongue further in to explore her. The sensation was overwhelming, a dance of passion that she had only dreamt of. She felt like she was drowning in the heat of his embrace, but she didn't want it to end.

Her hands moved from his shoulders to his back, her nails digging into his skin as she tried to get closer. She had never felt this way before, never experienced this kind of raw desire. It was as if her entire body was on fire, and only Jimin could extinguish the flames.

As the kiss grew more intense, Jimin's hands began to wander, cupping her breasts over her shirt. Y/N gasped into his mouth, the sensation making her toes curl. He broke the kiss, his eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation. She could see the question in his eyes: was this okay? But she was too far gone to care. She nodded, her breathing heavy and shallow.

Jimin's hands moved with more purpose, his thumbs rubbing circles around her hardened nipples. Y/N felt her knees buckle, but he held her up, his grip firm and reassuring. He pushed her back onto the wall, his body pressing into hers, the heat between them almost unbearable. He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as his hands moved to the hem of her shirt.

Y/N's mind was racing with the sensations, the feeling of his body against hers, the taste of him on her lips. She had never been this close to anyone before, never felt this desired. She didn't know how to process it all, but she didn't want it to stop. Her own hands moved to his hips, pulling him closer as she felt his erection press against her.

Jimin's eyes searched hers, looking for consent, and she gave it willingly, her nod almost imperceptible. He took the cue, his hands moving up to unbutton her shirt, his mouth never leaving her neck. She shivered as the cool air hit her bare skin, his breath hot against her.

With a swift tug, her shirt was off, and he took a moment to drink in the sight of her. Her bra was simple, but the way it hugged her curves made his cock throb even more. "You're beautiful," he murmured against her ear, his voice thick with lust and love.

Y/N blushed, her hands moving to cover herself instinctively, but Jimin's hands stopped her, holding them at her sides. "Don't," he said firmly. "Let me see you."

He reached behind her and unclasped her bra, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes devoured her, taking in every inch of her exposed flesh. "You're so fucking perfect," he murmured, his voice hoarse with need.

Y/N felt a thrill of excitement and fear as she stood before him, naked from the waist up. But Jimin's eyes were filled with nothing but desire and admiration, and it was all she needed to push aside her insecurities. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Jimin leaned in, capturing her mouth in another fiery kiss as his hands roamed her bare skin. His touch was like electricity, sending shockwaves through her body and making her nipples peak even further. She moaned into his mouth, her body begging for more.

With a gentle bite to her lower lip, Jimin broke the kiss and moved his mouth down to her chest. His tongue traced the edge of her areola before flicking against her nipple. Y/N gasped, her body jolting at the sensation. She had never felt anything so intense, so personal. It was as if he was worshiping her, and she was powerless to resist.

He took her nipple into his mouth, suckling gently before increasing the pressure. Y/N's back arched, her nails digging into his back as she let out a whimper. "Mm, you like that, baby girl?" he murmured, his breath hot against her skin.

Y/N nodded, her eyes screwed shut in pleasure. "Yes," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "More."

Jimin chuckled, the sound vibrating against her skin. He took her other nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing it lightly before his tongue swirled around it. She felt her legs give out, but his arms were there to catch her, holding her up against the wall as he continued to kiss and bite her sensitive flesh.

With his free hand, Jimin reached down and began to unbuckle his pants. Y/N's eyes widened as he pushed them down along with his boxers, his cock springing free. It was the first time she had seen one in person, and she couldn't help but stare. It was larger and more intimidating than she had ever imagined, the tip glistening with precum.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of excitement and fear.

Jimin stepped out of his pants and underwear, his erection standing tall and proud before her.

"I want you to touch me, Y/N," he said, his voice low and velvety. "I need to feel your hands on me."

Y/N's eyes remained glued to his cock, a mix of curiosity and trepidation swirling within her. She had never done this before, never even seen one up close. It was both fascinating and intimidating. "How?" she asked, her voice small.

Jimin took her hand and brought it to his erection, wrapping her trembling fingers around it. "Like this," he said, guiding her hand to stroke him gently. His eyes never left hers, watching as she tentatively began to move her hand up and down.

Y/N's breath hitched as she felt the warmth and hardness of him in her hand. It was a strange and powerful feeling, knowing she had this kind of effect on him. She tightened her grip slightly, feeling him twitch in response. He groaned into her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. "That's it, baby," he murmured.

Encouraged by his reaction, she began to move her hand more confidently, her curiosity growing. She felt his hand guide her, showing her the pace and pressure he liked. It was strange, feeling him this way, but it was also incredibly thrilling.

"Good girl," he whispered, his breath hot against her neck, sending shivers down her spine. "Just like that."

Y/N's hand grew more confident, her curiosity turning into a need to please him. She watched his face for any signs of what he liked, his eyes fluttering closed as he let out a soft moan. His hand slid down to her waist, pulling her closer until she could feel the heat of his cock against her stomach.

Her thumb swiped over the wet tip, spreading the precum, and Jimin's hips jerked forward. "Fuck," he murmured, his hand tightening on her hip. "That's it."

Y/N felt a surge of power knowing she could affect him like this, her thumb continuing to glide over his cock as she watched his face contort with pleasure. She could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tensed and released as she explored him.

Without a second thought, she leaned down, her eyes still locked with his, and took him into her mouth. The feeling was strange, but the taste was not unpleasant, a mix of salt and musk. She felt him jerk in surprise, his eyes going wide before they rolled back in his head.

She moved her head tentatively, taking in his girth as much as she could. Jimin's hand found her hair, his fingers threading through it as he guided her, showing her the rhythm that he liked."Fuck, Y/N," he breathed out, his voice strained. "You're so fucking good at this."

Y/N didn't respond, instead focusing on the task at hand. She felt the tip of his cock hit the back of her throat, and she gagged slightly. Jimin noticed and pulled back immediately, his hand coming to her cheek. "It's okay," he murmured, his eyes filled with concern. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

But Y/N's eyes were determined. She leaned back in, her mouth open and eager, taking him deeper than before. The sensation was strange, but she liked it. Liked the way he felt, liked the way he tasted. Liked the way his hands tightened in her hair and the low, guttural sounds he made when she hit just the right spot.

Jimin groaned, his voice strained. "Keep going, just like that, baby."

Y/N took his advice, her cheeks hollowing as she bobbed her head up and down his length. Her eyes watered, but she didn't stop, driven by a newfound desire to bring him to the edge.

"Mm, yes," Jimin groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and disbelief. "Fuck."

Y/N felt his cock twitch in her mouth, his grip on her hair tightening. She didn't know what she was doing, but the sounds he was making were like music to her ears. She moved her head faster, her tongue swirling around the tip as she took him in deeper.

With a loud groan, Jimin's body stiffened, his hips thrusting into her mouth once, twice, before he released a hot stream of cum down her throat. She choked slightly, unprepared for the intensity of the moment. But she swallowed, eager to please him, her eyes never leaving his as she tasted him for the first time.

His orgasm seemed to last forever, his cock pulsing in her mouth as he filled her with his release. Y/N felt a strange mix of pride and shock as she realized she had brought him to climax. When he finally pulled back, she took a deep breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Jimin's eyes searched hers, looking for any signs of regret or discomfort. But all he saw was a hunger that matched his own. He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss, his tongue sliding against hers as he tasted himself on her lips. "Fuck, Y/N," he murmured against her mouth. "That was...that was amazing."

Y/N's eyes sparkled with excitement and a hint of pride. "I liked it, too," she confessed.

Jimin smiled, his eyes darkening with desire. "I've got something else to show you," he said, his voice low and husky. He pushed her against the wall, his cock rubbing her clit, her legs trembling with anticipation.

With a gentle nudge, he positioned himself at her entrance, his cock slick with precum and her own arousal. Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she felt the tip of him pushing against her. "Relax," he murmured, his voice soothing. "I'll go slow, okay?"

Y/N nodded, her eyes wide with both fear and anticipation. "Okay," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I trust you."

With those words, Jimin pushed forward, entering her slowly. Y/N gasped as she felt herself stretch around him, the sensation both painful and exhilarating. "You're so tight, baby," he groaned, his eyes never leaving hers. "So perfect."

"It hurts a little," Y/N whispered, her eyes watering as she felt the pressure build.

"I know, it's your first time," Jimin said through gritted teeth, his own desire warring with his need to be gentle. "Just breathe, okay?"

Y/N took a deep breath, her eyes squeezed shut as she felt herself stretching around him. "Okay," she managed, her voice shaky.

"Good girl," Jimin murmured, pushing in a little further. "You're doing so well."

Y/N's eyes were snapped shut, her teeth gritted against the pain that grew with every inch of Jimin's cock that entered her. "Baby, relax," he said. "Open your eyes for me."

With a shaky breath, she did as he asked, and his gaze bore into hers, a mix of concern and passion. "You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Jimin pushed in further, his movements slow and deliberate, watching her face for any signs of distress. Suddenly, her pain transformed into something else, something more profound. Y/N felt a pressure building inside her, a pleasure she had never felt before. She was lost in the sensation, her eyes still locked on Jimin's. She felt a warmth inside her growing.

"Come for me, Y/N," he whispered, his voice a mix of command and desperation. "I need to feel you come."

Y/N's eyes widened, the pressure inside her building to an unbearable crescendo. She didn't know how she knew, but she could feel it coming. Her hips bucked upward, meeting his rhythm, her walls tightening around him. "Jimin," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.

He increased his pace, his strokes more deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. "Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice a low rumble in her ear.

Y/N's breaths grew more rapid, her body tightening around him like a vice. The pressure grew until she couldn't contain it anymore, and she shattered into a million pieces, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm. She screamed out his name, her nails digging into his back as she rode the waves of pleasure.

Jimin watched her with awe and a hint of pride, his own release building. He felt her walls clench around him, her body pulsing with every spasm of pleasure. He couldn't hold back anymore. With a roar, he drove into her one last time, filling her with his cum.

Their breaths mingled, their bodies slick with sweat. For a moment, they stayed like that, connected in a way that went beyond friendship. Jimin leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, his arms tightening around her.

Y/N's eyes were glazed over, her body still trembling from the intensity of her orgasm. She felt filled and complete, like a puzzle piece finally snapping into place. "Jimin," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers, his breaths coming in pants. "Mhmhmm?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Can we...you stay in me for a while?" Y/N asked, her voice still shaky.

Jimin's eyes searched hers, his expression a mix of tenderness and lust. "Of course," he murmured, kissing her gently.

He remained still, his cock still buried deep within her, allowing her to feel the full extent of his warmth and presence. Y/N's eyes drifted closed, her breathing slowly returning to normal as she savored the feeling of their bodies joined together. She had never felt so alive, so wanted.

"Y/N," Jimin whispered, his arms still wrapped around her waist, holding her close.

Y/N's eyes looked at his, lost in the sensation of his warmth inside her and the way he looked at her. "Mm?" she responded, her breaths evening out.

Jimin's voice was gentle, his thumb caressing her cheek. "I like like you."

Y/N's eyes widened at his confession. It was the first time he had admitted any romantic feelings towards her, and she felt like her heart was going to burst out of her chest. "I like like you, too."

He kissed her again, this time softer and more lingering, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips. She opened for him eagerly, her arms wrapping around his neck as they deepened the kiss. Their bodies remained connected, their hearts beating in sync.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N felt a warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the aftermath of their passion. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with hope and vulnerability. "So now what?" she whispered.

Jimin's gaze searched hers as a smile plastered on his face. "Now I'm your boyfriend."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. "Your...girlfriend?" she asked, her voice tentative.

Jimin nodded, a soft smile playing on his lips. "If you'll have me," he said, his eyes searching hers.

Y/N felt her heart race, her cheeks flushing at the realization of what this meant. "I will," she replied, her voice barely audible.

Jimin leaned in for another kiss, this one gentle and reassuring. He slowly pulled out of her, and Y/N felt an unexpected pang of loss, but it was quickly replaced with sleep as he lifted her in his arms, bridal style. "Sleep with me," he murmured, carrying her to the bed.

Y/N nodded, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and satisfaction. She allowed him to lay her down, and she snuggled into his embrace, his arm around her waist, his cock still semi-hard against her thigh. They lay there, their bodies entwined, listening to each other's hearts beat in the quiet room.

It was a moment of pure contentment, a moment where their friendship had morphed into something more, something that neither of them had anticipated but both desperately craved. Jimin's hand caressed her skin, his thumb tracing the curve of her hip. Y/N's hand found his, lacing their fingers together.

As they lay in silence, the gravity of their situation began to settle in. They had crossed a line, and there was no going back. But as she felt the steady beat of his heart against her chest, Y/N knew that she didn't want to. For the first time, she felt seen, desired, and loved in a way she had only dreamed of.

Jimin's hand slid down her body, his fingers playing with the folds between her legs. She shivered at the sensation, her body still sensitive from their lovemaking. He chuckled softly. "I can't get enough of you," he whispered, his voice filled with a newfound tenderness that sent butterflies fluttering through her stomach.

Y/N blushed, snuggling closer to him, her heart racing with excitement. "Go to sleep," she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest.

"Fine," he said, his hand coming to rest on her lower stomach. His breaths grew even, and she could feel his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek. Soon she was asleep too.

The next day at school, Y/N was a bundle of nerves. Jimin had handed her a small, unassuming package before they parted ways that morning, his eyes twinkling with mischief. She had opened it in the bathroom to find a small, pink vibrator and a wireless remote. "Wear this all day," he had whispered, his voice thick with excitement. "And I'll surprise you."

Y/N had blushed furiously, but something about the daring thrill of it all had her agreeing. She slid the toy into her panties, the cool plastic against her sensitive flesh sending a shiver down her spine. As she walked to her first class, she could feel it nestled inside her, a constant reminder of the secret they now shared.

Her first class was calculus, a subject she had always found challenging. She took her usual seat in the front, her heart racing as she spotted Jimin sitting in the back, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. The teacher, Mr. Thomas, was notorious for his random, on-the-spot questions, and she could feel Jimin's eyes on her, watching, waiting.

As the lesson droned on, she found it difficult to focus, her mind wandering to the night before and the feel of Jimin inside her. She was jolted back to reality when Mr. Thomas called on her, asking a complex question that she hadn't quite caught. Panic set in, and she stumbled over her words, trying to piece together an answer.

Jimin's smirk grew wider from his spot in the back, his thumb hovering over the button of the small, unassuming device in his pocket. The anticipation was palpable as she took a deep breath to compose herself. The moment she began to speak, his thumb pressed down, and the vibrations shot through her.

Y/N's eyes widened, and she bit her lip to stifle a gasp as the vibrator came to life. She felt her cheeks flush and her pussy clench around the toy, her legs pressing together involuntarily. She stumbled over her words, trying to maintain her composure as the pleasure grew more intense.

Mr. Thomas looked at her quizzically, obviously noticing her distraction. "Miss Y/N?" he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N's heart was racing as she struggled to focus on the problem at the board. She felt Jimin's eyes on her, the silent challenge in his gaze making her pulse quicken. "I...I just need a moment," she managed to say, her voice shaky.

Mr. Thomas nodded, turning to write something down on his desk. The second his back was turned, Y/N's eyes darted to Jimin, who had the audacity to wink at her. She narrowed her eyes, but she couldn't help the smirk that played on her lips. This was a game she hadn't known she wanted to play.

Jimin leaned back in his chair, his hand still in his pocket, fingering the remote. Y/N could feel the vibrations intensifying, making it almost impossible to concentrate. She squirmed in her seat, her eyes flicking to the clock on the wall, willing the minutes to pass.

Mr. Thomas turned back, "Miss Y/N, are you ready to answer my question now?"

Y/N took a deep breath, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke. "Yes, the answer is 2." She could feel Jimin's eyes on her, his smirk growing wider as he played with the intensity of the vibrator, the buzzing a secret symphony of pleasure between them.

The class droned on, but the focus was no longer on the equations scribbled across the whiteboard. It was on the delicious torment pulsing through her core, the silent battle of wills that had become the rhythm of their morning. Each time she began to get comfortable, Jimin would crank up the vibrations, and she'd have to fight not to moan or squirm in her chair.

The moment Mr. Thomas called for a short break, the tension in the room was palpable. Y/N took the opportunity to stand, her legs shaking with the effort to keep herself upright. She hoped the movement would help disperse the heat pooling between her thighs, but she had underestimated Jimin's determination. The second she was vertical, the vibrations kicked into overdrive, sending her knees wobbling.

Her eyes shot to Jimin's, desperation and pleading mingling in her gaze. He simply grinned, his thumb pressing down on the remote. The vibrator inside her reached full power, and she felt like she was going to collapse. She bit down hard on her lip to keep from crying out, her eyes watering with the effort to maintain her composure.

Y/N's knees buckled, and she reached out to grab the edge of the desk, her knuckles turning white. She felt a hand on her back, and suddenly Jimin was there, his strong arms supporting her. "Wet for me?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that only she could hear.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and she nodded, her breath coming in pants. "Yes," she managed to whisper.

The second she nodded, Jimin's thumb pressed down, the vibrations reaching their peak intensity. The room spun around her, and she felt like she was going to come right there in the middle of calculus class. But before she could, she felt lips on her ear, Jimin's voice a soft, seductive whisper. "Not yet," he said, his breath hot against her skin. "Hold it in."

Y/N bit her lip hard, her eyes squeezed shut as she fought against the waves of pleasure threatening to crash over her. The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and she had never been so grateful for the chaos of students shuffling out of the room. Jimin's arm remained around her waist, his hand in her pocket, guiding her out of the classroom and into the empty hallway.

"Jimin, please, make it stop," she whispered, her voice shaking with need.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "But you said you could handle it," he teased, his thumb playing with the button on the remote, the vibrations fluctuating in response to his touch.

Y/N's eyes rolled back in her head as she tried to stand on trembling legs. "I didn't know it would be this intense," she breathed.

Jimin's smirk grew wider as he leaned in closer, his mouth brushing against her ear. "You like it," he said, his voice a low growl of satisfaction. "Admit it."

Y/N couldn't help the whine that escaped her lips as the vibrations grew stronger. "I do," she admitted, her cheeks flushing. "But I can't walk like this."

Jimin chuckled, the sound sending shivers down her spine. "Fine," he said, the vibrations dying down to a gentle hum. He leaned in, his voice a soft whisper. "Just for now."

Y/N's eyes snapped open, glaring at him with mock irritation. "You're evil," she murmured, but her voice was laced with affection.

Jimin chuckled, his grip on her tightening. "Only when it comes to you, my love," he whispered, his thumb tracing circles on her hipbone.

Y/N's eyes narrowed, but she couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. She leaned into him, the warmth of his body seeping into her. "You're going to pay for this," she said playfully.

Jimin's eyes danced with mischief. "Looking forward to it," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her lips.

95 notes · View notes

hoseoksluna · 6 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.