#jhs smut

[hoseoksluna]

BLACKBERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!hobi x berries!oc

genre: smut, angst

word count: 6.1k

summary: opening jungkook's message brought in a blessing and a curse.

pinterest board: blackberries / taglist: join

warnings: breeding kink, raw sex, hobi rubs your clit......., provider!hobi, talks of pregnancy, slight nipple play, oc cries, ruined sex and orgasm, swearing, spanking, talks of punishment, heavy daddy issues

note: i loved every minute of writing this part, so i'm happy to bring it to you, finally. it brought a lot of clarity and direction as i was writing mindlessly all this time. this series will have one or two more parts (probably two more) and then i'll finally be done writing about two members:D. i love you, guys, so much. let me know what you think. i miss you. i hope you like this as much as i do. <3

The morning has spilled in like a friend through the dusky pink curtains, casting a soft light over the place Hobi is focusing on as he’s buried in your femininity, balls-deep. Lingering there as if he was nesting at home. 

You haven’t slept a wink. Neither has he, restless by your sadness-induced insomnia, zapped with consistent life by the threat that lit up your phone when drowsiness asked for your hand, longing to take you to its kingdom. If you were to become a princess, the matter was snatched away from you—or rather tossed back and forth as you drifted in and out of that threshold. Hobi suggested to you to open the attachment sent in the message, rip the skeleton out of the closet and burn it in celebration of your wedding, so you could rest… but you couldn’t. You were fearful and you lacked courage, because you knew that if you were to make your eyes the witness of what regret has forced Jungkook to do, calmness wouldn’t have been the embrace you sought. 

That is, if regret was truly the wave of emotion that swam past those starlit irises of his. You don’t trust your memories anymore—they’ve become a chaos of mist that you get stuck in when you dare to wade in it. And it’s so peculiar that you have to do it willfully, instead of being wholly swallowed by them, instead of being so unfairly and awfully haunted by them that there’s nothing left for you to do but to relive the anguish over and over again. 

To Hobi’s suggestion, you proposed to wait until the morning comes and the new day’s strength and possibilities greet you. You don’t really know where you found this wisp of positivity in you, but you twiddled with it all night, acknowledging yourself with it. The full moon rose up high in the blackness of the sleeping heavens, no cloud covered its magnificent light shining wistfully over the way Hobi spooned you and it gave you the notion, the whim to be as bare as it was. He had marked you with its phase, foreshadowed this flourishment with its crescent likeness on the flesh of your thigh, so you figure it’s only right that you use it when it’s right in front of you—that you complete it, make it full. 

You are going to confront Jungkook. Take the other end of this blanket’s pained darkness and flip it to its other side. Let the moonlight have it as you watch, hands by your side. Let the rays sweep it clean of its thick dust until it resembles its very own face. End the relationship once and for all. 

That means talking to him in a way that doesn’t correspond to the emotional violence that occurred hours ago. That means killing it with kindness, not raising your voice, nor your fists. And you wish to do it alone—without Hobi’s presence. You’re aware that if he were there, it would be proper. And not only that, he would also step in if the situation asked for it, but something tells you that this time… it’s not going to be a fight. 

It’s going to be a calm conversation between two humans that used to be close. 

This notion had been whispered to you the moment the light of your phone died until the sun awakened. Its voice kept you uneasy and fidgety—partly because you don’t know to whom the voice belonged to, partly because you simply don’t trust yourself. Being mean and uncompromising with him served as a shield. You don’t know what’s going to happen once you’re in a room with him all defenseless, but you have to risk it. 

You’ve been feeling very intensely that it’s meant to happen. 

It’s what Hobi has been feeling as well, taking your jitteriness in his grasp and kissing it away. He had begun at the nape of your neck and your shoulder and you encouraged him by closing your hand over his and leading it beneath the duvet, thinking that perhaps if you head into this direction of his holy lust, you’d find answers, you’d find instructions, words you could use later to unravel to Jungkook. You regarded his unfolding responsibility over your emotions as so terribly fatherly—grounding and validating that it aroused you; it soaked your little pajama shorts that he had dressed you in and the low gasp that reached your ears when he discovered it with the guided movement of his fingers… it felt better than any hit of the blackberry vape he bought you. 

Hence why you hushed your disagreement when Hobi shifted, craving to taste you. You wanted the clasp of the connection between you and him fully shut by having him inside you, and so you reached behind yourself, grabbed that intimate part of him to stroke him, to get him fully erect, letting go of him only for a brief moment to drag your shorts and underwear down. You didn’t perceive his hesitancy until he took a hold of your hasty hand, shadowing it with his palm against your knuckles like he had done yesterday in his car. 

His breath trembled before he spoke. “You’re not prepared enough for me.” 

You didn’t find your words until he sank his fingers between yours, another grounding sensation washing over you as he guided your hand to the parts of his manhood that feel the most stimulating for him. The tip of his cock and down his balls, his kids that he had promised that were yours. The essence of it drenched you even more, without him knowing—the perfect picture, greater than any painting you ever saw, of him loosening himself inside of you, the hot spurts, his growls, deepened by the flaring passion, then the clicking of connection, and your belly, full and swollen, carrying a concoction of him and you that will live beyond your death. 

“I can take it like this,” were your truthful words, head turned halfway to him as your side position allowed it to. 

Hobi closed his mouth over your cheek in a slow, deep kiss that you’ve never experienced before. A rising tide of tears flooded your eyes and stayed there, not wanting to pour over. His care, his knowing better, his responsibility, all the principle of his fatherliness. It soothed your body, encouraged the picture in your mind to bloom with more vivid colors. 

It was illogical, plain stupid to think like this within a week of knowing him, but why did it feel so right? Why did it feel like a step that didn’t waver underneath your bare feet, like the soft sand under the stable, still weight of the sea, right as a small, murmuring wave laps at the shore. Why did it feel that way? How come these thoughts never burst forth whenever Jungkook held you down and did everything that made your body call him Daddy? 

Was it because sex with Hobi never felt like a playtime, but something way more serious? Something way more mature, ripened, that had that darkened, tangy flavor of blackberries. A flavor that lasted, didn’t dissipate after swallowing. Something that you’ve strongly begun to believe is able to run the course of your entire life; that has the enigma to break the curse. 

Your attachment to him developed, grew a small pair of wings that curled within his chest, shivering like a newborn child. Not screaming, not crying. Quiet, calm, serene. 

Your tears threatened to pour out, its former decision not to wearing out. Your emotions longed to submit, longed to rest—and you broke open the lock, longing to love yourself back. 

“Let me rub your little clit and get you ready for it, pup. It’s gonna hurt if I don’t and that’s not happening under my watch,” he murmured, dragging his fingernails up your arm, flattening the pads of his fingers on the way down your breast and ribs, rooting at the overspilling pooch of your stomach—the source of your river of tears. He left gooseflesh in his wake as your liquid, freed emotions trickled down your cheeks, one that he warmed by pressing your back flush against his chest, placing the side of your head on top of yours, lips puckered in an eternal, oscillating kiss—the makeshift, heart-shaped sunlight that shines through the surface of your river. 

Overwhelmed by it all, you could only nod. 

“I’m gonna make you feel so good. Gonna make you strong, you want that?” Hobi continued, hand sneaking down your mound, your feminine flesh until he reached your heat, collecting your nectar, then drifting back up to your clit, stopping there. You writhed, your bum pushing up against him, mewling your agreement. “Spread your legs for me.” 

You parted them and Hobi followed your movement with his palm, guiding you to hook one of your legs behind his, shifting you a little onto your back, giving him more space for the expansion of the eternity of his kisses. He fondled your cheek with his, acknowledging himself with your tears, forcing them to be his when he breathed them in, exhaling with a mournful sigh. 

You had never been mourned before. And the feeling was too great—too, too great. 

“Don’t cry, pup. I’m gonna make it right. Everything.” 

He didn’t wish to fix you; he was determined to fix your life. You began to sob, your fingers finding his temple, sinking into his silky hair. Hobi waited for the halt of your liquidity, thinking it’s sadness, but your emotions didn’t bear its face. They were clothed in thankfulness and wore the face of a bride of felicity, a woman who carried dejection in her arms for her entire life, only to have been gifted joy by a man who saw her, met her and listened to his heart when it asked for her. 

You placed his hand right back, where it belonged. Became aware how his fingertips were the perfect size for the swollenness of your clit, which led you to think it was created for him, for his fingers only; that no one else would ever touch it because there would be no one after him. It has become his until the end of time. 

“I’m not gonna touch you when you’re crying,” Hobi whispered and you shook your head, pressing his middle finger against that sensitive part of you. 

“I’m not sad, baby,” you said in the same hushed tone, which halted your tears. “I’m happy. Those are happy tears. Touch me, please.” 

He used the same hand to turn your chin for his lips to kiss yours, slow and passionate, making you cry out. He sighed against you, breaking the exchange of affection to look at you in the growing, muted light, irises flicking between yours, deep in thought. And when he licked his fingertips and rubbed your clit, you realized he did it in order to watch your reaction because those same irises fluttered back into his head. He hissed, baring his teeth, and you mewled little sounds that almost made him roll them back again. 

“Your clit is so swollen,” Hobi commented, love stretching over his eyes, and your walls clenched, tightly. You knew in that very instant that the love you saw got engraved along those fleshy walls of yours, never to regrow into its former state. 

“My body is asking for you,” you murmured, using the similar words that you did yesterday in his car, when you teased him. 

He moaned. “Oh, yeah?” 

It were your eyes that rolled back and you let him espy your perversely innocent obsession with those two words. Your torso lifted off of the mattress, hips twirling in the rhythm of his circles, your throat emitting the sweetest, most prolonged noises. And he swore, mouth parted. 

“You like when I say that?” 

You nodded, your orgasm quickening in tandem with his motions. The blush that appeared upon his cheeks casted the room in a rosy glow. Even the moon shone differently—more gently, the heavens dressing themselves in the dawn of his warm emotions. It added much to the coming of your climax, the same colors dipping inside, and you yearned for his lips. 

“Kiss me, please.” 

He kissed you with a delicate hunger, burying his nose into your cheek, breathing hard. His other hand had sneaked around your torso when you arched it and as he kissed you, he lifted the hem of your pajama shirt and brushed his palm over your nipples. Streaks of the pinks of his dawn blasted in your dark vision, sizzling once he grabbed both of your breasts in that same hand, and your body gained momentum in its writhing dance, your nubs stimulated. And when his tongue greeted yours, you came.

His fingers glided along your wetness as you fell down from your high, unable to kiss him back. Hobi watched you with enlarged pupils and with reddened, puffy lips, out of which trickled little, rough noises of pleasure. He was pleased to see what he saw, cordially mellow life spreading over you, changing you. You felt it and you were fearful of it abandoning you, clutching it with all your might on the inside and he helped you—sank his fingers inside your heat, stretching you out, desiring to see it blanketing you, perpetually. 

And then he was on top of you, driving his cock up and down your glinting femininity, panting, licking his lips, murmuring something about how he wanted to look at your face when he gave you what you wanted. He held himself steady in his fist, humming with each snap of his hips, his buff figure glistening in sweat. But all that your attention was painted with was the blessed picture of him getting you pregnant. It dizzied your senses, hormones rushing in, overpowering everything else. 

And you didn’t voice it out until he was mid-stroke. 

“I want you to breed me so bad.” 

Hobi growled, gutturally, stomach clenching—making his abdominal muscles more prominent than before. He fucked you hard, stopping after each rock of his hips, your body reverberating. 

“Be quiet or I won’t last.” 

Due to the hormones intoxicating your brain, his rejection saddened you and your mouth rounded in a pout, hands clasping his muscled arms, your manicured fingernails scratching down the skin. Hobi only cooed at your reaction, leaning his weight on one arm, his hand petting your cheek, thumb tracing the half-moon of your mouth, failing to precisely follow the line, quivering as he continued to ram into you. 

He grinned once your expression broke and melted into an angelically lustful one. He gave you the entirety of him, his mound kissing yours, again and again. 

You caught your breath, got used to the overbearing sensation of him rapidly prodding your guts. “Give me your kids, please, please.” 

And your plea didn’t have an ending until he decided. 

“If you say please one more time, I’ll stop.” 

And you did. 

He pulled out, brows shadowing his deepening blush, and he pinned your hands behind your head, leaning his weight on them. His bedewed cock twinkled on the pooch of your tummy and you closed your thighs over it as much as your position allowed you, your legs hanging over his shoulders. 

“Eyes on me,” Hobi commanded and you lifted your gaze, boring it into his. “You make me wanna do bad fucking things to you,” he continued, groaning when you squeezed the muscles of your thighs, affected by his words—your heart quickened, drunk by the dark side of his desire. “Punish you. Ruin you. But I can’t. I can’t when you’re such an angel, when you’re so bite-sized. You deserve nothing but love and gentleness, so don’t fucking tempt me and let me fuck you like you deserve.” 

Maddened by his words, you began to lift your hips, thighs clenched, feeling small, courageous and girlish. Hobi closed his eyes, moaning. Fucked your thighs until he couldn’t take it anymore, holding them steady, staring you down. Then, he pried them apart and made love to them with his mouth, rooting at your stomach, marking it just once—on the skin just beside your belly button. 

“I love your little tummy so much,” he whispered, biting it, biting into your insecurity and chewing it out, making you cry out in pleasure. Took your hands in his, rubbed your knuckles. “Are you gonna be a good pup now?” 

Your femininity drooled for him and you nodded, but he wanted you to use your words. 

“I’m gonna be a good pup now, Hoseok.” 

He swore, kissing you hard on the mouth. “I don’t know what makes me crazy first. Hearing you say your pet name or hearing you say my name. You’re so good. So good to me.”

It was melting, what occurred next. In the same, poetic way the night melted into the morning, Hobi melted into you. He began to fuck you, languidly. No rush, no hastiness. Eye contact, hand holding. Nose to nose. Time might have stopped between you and him, but it went on beyond the atmosphere of the love you felt surrounding it from within. It reminded you of the love that swam past his eyes, of the way it got engraved on the walls of your heat—and with every tranquil stroke, you sensed him etching it deeper. The poem you recited for him, the picture of your swollen belly, the curved lines of his endeared eyes. You’ve gotten lost in it, and so has he—in the cherub pendant of your necklace, sitting proudly on your chest. The rosy light as it longs to look, too, at his studying material. It’s what brings him into the present time, tender eyes flicking to the side, where the light is spilling from, realizing that the morning has come. 

He places his hand flat on your chest, fingers over the cherub. “You’re wearing yourself on your necklace. Little baby angel with pretty, pretty wings.” 

You pucker your mouth, asking for a kiss, heart warmed by the fact he’s mentioning something that’s so dear to you. He gives it to you, chaste and gentle, whimpering against you as he twitches inside your femininity. He begins to move, smoothly, at that same slow pace. Love—that must be the wordless expression of love. You tremble all over.

“What do my wings look like?” you ask, thumb stroking his knuckle as your hands remain intertwined with his. You tighten your hold, stealing some of his stability. 

Hobi doesn’t pause to think; his answer is ready on the tip of his tongue. “You’re golden, pup. From head to toe, but differently. You’re smothered in pink. Gold and pink.” 

His imaginary wings quiver, pink and black. You sigh, pleased, heart thumping. 

“The sun is up,” he says, kissing your neck once. “Are you strong and brave like that angel to open the message?” 

You widen your eyes, mouth parting and drying in shock. “Now?” 

He smiles, lazily, focusing his kisses on your cheek. “Yes, now, pup. So I can make you forget about what you saw right after.” 

A moan escapes you and you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his back. Hobi picks up the speed, whimpering in your ear, hands gripping your waist—grounding you, giving you the notion that nothing bad could ever happen to you when he holds you like this, when he makes those sounds for you and when he’s connected with you like this. You can taste his strength when he nestles himself inside you to the hilt all over again,. And you smack your mouth, loving the tangy flavor of it. 

What a perfect time to open the message. 

“Okay. I can do it.” 

Hobi coos. “That’s my pup.” 

You clench around him and he growls, kissing you, the sound traveling down to your heart, steeling it. Breaking the kiss, he reaches over for your phone and hands it to you. You position it so both of you can see the screen as you tap on the singular notification, your stomach rippling while your heart remains strong. And while it loads, you whisk your gaze to Hobi. 

He’s nibbling his bottom lip. 

Nervous. 

Ache seizes you and you’d say fuck it and fling your phone away, but you’re aware you need to do this. So you and Hobi can have the needed peace. It’s a step towards the confrontation that will follow soon. 

“Can you hold my hand?” you ask, mouth rounded in tender emotion and Hobi doesn’t hesitate to take your hand. Interlacing your fingers with his in his style, he keeps your hand pressed against his chest and you can feel the vibrations of his violent heart. 

Your ache grows. 

The picture has finished loading. 

A canvas is poised behind the sunless background of his floor length windows, illuminated by the faint lights that shone in his living room. You’d focus on the drying art, on its colors, on its vague message, but you know, instinctually, that the message isn’t there. 

It’s right there in the reflection of his window. 

Jungkook is standing there alone, barren down to his manliness. Covering the base of his semi-hard length with a hint of decency, the largeness of his hand only conceals the fine hairs on his mound while the rest is naked to the eye. The glint, perpetuated and divulging his arousal, on the mushroom head of his manhood. The broadness of his chest, the slenderness of his waist, the tattooed sleeve that leads to the part of him that used to bring you so much pleasure. 

Your body betrays you; you clench around Hobi. 

You can feel his gaze upon your face, but it’s not scorching hot. It’s anything but. 

“Who is this person to you?” he asks, calmly, and you swallow with difficulty. The time has come for the truth; you can sense that it’s right, that it’s meant to be, but still you hesitate, try hard to find the bit of strength you have in order to use it to speak. But you discover that it’s all been used up, so you remain silent. Hobi calls you by your name, pressing on the matter, tiny stars of trust flashing in his eyes. “I’m not a boy, you can talk to me. You can tell me who this person is to you without me getting mad, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” 

It’s not that you’re fearful of his reaction—you just wish this never happened in the first place. You don’t want to deal with this, you don’t want to bring Jungkook into your relationship any more than he already is. But it’s inevitable. You can’t pause it. You can’t delay it. 

You can only face it. 

“He’s my ex,” you whisper, not trusting your own voice, worried that it’ll break and your tears will make an appearance. 

“I thought so, but I wanted to hear it from you. Good.” He licks his lips, eyes descending to your cherub before they fix on your mouth, pecking you. Your chest shudders with emotions. “When did you break up?” 

Your chin quivers. Inevitable. “Almost a month ago.” 

Hobi nods, thinking as he rubs his knuckles on your cheek. “Do you still love him?” 

A tear rolls down your cheek while silence echoes within your mind, body and soul. “I don’t know.” 

He cradles your face with both hands. “You squeezed around me when you looked at him. Got wetter. It’s okay. It’s too soon. I found you too soon.” 

You sob, loudly, uglily. Hobi shushes you, kissing your tears away. Pulls out of you and shifts onto his back, bringing you with him, so you can lie on his chest. Cocoons you in his arms, nose buried in your hair that he pets, breathing steadily while his heart tremors. You cling to him with all your might. Break and break while he keeps the shards of you whole, the sharp edges cutting his skin open. And you’re sorry, terribly, terribly sorry. You sink it into his chest, into his neck—kissing him there with your tears, your sobs and your hands that roam everywhere they can reach in the snugness that little by little find a way to help you voice it out. 

“I’m so sorry, Hobi. I’m so sorry.” 

He rubs your back. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

You disagree. Loathe your body for the way it sang for another man. “But I did. You felt what my body did. I’m so sorry.”

He even grew soft and pulled out of you. A dread courses down your treacherous body at a thought that seizes you—that in most probability this is the last time he showers you in the kindness of attention, that this is the last sun you’ll ever see for the rest of your life. 

Hobi brushes your hair back and gazes down at you, splitting your thoughts in two. “Look at me.” Rays of the heart-shaped sun paint streaks of rose gold in his pearlescent eyes. There must be all sources of light—you’ve never seen such stark luminosity. It pulls you in, tightens your attachment to him, encourages your private desire to be with him, stay with him, live life with him. You drift your fingertips along the softness of his skin on his chest that you’re resting upon, hear its hushed calling for you, but you fear it’s all in your mind. “Your body reacted the way it was supposed to. You spent some time with this person, loved him at some point and it just ended. Your body is still used to him and as much as it pains me, I understand it.” 

The shards in you crumble, staining his skin in crimson. Your fingers begin to itch to claw that accustomedness away, so you can be all new and pure for him. They tremble against his shoulder and like a kitty cat, Hobi rubs his cheek on it, soothing its tremor, soothing its ruination tendencies, and you let him, willfully, gladly. You want him to paint you so anew that you’d have to get to know yourself all over again, that you’d have to wade through heavy, murky waters in order to remember, faintly, your past love. 

You lost all respect for Jungkook—and, vividly, you sense the final conclusion to the chapter of your life with him. 

“I want you, Hobi. No one else,” you whisper, your tears dried upon your cheeks, on his chest, too. 

He lifts your chin. Looks at you for a time that seems centuries-long. “You want me?” 

You nod in his hand. “I want to spend my life with you. Is it also too soon to think that?” 

He laughs, softly, lips curled in a gentle smile. He swipes his thumb under your eyes, over your eyelashes, and he kisses your forehead. “I’m sorry. I said it because I want you all to myself. I also told you I don’t share, remember?” 

Yesterday in his car, when he wasn’t willing to kill the engine and fuck you in your silky dress and thigh-high boots because he didn’t want other people around to hear your sounds of pleasure. His smile reaches your mouth, rightfully, at the memory. You deem it belongs there. Deem these memories should be the only ones living in your mind. Those to come, too. Not the image of Jungkook’s bareness and the unknown canvas you didn’t even glance at. 

Now that you’ve descended to a state of calmness, you think about the matter of ‘soon’, portrayed by his words. You repeat them in your mind—“Too soon. I found you too soon.”—and admiration for him slinks into your heart, growing there into a bush of raspberries that you can strangely taste in your mouth. Every chamber of your weakened heart is perfumed by it the longer that sentence rings in your system. You’re touched by it, by his softness, by his lack of anger that would only be appropriate in this situation. And it means a lot to you, because all that you’ve ever known from the few men in your life, besides indifference, is anger. Your father, your first boyfriend, Jungkook. All of those men showed you that you’re deserving of the scalding, poisonous sting of anger due to your actions. 

Hobi isn’t like that. He regrets the time. His emotions shoot out into the realm, where your footfalls never made an imprint. 

Your sweetened body yearns to give back to him, but you don’t know how to do it in a way that isn’t lustful. 

You lift your torso, propping your forearms on his chest, breasts squished against him. Your hair falls around you, vivifying the beginning bloom of your arousal, the raspberries. And you blow them, against his lips, coaxing an endeared hum out of him. Hobi opens his mouth to speak, but you outrun him, needing to get something out of your chest. 

“Thank you for not being angry with me,” you say and the sunlight rises furthermore, gracing you with a picturesque aura that tightens the thankfulness, laced with the need to pleasure him, within you. “You’re not sharing me with anyone, and you never will. I’m yours and I want your kids. But I’m sorry that you regret it’s too soon. I’m sorry I’m not prepared enough for you. You don’t deserve this.” 

Hobi shakes his head, pressing his lips in a firm line, dimples etched above. You regard them as so beautiful that you trace them with your fingertip. He envelops his arms around you tighter, grasping the nape of your neck, drawing you in to kiss you. And the raspberries burst as he moves his mouth against you, priming your yearning to give back to him. 

A string of saliva keeps you bound to him as he withdraws and it propels you to kiss him again. He lets you, briefly, whimpers when you slip your tongue inside, and he forcefully pulls you away. Needs to say something—his eyes are full of that thumping urgency. 

“I could never be angry at you for something that isn’t your fault,” he breathes out, chest lifting rapidly as he pants, the urgency growing in size and you sense that he really wants you to know this. “And these kids?” He thrusts his hips against you and yours and his smile widens in unison—he’s pressed right against your naked mound and stomach, and the movement caused his balls to softly tap the round, fleshy edges of your bum. “They’re yours as soon as this settles, you hear me?” 

You coo, cradling his face, eyes narrowing in taut, tender emotion. And something of the same urgency spills out of you in similar fashion. “All night I imagined carrying your child. But I’ll start taking my birth control again until—”

“You don’t have to,” he disagrees, seriousness coating his tone, and your mouth parts. “As soon as this settles, you’re having my child, if that’s what you want as well.” 

The words—isn’t it too soon?—almost drips out of your agape mouth, but then your desire stops you. If it weren’t the time for it, would your desire for it still harmonize with your heart? 

Seeing your hesitancy, Hobi continues. “I have a house. A stable job. Money in my bank account. In savings. I’ve wanted a child for a long time and it got to the point that I had to physically stop myself from wanting it. And then I met you—and you wouldn’t stop tempting me with it.” He chuckles and you’re struck with speechlessness, your heart, your lungs swollen with a mania of affection, elation and passion. Merely your hands are able to talk—and you squeeze his cheeks, squishing them, prolonging his sound of joy, planting a flush across them. “You’re the person I was waiting for, pup. And the waiting is over. I have no reason to wait anymore, do I?” 

You kiss him and onto his lips you say: “You don’t.” 

He hums, deeply. Glides his hands down your spine to your bum, kneading it, and it’s instinctual—the way your hips begin to grind against the squishiness of him. In response, his lips latch onto your neck as his hands begin to guide your movement into a kingdom of vigorousness. Delightful pleasure anoints your body in rosy relief, exultation and in a rhapsody of excitement to see, to meet the new, upcoming face of your life. 

Hobi, the curse breaker. The enigma is revealed and your organs flutter, scurry to write a hymn for him. 

It’s what he absolutely, befittingly deserves. 

And more. 

You crawl back down until you straddle his knees, keeping your hands flat on his stomach as you take the softness of him into your mouth. You fail due to how lightweight he is, coaxing a giggle out of you and a determination to try harder to gratify your yearning to give back to him, and Hobi moans, pets your hair, the reverberations of his sighs stimulating your intimate parts. 

You swallow a little bit of him, pausing at his tip, your cheeks hollowed out. He sinks his fingers into your hair, body trembling underneath you, and it feels exhilarating. A question that needs to be voiced out springs in you, spurred from the subtle saltiness of his precum that you devour. 

“So, are you my boyfriend now?” 

Hobi grins, petting you as if you were a puppy—waggling your head as you toy with the tip of his cock, using your tongue, feeling him harden, little by little. “I’m your husband.” Your stomach flips, cheeks redden and Hobi laughs, gently. Your arousal drips down, unabashedly, down your inner thigh. He grabs your jaw, his length plopping out of your mouth. Another trickle of arousal follows the one that stained your flesh. “But yeah, I’m your boyfriend. You wanna mark down this day, pup?” 

You nod, speechless again, your mind a sultry, misty pool of lewdness and the image of your pregnant belly laps past your eyes, drenching you. “The day you stuff me full of your cum… as a boyfriend.”

Hobi rolls his eyes back, sucking in a breath as your smile blossoms. He tugs you upwards until your pussy rests against his cock the way it did before, caging you in with one arm around your back while the other squeezes the fleshy part of your hip. 

“Grind your pussy on it, pup. Come on,” he orders and you listen, rolling your hips against his hardening manhood, your dripping essence making it an easy ride. Then, he kneads your ass cheek, descending to the back of your thigh and spanking it once, coaxing a high-pitched moan out of you that rapidly stiffens him. The sharp pain mingles with the pleasure rooting from your stimulated clit and you want more. 

You’d reach behind yourself and put him inside, if he hadn’t spanked your ass so hard that you cried out. 

“Fuck, Hobi.” 

Your eyes wet with pleasure-filled tears behind closed eyelids and when you open them, you catch the lopsided smile on Hobi’s face straightening into a narrow, firm line. Your heart quivers, the mist in your mind evaporates and you lift yourself onto your hands. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” you ask, panic evident in your voice, but it seems as though he can’t hear you—his eyes are lost, unblinking, his being having strayed away to a dark corner of his mind.

It isn’t until you shake his cheek that he flicks his eyes up to yours. Wretchedness dims out their light and it might as well rip out your heart, with its raspberry fragrance and all. 

“The painting,” Hobi says and you furrow your brows, not sure what he means. 

“What painting?” 

He sits up, leaning his back against the pillowed headrest, licking his lips.  “In the picture he sent you,” he explains, his voice dull and low; your lungs constrict. Cold sweat prickles your spine and you can’t breathe. What did Jungkook paint on that canvas? “You didn’t look at the painting?” 

You’re ashamed to admit that you didn’t, so, breaking the eye contact, you shake your head ‘no’, your features drooping. Hobi takes your hands in his, his thumbs in the middle of your palms, and the gesture helps you reconnect the exchange of gazes. Pity floods the indistinct light and your lungs burn.

“He painted you. Bent over… his lap I guess. Your butt was red and it had his handprint.”

The fire of your lungs spreads to the rest of your body and you don’t hesitate before you grab your phone and dial Jungkook’s number. 

Don’t hesitate to burn him with the same fire. 

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

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ part one | READ part two | READ part three

[kiestrokes]

Day 1: Dior You | NSFW

▸Idol: Jung Hoseok of BTS ▸Rating: NSFW. Mature (18+) Minors DNI. ▸Genre: WIP from the graveyard 😬, soft angst, smut. ▸Vibe: former lovers, Hoseok is an idol that is guest designing for Dior, reader is a model that was selected for the show in NYFW, this scene takes place after all of the buildup of the show and planning that happens before. ▸Warnings: cursing, sad feelings, their relationship did not end of happy terms, still very much love and care for each other.

Sexually Explicit Content: shower sex, relationship ended sadly, body appreciation.

🗝️ Note: ft. an old ass cover I made under my old pseud bc I wrote this back in November of 2022 😅 just a reminder this is a WIP, it is not close to the finished product this is actually the first draft of this scene!

Disclaimers: This is a work of fiction; I do not own any of the idols depicted below.

「 25 Hours: Hard, Soft and WIP-mas Masterlist 」

You fall into your hotel bed, exhausted and happy. The post-show adrenaline consumes your body, and you drift thoughtlessly into a sleep coma. 

A few hours later a knock at your door that jolts you out of your sleep, dragging yourself to it and tugging it open without so much as a glance into the peep hole you're surprised at who you find on the other side. Jung Hoseok stands before you, dressed down from his earlier outfit in thick gray sweats, and multiple coat layers. His eyes look wild, animallike, as he rights himself from his lean against the doorframe.

“Can I come in?”

You nod and he slips past you, his body brushing past yours with cracklings of chemistry. You swallow thickly as the sight of Hoseok sprawled with open knees in gray sweats on your unmade bed sends your braless nipples erect. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Hoseok barks a laugh.

“Well, you have spent the last week with me,” you offer sarcastically.

His eyes jump to yours, “can I stay?”

You nod, also drunk under the tension shared between the two of you.

His hands slide flat palms against the white sheets, you watch the movement thoughts running rampant over the sight of his vascular hands, before his attention is diverted back to yours, “have you showered?”

The shake of your head has Hoseok on his feet instantly, he is already peeling off his clothing to drape across the reading chair at the front of the suite before you can blink. 

“You overpacked right?” His eyes scan the room for your overflowing suitcase in the corner, not even needing your response. He just knows you that well. “Let’s have a shower then.” Hoseok’s fingers skim your chin as he slips past you headed to the bathroom, his limber body still hidden by the oversized t-shirt and sweats. 

Stealing your nerves, you let out a deep breath you didn’t know you had been holding and begin tossing all of your clothing onto the chair with his.

The shower is already running full blast, fogging up the bathroom with bone warming and skin prickling clouds of steam. Hoseok turns as you step in, still wearing his clothing much to your disappointment. Although he is quickly forgiven, when you get an eyeful of his bulging erection straining against the gray cotton of his pants.

“Fuck,” the curse slips past you without warning to your brain.

“I could say the same,” Hoseok’s eyes hood as he takes you in, lingering on your womanhood, your pussy was always his favorite next to your face of course. “You’ve been teasing me all week with this body in your fittings.”

“Just like your touches and eyes have me,” you cock an accusatory eyebrow at him.

“Go ahead, I’ll join you in a second,” Hoseok smirks at your jab.

You step in a sigh into the stream of water, letting the wet pelts work the tenseness of your shoulders. You feel, rather than hear Hoseok step in with you, his hands wasting no time skimming across your hips to your stomach. Turning in his grasp your heart stutters as you watch his pupils pulsate before a delicate hand comes to grip your jaw and slant his mouth over yours.

Gets you off with the shower head and enters you to bring himself to climax with you. Removing the condom and nestling his softening erection between your legs as you clean each other. He tells you how much he’s missed you between kisses over your body and face. Tears slip out as you tell him that you still can’t be together.

He kisses you again, muttering an, “I know” against your lips.

You kiss him harder with this acceptance and he gasps into your mouth. Fingertips running down your spine and smiling softly at you as you pull away, tucking hair behind your ear.

“You were holding back.”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know you understood everything now.” He smiles at your warmth and sadness in his eyes.

“I understood when you left, my heart just needed some time to catch up.”

© COPYRIGHT 2021 - 2024 by kiestrokes  All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced without written permission from the author. This includes translations.

[star2fishmeg]

inexperienced reader blurb for luke was 😍 now i’m imagining the same basic situation only with jack and walking you through giving him your first bj… please please please

Thank you! I'm so glad you liked it, and I'm so sorry this took so long, thank you for your patience, nonnie <3 And oh I love Jack and writing him, he's so fucking sassy I love it😭

While you knew Jack was born with genes that blessed his appearance, the angle you have now from below, on your knees between his legs, is a whole other level of pretty. Muscular thighs tensed, abs catching under the glow of his lamp, casting perfect shadows to accentuate his workout regime, a few strands of hair falling over his face that shouldn't be as sexy as it is and to top it off, that charming smile of his painted on his lips.

Jack's chest tightens at the doe-like expression you're giving him, awaiting his response but struggling to find words as your hand around his cock feels exhilarating, sparks igniting in his stomach and he's never had his cock stroked so well before, you somehow hit every nerve that washes pleasure through him.

He watches you eye the pre-cum on his tip, "You can smear it with your thumb, if you want, or lick it, whatever you want but princess, fuck-"

He doesn't get to finish because you're circling his tip with your thumb, just like he said, eyes fixated on how your thumb rounds over the curve and relishing in the low whimpers he's trying to suppress, "Does that feel good, J? You like when I touch you?"

Jack takes a deep breath, chest dipping and rising heavily with heat prickling up the back of his neck, hairs standing on end and his eyes becoming half-lidded. Your eyes flicker to catch his, noticing the yearning in his eyes and you run the tip of your tongue over his slit experimentally and when his head tilts back, a groan slipping through his lips, you start leaving kitten licks. Your free hand grips his thigh as if to bring him back to you from his divine high. Such a whiner for a guy who loved keeping that sassy, cool reputation of his, all his cockiness crumbling and it ignites a fire inside your stomach, drives you to crave seeing him melt under your touch, your mouth, make him think about how much of a good girl you are when you're sucking his cock while he's out there on the ice.

"Yes, yes, feels good," he grips the bedsheets, "you wanna try sucking the tip first? Just remember no teeth and you can use your tongue, all right? Like a popsicle."

"Like a popsicle, got it." You repeat, nodding slightly. Timidly, you wrap your lips around his wet tip, thinking about what he'd described previously and feeling a wave of courage and adrenaline, your tongue swirls, his cock sinking further into your mouth than you had expected, just past the tip, out of the alluring desire to hear his groans rumble from his chest again. It’s not the sensation you’d expected, nothing like sucking on his fingers but the same suctioning feeling that has your pussy throbbing just the same, and you fear that when you stand, he’ll see the arousal leaking down your thighs.

It's the best sight he's ever seen, and he hates how it's making his stomach fuzzy and tight already. Your mouth slowly glides along his dick, hot tongue lying flat on his underside, animalistic images of you choking on his cock creeping their way into his mind and the fact you're so beautiful doesn't help his desires at all.

"Fuck, y/n- doin' fucking perfect," he whines out lowly when his words coax you into quickening your face, "don't worry about take...taking me whole, princess, shit-"

For the base of his cock you can't swallow just yet, you compensate for with your hand, strokes that match the pace of your mouth. Jack gives up on trying to impress you, he lets himself go and groans out loudly into the bedroom, throwing his head back at the way you're bobbing on his cock like you've done it before.

You slide off with a wet 'pop', a saliva strand connecting your lip to his tip, "Was that okay? Is it like that? J, help me,"

Lulling his head forward with lust glazed in his eyes, the corners of Jack's lips quirk into a smile and he nods. Leaning forward, he cups your cheek in his palm, caressing your cheek with his thumb, "Don't stop, pretty girl, takin' me so fuckin' well."

[puck-luck]

Can you do Jack Hughes clubs and 12

warnings: LOTS of over the clothes stuff, bj, dry humping, comparison of sexual desires to intrusive thoughts (because i could think of no other comparison and that's how it felt to come up with this idea: specifically reader... starts to fuck herself on jack's tip while his boxers are still on), praise, sub!frat!jack, result of a bet, ongoing unlabeled relationship core

wc: 1,146

The bet goes like this: “Whoever gets a better grade on the final gets to handcuff the loser to the bed and do whatever they want (within reason).”

A stakes were completely fair. You and Jack had studied together, you’d gone over every bit of homework together, you’d done almost every project together– except for the one that had made Jack all jealous and finally admit that he wanted to hook up exclusively. Since you had prepared for the exam together, everything was left up to fate. Whoever got the better grade truly deserved it.

You’d opened your computers together to check grades when one of your other friends in the class texted and said they were in. Jack had looked at his grade and grinned, feeling confident. Little did he know, you felt more confident. 

“90,” Jack said.

You smiled wide and leaned in close. “93.”

That’s how you got here. That’s how Jack ended up handcuffed on his own bed, clad only in his loose boxers, which do nothing to hide how hard you’ve rendered him. 

You’re leaving open-mouthed kisses on his clothed cock, determined to make the front of his boxers entirely wet before you free him and get his dick inside of you. You want to tease him, dangling his favorite things right in front of him– his favorite things being your mouth and your cunt. It’s just an additional shame that Jack’s hands are tied, so he can’t touch your tits.

You’re on stage one, licking his member and getting spit all over him. Jack’s moaning whenever you suck the skin of his shaft, the vibrations from your mouth traveling through his clothes and causing them to rub against his skin. 

You get Jack whining before you move onto stage two.

“So desperate, baby,” you tease as you unclasp your bra and free your tits. You hook your fingers in the band of your panties and push them down. “Does it turn you on? To be tied up like this? To be the boy that I fuck to get myself off?”

Jack’s eyes are dark, tracing your every move. 

You prompt him again. “Does it?”

He starts to nod. “Yeah,” he says. His eyes dart across your features and across the expanse of your, now naked, body. “So much. I want you so bad.”

A grin creeps across your face. “Good boy,” you praise lowly, crawling up Jack’s body and giving him a kiss before you sit back on his hard-on. Those two words have made their way into your everyday vernacular ever since Jack needed comforting that one day not too long ago– you never want him to forget how good he is. 

Once you make contact with his member, Jack pushes his hips up. He grinds his cock against you by accident, his tip brushing against your wet hole and making you jolt. 

“Behave,” you scold, placing your palm flat on his stomach and narrowing your eyes at him. “This is about what I want to do, Jack.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes. His bottom lip looks a little more red and a little plumper than usual. He must have been biting it while you drooled all over his length.

You grind down on his bulge, situating his cock so that it runs parallel with your slit. You’re able to make contact with every part of him, feeling the ridge of his tip under your clit and the vein of his shaft– it could just be the seam of his boxers– against your entrance. A shaky gasp leaves your mouth as you roll your hips, alternating between quick and slow passes. You’re teasing yourself, just like you’re teasing Jack, but you’re not ashamed about the whimpers and moans that are falling from your lips.

Jack, however, seems to be trying to keep his own noises under wraps. He doesn’t seem to want to reveal just how affected he is by your touch and your sounds. His fingers are wrapped around the chain of the handcuffs, knuckles turning white as he stares up at you. His cheeks have turned red and you know that he’s close to breaking– close to begging for more.

Which means that it’s time to move to phase three– you’ll remove his boxers and keep his cock in the same spot, parallel with your pussy, and continue to grind against his bare skin until he’s seconds from shooting off.

You rise up on your knees, hovering above Jack’s lap. You can’t help but tease him a little more: “Do you want to take these off, or should I do it for you?” You ask, blinking at Jack with doe eyes. Then, you laugh and tap your head. “Oh, gosh, I’m such a ditz. I totally forgot you’re all tied up. Sorry, J.”

Jack’s hips buck up again at the mention of his bondage– an involuntary response that you file away for later. Again, his tip brushes your entrance, and your lips part at the contact. You look down at his boxers, which are completely messy with your slick and spit. There’s also a pearly bead of precum leaking from Jack’s tip, soaking through the fabric.

You’re not sure where the idea comes from. It seems to appear out of nowhere, filling your mind like an intrusive thought. You swallow, throat tight, then lower yourself down to resume your grinding against his member.

“Or should I take them off at all,” you say, voice feeling far away. You know you’re talking quietly and carefully, not sure if what you’re thinking is– too far. You reach behind yourself and hold the base of Jack’s cock, causing it to stand away from his body. 

Jack’s eyes are flying between your eyes and your lips, breaths falling from his lips in uneven pants. The blues are turning a bit glassy, but they’re rapt on you. 

You start to trace his tip across your slit, teasing yourself. “I wonder what it would feel like if…” You trail off, your own eyes leaving Jack’s and finding his lips. You lean back against his tip, feeling it breach your hole slightly. The fabric is so wet that you barely feel a difference. “Does it feel different?” You ask, breath hitching. “Fuck, J, I want to– just the tip. Just to see what it feels like. Then I’ll–”

“Take the handcuffs off,” Jack chokes out. His eyes are wild. “Y/N, take ‘em off. I’m going to fucking come inside you through my fucking boxers and I am not doing that without getting my hands on you–”

You cut off his rambling by shoving your hand under the pillow to the right of his head and feeling around for the key. He’s– he’s actually going to let you try it– the least you can do is take off the handcuffs and let him touch you, too.

[323cutie]

aight so boom … im thinking abt stealing a black tank top from any ateez member and wearing it without a bra. and because their asses are fit, the tank top is tight. … and for me personally? i’m big chested with nipple piercings, so you can imagine where im going with this.

yeo, woo, and hwa dont know where to look in fear of cumming untouched if they looked too long. (woo tries to be brave about it, but his resolve crumbles in 30 seconds)

jongho’s blood goes to his dick so fast, now he’s nauseous and nervously giggling. also, i can’t remember if we’ve seen baby bear in a black tank top yet? but if theres anything i know after seeing his arms, i know he would look absolutely delicious.

san is trying his best to be nonchalant and say you look cute in his clothes!! he is shaking from the effort it takes for NOT pounce on you.

mingi is trying to be normal and cool about it too, but you can SEE his hands itching to hold and grab at you. his voice is suddenly deeper than normal and he’s salivating

in all honesty … i think yunho makes an effort to not-so-subtly look down at your cleavage, you actually have to tell him “hey, eyes up here”. not that yunho isnt already cuddly and affectionate, but if you’re wearing his top? he’s finding many more unnecessary reasons to touch you, especially when you’re doing mundane chores together. idk if this makes sense.

joong? he’s stuttering. he can’t focus. are you trying to kill him? he’s a bit better than the rest at pretending like this isn’t affecting him, but you saw the moment his eyes darkened and his jaw slacked. he gives it to you absolutely freak nasty after that.

-braindump nonnie 🍓

nonnie i Need u to know when u first sent this I was staring at my phone in absolute shock at work... u r just so right. jongho being so turned on hes nauseous has me ctfu

wooyoung is trying way too hard to be normal its just so obvious like hes doing too much. chatting ur ear off about any and everything. probably after abt 5 mins of him just yapping away he looks you dead in the eye and is like "Please let me touch you."

san absolutely is bright red and cannot talk for fear of his voice cracking like a teenager. speaking in hand motions and one word answers for the foreseeable future

mingi sinks down to his knees in front of u and Begs you to let him touch you (yes hes drooling.)

yunho lowk doesnt even try to hide it hes shameless as hell. will act clueless tho because hes a freak. he's backhugging you at the kitchen counter as you're cooking and his hands are wandering and youre like hey whats happening and hes like what do u mean im just hugging my precious lovely partner (he is feeling you up)

hongjoong probably sees you and sighsss. he's too used to your antics now. ...he loves the trouble you get into, tho. invites you onto his lap and gives in easily. absolutely pouting at u for being so hot tho

[bishigami]

“My wife, my ill behaved creature. My jealous, jealous girl. Where is your place? If not on my cock.” Nah cause the way I had to pause for a moment and catch my breath.

This fic gave me heatwaves, the writing was impeccable just ughh yes😩😩😩

A Moment of Jealousy

Pairing: Jung Hoseok/female reader

Rating: M for mature

Genre:  Historical au, Regency era

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, dirty talk, foul language, a ring goes in a place rings shouldn't go, outdoor sex, jealousy

Summary:

Seeing another woman even dare to touch him sets you ablaze, but luckily, Hoseok is always there to quench that fire.

Word Count: 1667

Tagging: @xjoonchildx @hobi-gif @miscelunaaa @vintageroses10 @wwilloww @vyduan @minisugakoobies @augustbutwinter @sahmfanficbts @hamsterclaw @starlostjimin

“You’re a lout!” It's almost shrill…actually, no, it is shrill - tearing from your lips as you walk down the hall, clutching tightly at the skirt of your riding habit as your feet carry you into the garden.

You’re making a scene, happily dragging the servants into this, even happier to drag your husband’s *noble* friends into it as well. “You’re a rake, I should have never let you have me!” and then he’s behind you, not even bothering to respond to you in kind - his cold fury only serving to make you boil, a teapot hissing in simmering rage. 

He must think he’s better than you - he does think it, you know it, and that’s why Hoseok has always driven you mad.

Mad with fury, mad with lust.

Now you’re just mad - 

 “Nothing but a rake.”It's more of a grumble, and only for your own ears this time, as the stableman - expecting the both of you for an afternoon ride, seems surprised to see only you.

Yes of course, no doubt Hoseok had stayed behind, more inclined to calm his surprised sycophants than come after you, even if that is all you want.

All you want is for him to choose you, for his eyes to find your own…and only your own. Is that so much to ask? That the man who married you covet you and you alone? 

“Ah - my lady where is - “ “My lord husband can surely ride his horse on his own time.” You snap. “Or perhaps his whores, I care not either way.” and then you are hoisting yourself up, cursing the side-saddle that would have been lovely on a leisurely stroll, gripping at the pommel with your thighs for some semblance of balance and control. 

The comment is cruel, and truly, likely false. Hoseok - even if his eyes had shined today - at that simpering little fool who had the audacity to bat her eyes at him, to giggle, to place her hand on his arm - 

“My lady, I really insist - “ “Truly, you can insist your way to the seventh hell, Taehyung.” And your horse, handsome gelding he is, is quick to respond to your cue to go, and then go faster at your insistence. 

God in heaven, how you loathe the feelings swirling in your chest, the feeling of inadequacy that builds in your chest at the idea he’d dare to glance at someone else. How his eyes could ever darken in a way you recognize from when they fall onto you. 

Fucker - Heartless bastard. The fast trot of your horse sets your fiery blood nearly to ash. How dare he - 

The more you ride, the angrier you get, your heart set on the one place that can give you peace, that damned grove where he had first asked you.

“Dammit!” and there is a call in the air, just loud enough you can hear it, and it drives you forward. “If you don’t - !” You can’t hear the rest but you can imagine it - Hoseok - on his horse…yelling into the wind.

Yelling for you - 

You stall your gelding, quick to murmur a soft stay as you toss his reins over a tree branch, letting your feet carry you.

Just because you want him to catch you doesn’t mean you have to make it easy. And…you do want him to catch you, of course, feeling giddy as you dash into the woods, uncaring of the way the tree branches catch you, or the way your too-fussy hairstyle begins to unravel.

All you care about is the heat under your skin, the burning excitement as you hear his curses, as he calls for you, the feeling of anger so akin to the feeling of longing you aren’t even sure what dominates you -

“Got you - !” and his arm shoots out, around your waist before you can even protest, and protest you do, a squeal on your lips as he all but shoves you into the trunk of a tree. “Don’t you dare even move.” And when you meet his eyes, they’re burning, as searing as his grip on your wrists, holding you more than still. 

“Surprised you even noticed I left.” You answer, feeling the heat of his breath, watching the way his chest rises and falls as he pants from exertion. “You seemed content enough just to be petted and praised -” “My God woman, your jealousy will end us both.” Hoseok grits through his teeth, shifting a hand to your neck, then gripping at your bun, more than eager to tear it down, sending your hair cascading. 

Well - as best it can with his grip on it, wound ‘round his palm, as he tugs roughly enough that you whine, head tilting up. “You made me look like a fool.” “You are a fool.” You answer, hoping to goad him into more, and you can see the way his eyes narrow, how his jaw tightens. Now, the anger has shifted, boiling turned to simmer, the heat warming you till you want to melt under his grip, sting turned to honey. “And a dandy.”

“And you are a parrot, all screech and no teeth.” He counters, and God does he paint a portrait - his grip so firm, his black riding coat cut to fit his form like a fine glove. 

Everything about him screams power, the sinews of his lean form as obvious as the way he’s looking at you. Fond and furious. “You made a scene, you shamed us both.” And his face is close now, so close your noses almost touch as he presses you harder against the tree trunk. “People talk.” “Let them talk about how mad I am, then perhaps they’ll stop sending their daughters to pine over you, Hoseok.” You’re prim enough that he laughs, a darkened chuckle. 

That laugh, so airy when in the company he liked to keep, is even better now, dripping from his lips like a threat. It's so rare that he shows himself as he truly is. Not the sun in the sky, but a raging forest fire - the type of brightness that could swallow you whole, incinerate your very being. 

“That is what you want?” And it's the drop of his head against your skin, the graze of his teeth against your jaw. “You want me to show you your place? At the head of the line of pining women, first to throw yourself at me?” “I am your wife - “ but it's cut off, his mouth hot against yours, silencing you, finally. 

“My wife, my ill behaved creature.” He hums. “My jealous, jealous girl.” and he is hiking up your skirts. “Where is your place? If not on my cock.” And that is enough, your hands meeting his as you snatch your skirts higher, legs already parting at his hand sliding up your thighs, meeting your cunt with those damned fingers of his.

HIs fingers slide into you like a sword to a sheath, and you gasp. There is a coldness, a fullness towards the end as you realize he is still wearing his signet ring. If you still your muddled thoughts, and your aching body, you imagine you can almost feel the outline of the crest emblazoned on it.

The ancient crane motif of his family, now your own. 

“I won’t have to do much work.” He is sly, his tone almost teasing in its dryness. “You’re more than ready.” “Then don’t put in the work - spear me already.” You answer, far too heated to even care for his fingers inside of you- delicious though they are .

“You’re no better than a courtesan.” He answers, but his breeches are undone before you can even fathom it.

His cock, glistening, the darkened skin drawing a shudder of ache around the fingers he still has buried inside of you.

“Fuck.” He curses, and now you’re empty, his hand slick with you as he pulls your leg up, as he sinks into you.

No more pretense. Finally. “Fuck, you feel -” And he grunts, tilting your body till your feet are struggling to maintain their footing, till he’s the only thing keeping you up, the bark digging into your back every time he thrusts into you.

“Y-You’re going to rip my dress.” You are clutching at him, your fingers digging into the fine material of his riding jacket. “You - I will have to walk back half naked.” “Good - that is what you deserve for the scene you made, walking back half naked.” He means it too, and there is a piece of you that wishes he’d make due on that promise, and tear your dress down the seam. 

Make it clear to everyone what he had done- how he had gladly taken you. How he’s fucking you, right now, each thrust of his strong hips making you whine and whimper. 

You love it when he fucks you like this, when he is rough, like the tree behind you, making you beg for him, and beg for more. “Don’t you think they can hear you back at the manor?” He asks. “Don’t you feel even an ounce of shame for how loud you are?”

“None.” and you truly ARE shameless in how you call out for him, his name echoing loud enough to frighten even the birds into calling. “You did not marry me for my shame, husband.” And that seems to break the solid sort of scolding he’s been giving you, a sly grin breaking through as his mouth finds yours, almost like he’s trying to stop you from noticing it at all. 

But you let him distract you, let him have you till you’re quaking, trembling in the aftermath of your want for him, till he’s filled you to bursting, a satisfied sound on his lips, satiated with you, with how you took him.

“Perhaps.” and it's said with no small measure of pleasure. “I should take you in the parlor next, in front of those women you despise so much, hm?” 

[hd-junglebook]

It's Always Been You

Part 3

Previous Chapter ... Next Chapter

Word Count - 4,855

A:N this isn't exactly what I pictured for this chapter, but it goes into more detail about their feelings. Which idk about you, but I have been dying to figure out.

Y/N stepped out of the apartment building, the cold night air whipping at her face and stinging her tear-stained cheeks. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose herself as she made her way down the sidewalk, her heels clicking against the pavement.

As she approached the curb, she saw a sleek grey Mercedes parked along the street, its engine idling softly. The driver's side door opened, and a tall, handsome man stepped out, a concerned expression on his face as he hurried to greet her.

"Hi," he said, his voice warm and slightly hesitant. "Are you alright? I got scared you were gonna ditch me out here."

Y/N forced a laugh, the sound hollow and brittle to her own ears. She felt a pang of guilt at the concern in his voice. If only he knew how close she had come to canceling.

How the thought of walking back into that apartment and facing Jack again made her stomach churn with a sickening mixture of heartbreak and humiliation.

She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over once again.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it, couldn't bear the thought of spending another night alone in her room, crying herself to sleep over a man who would never love her the way she wanted him to.

So instead, she pasted on a smile, straightening her shoulders with false bravado, hoping that the dim streetlights would hide the redness of her eyes and the tremor in her hands.

"No, no, I wouldn't do that," she said, her voice falsely bright. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit.

"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting. I just had a little trouble finding my keys." The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

Liam studied her face for a moment, his blue eyes searching hers. His brow furrowed with concern. "Are you sure? You look upset." He reached out tentatively, his fingertips grazing her arm in a comforting gesture.

Y/n hesitated, chewing on her lower lip as she debated whether to tell him the truth. She had only matched with Liam a while ago, and the last thing she wanted was to burden him with her problems.

But there was something about his gentle, caring demeanor that made her feel safe and understood. She met his gaze, seeing only kindness and warmth reflected back at her.

"It's nothing," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She averted her gaze, focusing on a crack in the sidewalk. "Me and my roommate just had a disagreement. Happens all the time." The words felt flimsy, a poor attempt to downplay the depth of her pain.

Liam's expression softened, and he reached out to take her hand in his. His touch was warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the icy cold that surrounded them.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I hope tonight makes you feel better." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soothing gesture.

Y/N nodded, blinking back fresh tears. She drew in a shaky breath, trying to compose herself. "I'm sure it will Liam." She managed a small, grateful smile, hoping it reached her eyes.

The man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he held out his hand to her. "No worries," he said, his voice warm and reassuring.

"I'm just glad you're here. I've been looking forward to this all week." His excitement was palpable, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Y/N felt a flicker of warmth in her chest at his words, a tiny spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, this night wouldn't be a complete disaster.

She hesitated for a brief moment before placing her hand in his, letting him help her into the car, the leather seats cool and smooth against her bare legs. The simple chivalrous gesture made her feel cared for, a welcome change from the emptiness that had consumed her.

As they climbed into the warmth of the Mercedes, Y/N felt a flicker of something she hadn't felt in a long time: hope. Maybe, just maybe, Liam could help her forget about Jack, even for a little while.

She glanced over at him as he settled into the driver's seat, admiring the strong line of his jaw and the way his hands gripped the steering wheel with easy confidence.

they drove away from the curb, Y/N leaned her head back against the headrest, her eyes drifting closed as she tried to block out the memory of Jack's words, the look of pity and regret on his face as he shattered her heart into a million tiny pieces. She forced herself to take deep, even breaths, focusing on the present moment and the possibility of a fresh start.

.…

Jacks POV

Jack stormed back into the apartment, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the walls. His heart heart throbbed violently, a nauseating mixture of anger, jealousy, and regret churning in his stomach as he replayed the conversation with Y/N over and over again in his mind.

He paced the length of the living room, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he tried to calm the rage that threatened to consume him. The apartment felt too small, too cramped, the walls closing in on him as he struggled to breathe past the lump in his throat.

Everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of Y/N - the soft grey blanket she always curled up with on movie nights, the stack of her favorite books on the coffee table, the framed picture of the two of them at graduation, their arms around each other and their smiles wide and carefree.

He picked up the picture and stared at it for a long moment, his heart aching. He couldn't believe that everything was over. They had been together for so long, he couldn't imagine his life without her. He threw the picture across the room, where it shattered against the wall.

He sank down on the couch, his head in his hands.

With a growl of frustration, Jack snatched up his phone, his fingers shaking as he opened the tracking app and searched for Y/N's location. He knew it was wrong, knew that he had no right to invade her privacy like this, but he couldn't help himself. He needed to know where she was, needed to know that she was safe.

The app showed her moving through the city, the little red dot that represented her weaving through the streets at a steady pace. Jack watched it for a long moment, his heart clenching with every passing second, before he finally tore his eyes away, disgusted with himself.

He stalked into the kitchen, his mind racing as he tried to think of something, anything, to distract himself from the pain that threatened to tear him apart.

His eyes fell on the recipe box that Y/N had brought with her when she moved in, the faded index cards inside filled with her grandmother's handwriting and the smells of childhood memories.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jack pulled the box open and flipped through the cards, his fingers tracing the loops and whorls of each letter.

He stopped at a card that had 'Grandma's Best Chocolate Chip Cookies' written in large, loopy letters. It was Y/N's favorite recipe, the one she always used to make when she was feeling down or just wanted to fill the house with the scent of home.

Jack was pulling out ingredients, his hands moving on autopilot as he measured and mixed and stirred, his movements slow and deliberate. He measured the flour and sugar, added the butter and eggs, and then stirred in the chocolate chips.

The smell of vanilla and cinnamon filled the air, the warm, comforting scent of Y/N's favorite cookies wrapping around him like a hug.

Jack took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. He could do this. He could make these cookies, and maybe, just maybe, it would help him to feel a little bit closer to Y/N.

But even as he worked, his mind wouldn't let him rest. He kept seeing the look on Y/N's face as he told her he didn't feel the same way, the way her eyes had filled with tears and her lips had trembled with the effort of holding back a sob.

He kept hearing the sound of her heels clicking on the floor as she walked away from him, the finality of it like a knife to the heart.

The cookies came out of the oven, golden brown and perfect, but Jack barely noticed. He was too busy pacing the length of the kitchen, his phone clutched in his hand as he checked Y/N's location over and over again, watching as the little red dot moved further and further away from him.

The hours ticked by, the night deepening outside the windows as Jack lost himself in his thoughts. The apartment was a mess, the kitchen counter covered in flour and sugar and dirty mixing bowls, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

All he could think about was Y/N, and the way he had ruined everything with his cowardice and his fear.

Finally, as the first rays of dawn began to peek through the curtains, Jack collapsed onto the couch, his body exhausted and his heart heavy with the weight of his mistakes.

He closed his eyes, the image of Y/N's tear-stained face burned into his mind like a brand, a reminder of everything he had lost and everything he had thrown away.

Jack knew that he had no one to blame but himself, knew that he had let his own insecurities and doubts get in the way of something that could have been beautiful.

And now, as he lay there in the silence of the empty apartment, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon still lingering in the air, he couldn't help but wonder if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

…

Jack stood at the edge of the rink, his eyes glued to his phone as he refreshed Y/N's location for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

Three days had passed since their argument, three days since she had walked out of the apartment and out of his life, and he still hadn't heard a word from her.

He had texted her countless times, his messages ranging from frantic apologies to desperate pleas for her to come home. But every time, he was met with silence, the little blue checkmarks next to his messages taunting him with their unresponsiveness.

The sound of skates scraping against the ice jolted him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Nico gliding towards him, a concerned expression on his face. Jack quickly shoved his phone into his pocket, hoping that his teammate hadn't noticed the way his hands were shaking.

"What's wrong with you, Jack?" Nico asked, his thick Swiss accent making the words sound even more blunt than they already were. "Did you break up with your girlfriend again?"

Jack flinched at the question, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. If only it were that simple, he thought bitterly. If only he had a girlfriend to break up with, instead of a best friend he had driven away with his own stupidity and cowardice.

"No," he said, his voice rough and hoarse from lack of sleep. "It's not that. It's... it's Y/N."

Nico's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his eyes widening as he took in the dark circles beneath Jack's eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks. "Y/N?" he repeated, his voice laced with confusion. "What happened with Y/N?"

Jack sighed, his shoulders slumping as he ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't told anyone about the argument, hadn't wanted to admit to the world how badly he had screwed things up.

But standing there on the ice, with Nico looking at him with such concern and understanding, he felt the words spilling out of him before he could stop them.

"I messed up," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I told her I didn't feel the same way about her, and now she's gone. She hasn't come home in three days, and she won't answer any of my texts or calls. I don't know what to do."

“You idiot,” he said, but his voice lacked any real malice. “Why would you say something like that to her? You know how much she cares about you.”

“I know,” Jack said miserably. “I just... I panicked. I didn't know what to say, and I didn't want to hurt her. But I guess I did anyway.”

Nico was silent for a moment, his eyes searching Jack's face as if he were trying to read the truth behind his words. Finally, he spoke, his voice gentle but firm.

"Jack," he said, his hand coming up to rest on his teammate's shoulder. "I know you care about Y/N, but you can't keep doing this to yourself. You need to give her space, need to let her come to you when she's ready."

Jack shook his head, his eyes stinging with the threat of tears. "I can't," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I can't lose her, Nico. She's my best friend, the most important person in my life. I don't know how to be without her."

Nico sighed, his eyes softening with sympathy. "I know," he said, his voice almost tender. "But you can't force her to forgive you, Jack. You have to let her come to that decision on her own. And in the meantime, you need to focus on taking care of yourself. You're no good to anyone if you're running yourself into the ground like this."

Jack knew that Nico was right, knew that he couldn't keep going on like this. But the thought of letting go, of giving up on the one person who meant everything to him, made his chest ache with a pain that felt almost physical.

"I don't know if I can do that," he said, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own heartbeat. "I don't know if I'm strong enough."

Nico smiled, his hand squeezing Jack's shoulder in a gesture of comfort and support. "You are," he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence.

"You're one of the strongest people I know, Jack. And you're not alone in this. Your team is here for you, and we'll support you every step of the way."

Jack felt a rush of gratitude at his teammate's words, a tiny flicker of hope sparking to life in his chest. He knew that the road ahead would be long and difficult, that there would be days when the pain would feel like too much to bear.

But with his friends by his side, and the memory of Y/N's smile to guide him, he knew that he could find his way back to the light, no matter how dark the path might seem.

"Thanks, Nico," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Nico grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Probably drive yourself crazy," he said, his tone teasing. "But that's what friends are for, right?"

Jack laughed, the sound weak and watery, but genuine, nonetheless. And as he stepped back onto the ice, his skates cutting through the smooth surface with a newfound sense of purpose.

…

y/n’s POV

Y/N sat on Liam's couch, her phone clutched in her hand as she scrolled mindlessly through her social media feeds. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the shower running in the bathroom. She tried to focus on the pictures and posts flashing across her screen, but her mind kept drifting back to the one person she was trying so hard to forget.

Jack.

The name echoed in her mind like a heartbeat, a constant reminder of the pain and heartbreak she had left behind. It had been three days since she had walked out of their apartment, three days since she had last seen his face or heard his voice.

And yet, he was still there, lurking in the corners of her mind like a ghost she couldn't shake.

She knew that she was just using Liam as a distraction, a way to numb the ache in her chest and forget about the hole in her heart. But he was a good one, always there with a smile and a joke whenever she needed it most.

Whenever she found herself slipping back into thoughts of Jack, Liam would appear at her side, his presence a comforting reminder that she wasn't alone.

Y/N sighed, her fingers hovering over her phone screen as she debated whether to check Jack's social media. She knew it was a bad idea, knew that seeing his face would only make the pain worse. But a part of her couldn't help but wonder what he was doing, couldn't help but hope that maybe, just maybe, he was thinking of her too.

Before she could give in to the temptation, the sound of Liam's voice broke through her thoughts.

"I'm gonna hop in the shower, Y/N," he called out, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he grabbed some clothes from his bedroom.

Y/N looked up from her phone, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Okay, don't take too long," she called back, her voice light and teasing.

She heard the bathroom door click shut, and then the sound of the shower turning on, the water pattering against the tiles in a steady rhythm. Y/N leaned back against the couch cushions, her eyes drifting closed as she tried to push away the thoughts of Jack that still lingered in her mind.

But even as she sat there, surrounded by the warmth and comfort of Liam's apartment, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. The ache in her chest was still there, a constant reminder of the love she had lost and the friendship she had left behind.

Jack's absence left a void that no amount of distraction could fill, and Y/n was beginning to realize that she needed to confront her feelings head-on. The sound of running water filled the room, Y/n closed her eyes, steeling herself for the inevitable confrontation with her emotions.

Her phone pinging broke the silence of his living room. "can’t wait to see you! mom and I gonna pick you up from the airport." The text from Luke read.

Y/N's heart sank as she read the text message, the words on the screen a stark reminder of the life she had left behind. In the whirlwind of emotions and distractions of the past few days, she had completely forgotten about their planned weekend trip back to Michigan.

She cursed under her breath, her mind already racing with the logistics of packing and getting to the airport on time. A glance at the clock on the wall told her it was already 10:30, and she knew that Jack would likely be home by now, probably wondering where she was and why she hadn't come back.

With a sigh, Y/N threw her phone into her purse and made her way over to the bathroom door. She hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the wood as she debated what to say. Finally, she knocked softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of the running water.

"Hey Liam," she called out, her tone apologetic. "I totally forgot I have a weekend trip to pack for. I need to head out."

There was a pause, and then the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back. Liam peeked his head out, his hair damp and his skin glistening with water droplets. He had a small smile on his lips, but Y/N could see the disappointment lurking in his eyes.

"Oh, okay," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Do you need a ride? I can take you."

Y/N hesitated, the offer tempting in its simplicity. It would be so easy to let Liam drive her home, to put off the inevitable confrontation with Jack for just a little while longer.

But she knew that she couldn't keep running forever, knew that eventually, she would have to face the music and deal with the consequences of her actions.

"No, that's okay," she said, her voice soft but firm. "I can take a cab. I don't want to put you out."

Liam shook his head, his smile widening. "Don't be silly," he said, his tone light and teasing. "I was just getting out anyway. Let me drive you back home."

Y/N felt a rush of gratitude at his words, a warmth spreading through her chest at the kindness and generosity of his offer. She knew that she was lucky to have him in her life, knew that he would always be there for her, no matter what the future might hold.

"Okay," she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Thank you, Liam. I really appreciate it."

Liam grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Anything for you, Y/N," he said, his voice filled with a fondness that made her heart ache. "Just give me a minute to get dressed, and we'll be on our way."

Y/N nodded, her throat tight with emotion as she watched him disappear back into the bathroom. She knew that the road ahead would be long and difficult, that there would be moments of doubt and uncertainty.

And as she stood there, waiting for Liam to emerge from the bathroom, she couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope igniting in her chest.

Maybe, just maybe, the journey ahead would lead her back to the place she had always called home, back to the love that had always been waiting for her, just out of reach.

…

The hallway was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the soft glow of the emergency exit sign at the end of the corridor. Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor, each step bringing her closer to the door of the apartment she shared with Jack.

Y/N's heart raced as she stepped out of the elevator, the familiar scent of home filling her nostrils.

Liam followed close behind her, his presence a comforting warmth at her back. Y/N could feel the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric of her shirt, and for a moment, she allowed herself to lean into him, to draw strength from his solid, steady presence.

But just as they were about to reach the door, Liam's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around Y/N's wrist and pulling her back towards him. She let out a gasp of surprise, her heart leaping into her throat as she spun around to face him.

In the dim light of the hallway, Liam's face was shadowed, his features obscured by the darkness. But Y/N could still see the glint of his eyes, the curve of his lips as he smiled down at her. His breath ghosted across her cheek, warm and slightly sweet, like he had just taken a sip of hot cocoa.

Y/N's heart raced as Liam pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist like a coil of heat. The hallway was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the soft glow of the elevator buttons behind them.

The air was thick with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and the faint aroma of cleaning products, a sharp contrast to the warm, spicy scent of Liam's cologne.

His face was mere inches from hers, his eyes dark and intense in the dim light. Y/N's heart pounded in her chest, the sound so loud that she was sure he could hear it too.

"I had a great few days with you," Liam murmured, his voice low and husky. His fingers trailed up her spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Y/N shivered, her skin tingling with a mixture of anticipation and nerves.

She knew that she should pull away, knew that this was a dangerous game to play. But there was something about the way Liam looked at her, something about the heat in his gaze and the strength of his touch, that made her feel alive in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.

The world around them seemed to fade away, the sound of the elevator and the hum of the fluorescent lights receding into the background.

All Y/N could focus on was the warmth of Liam's body against hers, the way his fingers tangled in her hair and his breath mingled with her own.

She didn't hear the soft ding of the elevator arriving on their floor, didn't hear the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, the rush of blood in her ears as Liam leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above her own.

Her head was spinning, her heart pounding with a mixture of anger, frustration, and desperation. It was time to stop chasing after a dream that would never come true, time to stop pining for a man who would never see her as anything more than a friend.

And in that moment, something inside her snapped. Before she could think twice, Y/N reached up and grabbed Liam's face, pulling him down to her level and crashing her lips against his.

The kiss was hot and hungry, filled with all the pent-up frustration and longing that had been building inside her for so long. Y/N poured everything she had into that kiss, every ounce of emotion and desire and desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find with Liam what she had always wanted with Jack.

But even as Liam's arms wrapped around her waist, even as his tongue tangled with hers and his hands roamed over her body, Y/N knew that it wasn't enough.

The spark that she felt with Jack, the electricity that crackled between them every time they touched, was conspicuously absent.

Kissing Liam was nice, but it didn't set her soul on fire the way Jack's mere presence did.

Finally, Y/N pulled back, her chest heaving and her lips swollen. She looked up at Liam, her eyes searching his face for some sign of the connection she so desperately craved.

But all she saw was a man who cared for her, who wanted to be there for her, but who could never make her feel the way Jack did.

"I'll see you when I get back, Liam," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Three days. And I’ll come home."

Liam's face softened, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks. "Okay, Y/N," he murmured, his voice gentle and understanding. "Don’t forget about me." And so, with a final, shuddering breath, Y/N pulled back from Liam's embrace, her eyes shining with a new determination.

"Y/N?"

Y/N's shoulders tensed, her heart leaping into her throat as she spun around to face the source of the sound. And there, standing at the end of the hallway, his face a mask of shock and hurt, was Jack.

The sight of him hit her like a punch to the gut, the air rushing out of her lungs in a sharp gasp. He looked tired and worn, his hair disheveled and his eyes rimmed with red.

Even in the dim light of the hallway, she could see the pain etched into every line of his face, the betrayal and confusion swirling in his gaze.

"Jack," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here?"

But even as the words left her lips, she knew they were a mistake. She could see the anger flashing in Jack's eyes, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

In that moment, she knew that whatever fragile peace they had managed to maintain over the past few days was about to come crashing down around them.

The hallway suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in on her like a vice. The scent of cigarette smoke and cleaning products was overwhelming, making her head spin and her stomach churn. And still, Jack stood there, his gaze boring into hers like a laser, his presence a physical force that she could feel in every cell of her body.

Y/N opened her mouth to speak, to try to explain or apologize or beg for forgiveness. But before she could get a word out she thought back to their fight. The things jack had said to her in this same cover of darkness.

Jack brushed past, his steps leading him into the apartment, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding thud. Y/N felt like she had been punched in the gut, the air rushing out of her lungs in a sharp gasp.

…

Tag List <3

@favsrachz @jacktoria4ever @bunbunbl0gs @ivy-34 @rebelatbay

[jung-shook-iieee]

3:15 | JJK

⊶ pairing : jungkook x venom x reader. (f)

⊶ Warnings : cw: 18+ , alien sex? Not technically lol, unprotected sex, creampies, size difference, size kink, belly bulge, stalking, mention of eating people.. Yikes *, overstimulation.

⊶ Word count : 1.4k

" Jungkook and venom really likes you. "

⊶ A/N : venom is scary. Isn't he? 👀

⊶ A/N2 : don't ask me why I wrote this I mean i was just watching an edit of jk x venom and in the next few moment I started writing this. Hehe :)

                             °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Jungkook and his alien buddy aka venom doesn't know if that is love.

They only know that you make their heart beats fast every time they see you; they know that their palms start to sweat when they watch you smile at men who are not them; they both know why their stomach stops growling when your eyes meet by sheer coincidence and they know their cocks gets hard when they silently watch you sleep, hiding in the darkness of your bedroom.

Even though jungkook's body accepted the symbiote but still venom needed permission from his higher ups to stay here a bit longer.

You won't believe how strongly jungkook and the symbiote had built their relationship over a short period of time. They were one after all.

They both followed you around town while you ran errands in that nice short sundress and picturing how you were wearing nothing underneath. They would learned the streets and routes you took when you went out shopping with your friends, the stores you liked best, the dishes you preferred to eat when you went out to lunch with them, the drinks you loved to sip on warm afternoons. They watched as you turned away men who approached you on the way home, the ones who whistled at you - and wasn't it quite mysterious why those men disappeared the next day?

And there's no way you would know that the symbiote ate them alive after you left. Right? :)

And they weren't always this crazy about you. They weren't even aware of your existence until that day. The day when you were going home back and you were drunk, some old perverts tried to molest you. You surely did not remember them, but the moment jungkook laid his eyes on you he lost it, and so did venom. They helped you did not they? Venom munched on their livers in front of you and you weren't even scared of that..!! That's how they knew you were the one.

But jungkook did not wanted to take risk so he asked venom not to do something stupid, which might scare you away.

But then why in the middle of the night you feel yourself being dragged out of your bed by a strange presence??? It must be your dreams, those filthy dreams which can not be converted into reality right? But the grip on your hips were too strong to be a dream.

Jungkook sometimes fail to resist you, he's a human after all! and venom would only ignite his filthy thoughts about you , so they both sneak in your room and sometimes he let venom take control.....!!!!

Jungkook easily lifts you by the waist. he rips off your panties with his thick fingers, his chest is hard as he pulls you toward him, and a thick cock begins to rub between your folds.

"we're gonna make you feel so good princess. " Venom speaks inside jungkook's mind and jungkook mumbled a ' yes. '

" She's ours gguk, make her ours. " Venom growls over jungkook's shoulders, jungkook nodded his head, " She's mine, she's ours. "

it certainly can't be a dream, right? not when your cunt is completely soaked and jungkook starts hissing in frustration when his thick cock doesn't fit your tight slit.

your head falls back as the thick tip of his cock rubs between your slick folds and brushed against your nub.

" Just fuck her goddam kid. " Venom grumbles impatiently.

" Shut up V. We don't want to wake her up now. It's too risky. " Jungkook warned venom.

" Then let her see us, feel us. Let me out I'll take her. " Venom said impatiently inside jungkook's head. Jungkook knew you would not be able to take the symbiote for sure, he would have to prep you for that first.

" No we can't do that right now, fuck fine wait. " Jungkook frowned and he slammed his inside you making you whimper in your sleep. You arched your back and opened your mouth slightly.

"feels good, doesn't it, pretty baby?" Jungkook asks clutching your hips and using you like a fleshlight.

your sloppy cunt makes obscene noises as you are rocked back and forth, your nails scratch his thick arms, and as you reach the edge you gush onto his long shaft.

his chest slowly rises and falls, Beel feels so frustrated. your sweet cunt is too tight for his monstrous cock - damn it, by dint of grinding his head into your slit he'll end up cumming even before he has tasted your smooth walls.

" Ahh. Sto-p." you sob, looking between your thighs, with blurry eyes, slick of pre-cum mixed with your cream coats his huge cock, sliding over your thighs and down your legs.

" Don't stop gguk she's desperate for us. You cannot stop. " Jungkook nods and bites lower lip as started thrusting faster inside you.

Venom increased jungkook's dick size inside you and you can't get enough of it. Your eyes we're teary you could clearly make the difference between a dream and reality but you couldn't utter any word. You weren't pushing him away either and that made jungkook confused

Jungkook holds you firmly under your knees before spreading your legs wide and taking a deep breath. "you smell good and i'm sure you taste even better," he licks his lips before lining you up on his cock.

"Yes she smells divine jeon, the next time I'm eating her out till she faints. " Venom said over jungkook's shoulder. Jungkook only laughed at that.

his cock bullies its way into your slit. he stretches and spreads your cunt inch by inch. you cream when he's half inside, making his job easier.

You moan and cry out as his big hands hold you firmly, . his fat cock throbs inside your slit - in the darkness of the room you can glimpse the outline of his cock in your belly. it makes you feel dirty and aroused, being used as a toy by that creature or human as if you were made just to satisfy those huge, hungry beasts.

Jungkook knows venom is making his dick too big for you, but nothing can stop him, not now that your pretty pussy tightens around his fat girth. his cock throbs as he thrusts deep into it, his balls finally hitting your ass as he begins to bounce you on his veiny shaft.

he tosses you up and down on his veiny cock clutching you behind your knees, holding you wide open as you scream and cum - and he thrusts even deeper, making you come again and again.

" She's such a good girl," Venom murmurs in jungkook's ear as your legs dangle over his forearms. you could cum again just from the position, you're sure.

you become a doll in jungkook's arms as he uses you, bounces you up and down, licks and sucks your neck, murmurs in your ear before filling your belly with his sticky seed

there's so much of it. more and more, there seems to be no end. fills your belly and overflows from your cunt. his cum gushes from your slit even though his thick cock plugs it inside.

when he pulls it out, a pop echoes in your room.

your mixed cum slides out of you and he casually drops you on the mattress. shocked and still shaking you try to catch your breath, your spread pussy is aching, and your limbs are flabby as you slump onto the pillow and fall asleep exhausted.

They both admire the view huffing, venom would fuck you the next time he already made that decision.

They kissed you and cleaned you, though venom was persistent on leaving you like this so you could remember this but jungkook cleaned you nevertheless. He's a good guy isn't he?

Jungkook tucked you under the blanket and left with venom.

maybe you'll have a different dream this time or maybe you'll dream them again. Because, it was a dream after all, wasn't it?

                              °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

A/N 3 - do you guys like venom? I mean he's hot. 💀

@yellabella77 @g-o-bs--fanfictions @cherryunie @goofyhoffy @kooookie @miyaohyeahh @minpdrecs

* please help me grow my community. :)

[btsugarush]

In These Streets | jhs [m.list]

❝i don’t care what anyone says, i want you.❞

summary: in this modern day romeo and juliet, you fall in love with jung hoseok; a carefree, street tough who introduces you to life in his hood.

pairings: jung hoseok x f!reader.

warnings: smut, fluff, drugs, strong language, violence, angst, 18+, minors dni.

author’s note: so, this is another wip that i’ve been thinking of for a while. i’ve wanted to write for hoseok since i first wrote gangsta so here it is.

©btsugarush. please do not repost.

000 |

[hoseoksluna]

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. 

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.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ part one | READ part two | READ part three | READ part four | READ part five

[kiestrokes]

Keeping the Cadence | NSFW

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x GN!Reader/You/Yn Rating: NSFW! Mature (18+) Minors DNI. Word Count: 999 (cutting it close) Genre: porn without plot, military au, smut, drabble. Warnings: military setting, abrupt ending, inspired by this Hobi.

Sexually Explicit Content: penis in whatever hole you desire, use of gender-neutral terms for the receiver of Hobi's penis, subtle nipple play and hair pulling, Hoseok has a big dick (obvi), rough sex, quickie, slight pain kink displayed, mutual orgasms, latex condoms used.

Summary: Drill Assistant Jung Hoseok just can't help keeping the rhythm, even while fucking you.

🗝️ Note: I blame @xjoonchildx 🫥 I wrote this in under an hour, has not been beta read! Don't expect too much, it's been awhile and I'm still rusty.

Disclaimers: This is a work of fiction; I do not own any of the idols depicted below. 

The heavy metal door groans shut behind you, effectively sealing you in the dimness of the basement storage room.

“Hurry we only have ten minutes before we have to be back to post” Hobi instructs from behind you. The click of his belt and zipper filled the void of your silence while you worked on sending your pants and panties to a crumpled puddle around your ankles.

“Condom?” You looked over your shoulder just as Hoseok ripped one open with his teeth giving a nod of his eyebrows. You braced yourself over the metal laundry table that was typically used for folding towels, ready for Hoseok.

Not ready enough, you feel his body heat against your back and are jolted when he kicks the inside of your boots with his, effectively spreading your legs as far as the personal shackles of your pants will allow.

“Spit” Hoseok commands, one slender-fingered hand cupping over your mouth as his other hand bends you forward. Following his other demand, Hobi rubs your saliva over your clenched hole exposing it to the cool air of the cellar.

“Ahhh,” you moan as his fingertips toy with the sensitive rim before roughly shoving two fingers inside “Fuck!” Your spine straightens, half from arousal and the other half in delectable pain at the sudden stretch.

“Sorry we don’t have time to stretch you out slowly, I’m kind of-”

“Big.” You finish for him, turning your cheek to graze his nose and fluttering your lashes at his shocked face.

“So, you’ve been looking” He laughs shortly, not the full musical laugh you’ve become accustomed to, this one is laced with carnality. Hoseok’s own eyes lid as he presses himself into you, replacing his fingers with the tip of his cock. His lips part as he slowly works his way into you, with small but firm thrusts.

“Hobi” You moan as he makes it halfway into you.

His hand tucks under your shirt, fingers splaying across your abdomen as he bows over your shoulder for a kiss. Grunting your name into your mouth, as you fervently nibble away at his heart-shaped lips. He stills only once, a lengthy groan rumbling from his chest as he bottoms out. You let out a sharp cry when you feel his hips roll up, his pelvis essentially cupping your ass, rubbing his fat head against the deepest and most sensitive part inside you.

“Shit Hobi,” your body shudders in response but the moment is over as quickly as it came.

Hoseok’s hands glide to fist your waist, drilling your hip bones into the metal of the table as he works himself in and out of your walls. His huffs and grunts and curse words are panted into the collar of your shirt from where he’s pressed across your back.

“Hobi” You whine as he keeps up the insistent pace, drilling in to press into that glorious spot, followed by a thick drag out. You realize he’s fucking you in cadence, and you don’t know why you’re surprised, he is the assistant drill instructor. “Are you fucking me to the marching beat?”

Hoseok’s wild eyes meet yours and he stutters a laugh, “Sorry guess I am, it’s working, isn’t it?” You moan in unison as your insides clench, threatening to suck Hoseok’s massive dick back inside.

“Harder” You gasp as his thrusts sharpen, causing your hands to skate across the smooth surface of the table. Causing Hoseok to fall into you, his hands grasping at the edge to brace himself beside your hips. 

You cry out as his wide base stretches your entrance more, Hoseok sucks air between his teeth as you spasm around his cock. He picks up his rhythm again, angling himself under your ass and thrusting up. Each roll in bruising your hips against the table, you recline back on his chest as he grinds you between the metal and his brutal cock.

“How does it feel? Are you close?” Hoseok’s ear caresses your cheek, his voice a paradox of sunshine compared to the hellish way he is fucking you. You look up to find his brown gaze less hawkeyed than earlier, softened just for you. 

“So good Hoseok, I’m close” You stutter out the last part, feeling his hand under your shirt, gliding across your sternum in search of a nipple that he finds and pinches. Causing you to bow forward and Hoseok lays you flat on the cool table, his other hand on the nape of your neck fingers tugging at the hair there as he snaps his hips into your ass.

“God, you take me so well,” Hoseok lets out a guttural moan as your body tightens under him.

You recite his name in chant as your hands claw against the slick surface. Your undoing is when Hoseok thrusts deep, swirling his hips into the one particular spot as his fingers pinch the nipple he’s still holding onto, and the other tugs are the roots of your hair. You orgasm hard, release spilling down your legs. 

Hoseok gasps out a throaty version of your name as his cock glides you through your climax, your walls squeezing his length so tight you have no idea how he manages to make his way back inside until you feel it. His thighs stiffened against yours, and his release spilled into the latex of the condom. Hoseok’s hands are ripped from your body, and he slams them into the table, pressing himself as deeply inside of you as he can get. 

The room is filled with shuddering breaths as the two of you slowly descend back into your bodies. Hoseok withdraws, groaning as you clench at his retreat. 

“Two minutes,” You heave yourself upright after glancing at your watch and begin to shakily redress. While Hoseok trashes the condom and mirrors your movements, in an unfazed fashion.

His sharp eyes are back as his gaze washes over your appearance, giving it a quick nod of approval, he slips out the door.

© COPYRIGHT 2023 by kiestrokes All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced without written permission from the author. This includes translations. 

[sugaimhome]

listener - jhs

pairing: best friend hoseok x female reader

minors dni !!

genre: smut, angst, maybe fluff if you squint, mostly pwp

warnings: dom hoseok, sub reader, a lot of manhandling, mentions of unsafe driving (?), reader has a praise + degradation kink, some slapping, oral (female receiving), hair pulling.

word count: 2k

summary: hoseok has always been a listener, but when you tell him about your inability to feel good in bed, he takes his listening a step further

a/n: I wrote this after a very nice dream I had, its only short and moves very quick but I love it so...

not proof read

“And, oh honestly, I can’t even begin to explain it.” you turn away from him, blushing. Regardless of who had started this conversation (Hoseok) and how comfortable you knew he was talking about these subjects (very), it still wasn't easy.

“Try to explain it Y/N, you know I am here to listen.” Hoseok replies, tilting his head in the corner of your eye. You look back at him, momentarily, and then look away again. 

“I know Hobi, but-” you pause, maybe you should just tell him. “He hasn’t made me orgasm once. I know it's a stupid thing to leave a relationship for because I think I like him a lot but sexual gratification means a lot to me. Gosh do I sound like a brat?” 

The thing was, you’d been seeing this guy you had met at a bar for nearly a month, he was a nice guy, you’d had sex a few times (a lot) and despite you feeling open enough to tell him what worked for you, he had failed to pull through on any of those requests. 

“Does it even feel good?” Hoseok asks, of course he’s referring to whether or not he had gotten you even close to an orgasm, the answer is a simple...

“No” that has you blushing, because you felt like it was your fault you felt like this. Maybe it was, maybe your weird requests in bed were just a little too odd for the average male. You sigh, resting your forehead on your hand. “I can’t help but think I am just incapable of an orgasm, it's been months.”

There's silence for a moment, it's in this silence that you realise you’d admitted that to Hoseok, you hadn’t really meant to, he was just a really good listener. “Can you make yourself orgasm?” he asks, his voice completely neutral.

Part of you is annoyed that you can’t seem to tackle this subject with the maturity that Hoseok did. “Of course, I know what I like.” 

When you look back to Hoseok, after he doesn’t respond, you’re met with two very dilated, perhaps angry pupils. You stare him right in the eye for a moment, you’re sure his eyes darken a shade as you do. “Are you okay?” you ask him, thinking you’d said something wrong.

“No, I'm just pissed off, so many men don’t know how to please a woman.” he sounds very passionate about the situation and you’re very embarrassed when heat rushes to your core with the thought of that voice commanding you to- 

You stop thinking before you dig yourself a hole. Hoseok looks completely out of it, his fists clenching and unclenching at his side. “He doesn’t deserve someone like you Y/N”

“You’ve never met him, Hoseok, he’s really nice.”

“Nice enough to give you exactly what you want? Nice enough to put aside his pleasure to make you feel good?” 

You gulp, perhaps this wasn’t a good idea to bring up with Hoseok. 

“That’s not nice Y/N that's selfish.” he sighs.

“That's fine Hoseok, but find me a man who respects me but also wants to throw me about in bed, then I'll listen to you.” 

He doesn’t reply, but he sits and looks at you with such intent written on his features that you announce you’re going. He grabs you by the hand before you can even begin to move. “Let me show you.” his eyes tell a completely different story than what they had before, completely soft and sincere, it has you hesitating. What exactly did he mean here?

“Hoseok…” you whisper. You don’t pull away. You don’t think you can. 

“I could make you cum so many times you forget everything but my name, make you orgasm until you see stars. Fuck you dumb.”

You shakily inhale. Heat rushing towards your cheeks and your core. Shock must be evident on your features because he drops your hand, sighs, and says. “Sexual pleasure is key to a relationship, Y/N, don’t let his kindness distract you from the fact there's no chemistry.”

You blink, “Are you suggesting that we have chemistry Hoseok?”

When he replies with a “yes”, you shock yourself by sighing and admitting… 

“I know.” 

It had been undeniable for years. Evident in the way your pulse skipped a beat whenever he touched you, the way your heart had dropped when he announced he had a girlfriend, and risen again two years later when they broke up. Not even mentioning the time you had to sit on his lap in the back of Jungkook's car because there were too many of you to all sit in an individual seat, you could have sworn you felt him against your arse (like his dick), but you'd assumed it was because you'd just been in a club where girls had been grinding on him all night. 

Hoseok looks as shocked at your agreement as you were. There's not many words spoken as he pulls you from your seat so you're standing in front of him. He traces circles on the back of your hand. "Are you being serious?" you ask.

"Of course I am." he replies, "I don't want you to feel pressured"

"I trust you" you'd trusted him for years, ever since you could remember, and you would have done this years ago if given the chance.

Grabbing your waist he pulls you down so you're straddling his lap, your thighs on either side of his. "What do you like?" He asks, sending heat to your core as he kisses your neck and the exposed skin of your breasts.

It's hard to admit whilst he's right in front of you so you hide your face in his neck as he runs his hand up and down your clothed body. "Come on, Y/N, tell me how to make you feel good, be a good girl"

You whimper, he had hit the nail on the head with that one. "A praise kink" he continued "I thought so..."

You don't have time to process what that means exactly before he's speaking again, "now we know you're nothing but a slut-"

Your legs clench together, and seeing that Hoseok is directly between your legs, he picks up on this, only chuckling a low laugh, only making things worse for you as you (again) clench your thighs. "I think I have you figured out, Y/N, you can come out of hiding now" 

When you return from the (very nice smelling) crook of his neck you're relieved to see a smile coating his lips. "You can stop this at any time, just say, please" He says as he squeezes his hands around the soft flesh of your thighs, there was no way he was about to lift you-

You're in the air, your legs gripping around his torso and your arms around his neck to keep from falling to the hardwood floor (this was not the only hard wood in this area.) You're surprised that he can support your weight all the way up your stairs until you're on your back with all your clothes off laying on your bed. 

He regards you with nothing but lust in his eyes as he stands at the bottom of the bed, completely clothed, just watching you. His intense glare has you closing your legs, trying to hide from his deadly glare, but he only grabs your ankles and forces your legs open. "Such a good girl, all wet for me already" 

You nod your head, hoping he'll do something. 

"Who are you wet for, Y/N?" He asks, his voice deeper than it usually was.

"You"

"Say my name, who are you wet for?"

"I am wet for Hoseok"

"Good girl" 

He climbs up onto the bed, his head stopping at your core, where he nips into the sensitive skin of your thighs. "So beautiful" he smiles, pressing a kiss to your clit, causing you to flinch away. Most of the men who you'd dated in the past would have needed a 100 step manual to find your clit, or a map (X marks the spot for an orgasm) the instant contact causes an unfiltered moan to escape your lips. Hoseok only hums, sending vibrations into your core. He's licking and slurping away, the sounds so vulgar you want to record them and keep them forever, his hands are on your ankles, holding your legs above you as he continues his attack on your pussy, licking one stripe straight though your folds and into your entrance. "Ohmygod" you manage to say, hardly even breathing, you were shocked to believe you were so close already, all because a man had put a moment of attention towards your clit. "Amclose" you breathe.

And you wish you hadn't said a thing, Hoseok pulls away, the wetness from you coating his chin. "You only get to cum when it's around my cock" 

"Please Hobi, please"

He chuckles again, pressing a few kisses to your stomach and chest, attacking your nipple for a moment before grabbing your waist and practically chucking you onto your stomach. This. This is what you needed. You lift your hips, as he unbuckles his belt, the sound of his zip being pulled down like music to your ears. You're looking around, watching his, not overly long (average), but thick cock escape its confinements as he pulls down his boxers, stepping out of them and kicking them somewhere in your room. The weight of him as he gets back onto the bed almost makes you orgasm in itself. "Are you ready for me?" He asks. 

You nod, "Yes, yes, yes, please"

"Such an eager slut" he sneers as he presses his cock to your folds, holding it at its base and running it up and down to hit your clit. You don't think you'll ever feel something as liberating as Hoseok entering you to the hilt, entering you until you're filled perfectly, his head hitting a sensitive spot inside of you. Him thrusting in and out until you're a moaning mess. You desperately want to watch him enter you, coated in your slick, but he grabs a fistful of your hair, pushing your head down into the pillow and using you as an anchor to push deeper. You're crying, stimulated so well. He changes his angle each time until he's hitting your g-spot with each hard thrust m, his balls slapping your clit. "You're doing so well for me, love"

"You feel so good" You manage to reply, and you realise he had been right earlier, all you could think about was Hoseok, his cock dragging through the ridges of your pussy, his body smothering yours, his hand in your hair and the restriction he had created in this position. You cum. It causes the world to blur at the edges of your vision, your eyes clamping shut as you shake, your toes clenching. Hoseok doesn't relent the whole time, and before you know it you're severely over stimulated moving into your next orgasm as you use your legs to help Hoseok push into you further. 

"I'm really close, love, but I need you to cum with me, okay" 

You nod, obeying him even though you weren't sure you physically could. That all changes when he releases your waist, using his now free hand to smack your left ass cheek, then kneading the flesh, before shaking the right, and doing the same. 

"Cum for me" he demands of you, and you're happy to obey as you again shake, you think you say his name, but your brain can't function past the way he was currently shooting warm fluid into you. It consumed you until you could no longer function, limp from an orgasm you never thought you could access so easily. 

"I told you-" Hoseok breathes, completely out of breath, soft inside your over sensitive, clenching pussy. "It's not you, it's the incompatible men"

[luv-gukkie]

cherry | 𖦊 : seven

pairing: yandere! park jimin x f. reader, yandere! jung hoseok x f. reader

genre: fluff || smut || non-idol au || yandere

summary: you’re the cherry on top of everything. the little girl in front of your parents; the gooody two-shoes of your family, friends, and everyone who knows you. so when you’re staring at the two bright, red lines on the pregnancy test. you know you’re fucked, you really do. especially when there’s not only one man, but seven.

word count: +1.3k

tags/warnings: unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap it up guys), a small peek at hoseok liking praises, creampie, squirting, basically stalking/ spying, soft sex?, size difference, jimin cares for reader (too much…), living room sex, hoseok umm…knows stuff~

notes: sorry it took a bit too long :’(

tag list: @bananamochidaisy @mageprincess7 @darkuni63 @princess-sunshyn @redeyezbloodymouth @bxcndd @iloverubberduckiez-blog

༻❤︎︎ ★ ★ ❤︎︎༺

"seo-jun, nice to see you again." jimin smiles at him, leaning forward in the chair. all seo-jun does is nod at his words before looking around the cafe, a questioning look on his face. "it's to blend in; it's loud enough to cover our conversation and too many people for somebody to notice us." seo-jun gives jimin a thumbs up before opening the menu, eyes widening at the prices for food and drinks. "eat whatever you want, i'll pay." he grins at the quiet man. after jimin orders what they both want to the waiter, he finally starts to talk about you. "so, tell me how is (y/n)? is she all right? has she been," he pauses at the thought of realizing he'll find out the truth, "um, seeing anyone?" seo-jun quickly takes out an ipad from his bag, opening up that file before handing the ipad to an impatient jimin. who looks anxious and sick at the thought of seeing pictures of you with someone else. it makes him wanna throw up but at the same time, he understands that if he wants to keep you to himself, he'll have to do whatever it takes. everything is normal; no sign of you with someone else or anything. you're just living your daily routine. jimin smiles at the pictures where he can see your face clearly, especially the one where you're smiling. seo-jun eyes him in curiosity, questions bundling in his head but he won't ask. jimin was never the type to do this. and he's known jimin for quite some time. so who are you, (y/n)? he wonders. noting the fact that jimin said they were fiancés, yet their situation seemed a bit too different for it to be like that. seo-jun watches the smile falter at one picture, "his name is nolan; he's in one of the same classes as her, he's 19, lives with a roommate in an apartment on-" jimin cuts him off, "yeah, i know him. i don't think i have to wo-", then a sudden memory comes flashing to him. how nolan stared at you all throughout the amusement park. "follow him." he says with a sweet smile that doesn't match with his eyes as the waiter places down their food.

"oh hobi, it my best friend's toothbrush. she stays over sometimes. we have the best sleepovers!" you cheer. hoseok face changes in a quick second,"aww, really? that's nice. so i'm taking she likes the color blue." you nod at his words, eyes switching back to the board game and pretending to think on how to gain another victory. "her name's olivia, right?" you feel your heart stop at the mention of her name coming out of hoseok's mouth. how does he know her? you've never mentioned her at all to hoseok. your body doesn't turn to face him, small sound of agreement to his question. "yeah, did i ever tell you about her?" you ask with a sweet tone that doesn't make hoseok suspect a single thing. "yeah, a while back though." he responds, lying to you. where does he know her from? you don't notice how hoseok walks right behind you, too deep in thought that it scares you when he kisses your ear. "how about we both take the victory for tonight?"

his question goes unanswered when he kisses you and lifts you up. your legs wrap around his waist as he takes you to the couch in your living room. your mind is still on the realization that you've never told hoseok about any of your personal things, not your friends or family. so how does he know olivia? your mind finally snaps when your underwear is being tugged off you, his hands caressing your legs as they slide off. "gosh, you're so pretty." his brown eyes stare down at you with that beautiful smile that, somehow, always makes your heart flutter. he kisses you on your forehead and then lips gently, before spreading your legs apart. hoseok grunts as he views your cunt, all wet for him. hoseok kisses your clit softly, before, without warning, furiously sucking on it. you moan at the feeling. your eyes roll to the back of your head after his tongue dips into your pussy. your hand finds its way to his hair, gripping his hair into a tight fist. hoseok continues to fuck your hole with his tongue, impatient to have your sweet essence down his throat. it has your back arching when he suddenly goes at a quicker pace.

"hobi!" you moan out as you cum on his tongue. he slurps every drop, ignoring your tugs of his hair when you try to push him because of how sensitive you are. his chin is dripping wet, but all he does is kiss you while his hands push his boxers and pants down. his tongue fighting dominance with your own, until he finally wins. hoseok makes sure you feel his cock at your entrance. he rubs it along with your slit and teases your hole with his tip. he snickers when you whine at him, "please hobi!" but he doesn't listen. you've finally had enough for of his little teases. you push your hips downwards and your hand grabs his cock before lining it up with your entrance and forcing it in. the both of you moan in pleasure, "such a feisty girl." he chuckles at your movements. his hips start moving and hitting your own with a hard pace, you're for sure that you'll bruise. it's something that can't happen, not when you might see seokjin or taehyung or any of the men. "ow, hobi!" you cry out a painful moan that convinces him enough to slow down. "shit, i'm sorry." hoseok pecks your forehead, then lips before going to suck your collarbone. you immediately pull him up to kiss his lips. taking one of his hands to touch your clit while his cock pushes past your folds over and over. "fuck, you're so tight." he groans once your lips finally let him go. your saliva covers his lips, and vice versa. you're so close to releasing, hand squeezing hoseok's shoulder while the other scratches his back, leaving a trail of pink.

you're cumming when hoseok hits your g-spot repeatedly. you have such a tight grip on him, he can't stop the moans that leave his lips in a hurry. the cum on his dick only makes it easier for him to move in and out of your cunt. you whisper words of encouragement to him, sweet words of nothing, moaning right next to his ear. you suck on his neck and collarbone, leaving small spots of red surrounded by your lipstick. "gosh hobi," you pant and sob at overstimulation before continuing, "you look so handsome like this, covered with my lipstick; my marks." his eyes roll back at your dirty comment that makes his face heat. hoseok's cum floods your walls, twitching inside of you as he thrusts through his high. he connects both of your hands, not slipping out of you, before bringing you into a hug. "see, it's a win-win." he laughs when you smack his shoulder. "what are you doing over the weekend?" hoseok asks. "i'm going to visit my family. i miss them, more than usual." he coos at your statement, "aww, that's adorable. but i was, uh, kinda hoping i could take you out?" he suggests, but then shakes his head, "maybe sunday?" your mind goes back to namjoon; you were meeting him on saturday and going to visit them on sunday. "i'm gonna be with them the whole weekend, hobi! sorry." he nods at you, "it's all right."

you fall asleep no later in his arms. when it's all quiet and he's sure you're asleep, "i know you're lying to me; olivia's been staying with her family since monday, a place five hours from here. so who's been here, huh, my (y/n)?"

[studio-multi]

Thot #1 | NSFW

"No wonder Hobi has kept you to himself,” Yoongi’s fingers waste no time splitting your seal.

You pant at the contact, “please don’t talk about Hoseok while you’re fucking me.”

Yoongi lines himself up at your entrance, “why not? I fuck him too.”

With that he thrusts inside you, you bow in on yourself, hands clutching his forearms. Overwhelmed from the sensation and Yoongi's confession.

“What?” You breathe, staring wide eyed at Yoongi.

He rolls into you with languid flex of his hips a few times, tongue teasing the corner of his lips. Too lost in the feeling of you before he is able to respond. Yoongi folds over your body, forearms sliding under your shoulders.

“Hoseok and I fuck too,” He whispers in your ear, and your head kicks back into the pillow with a moan at the confirmation.

“Too bad we have never shared you.”

Yoongi ruts sharply into you, and you groan at the thought of Hoseok in your position with his pitchy moans, begging Yoongi for more.

🗝️note: sorry it’s late, I went back and forth with sharing this one for a couple of reasons.

1) I really love the wip it came from and would love to finish it because it’s so relatable to where I’m at in life.

2) it’s a smut scene and the first one I’m sharing in raw form over here, so that’s 😬

[outrogi]

laura's hoseok recs

I’ve been reading fics in here nonstop way before I started this blog. It felt like a sin not compiling a list of some of the stories that I loved and hadn’t gotten around to sharing yet, a few of them safe in my drafts until I was ready to make this.

I will keep on adding onto this list as I keep finding stories I've read before and would love to share with you. Leave some love and appreciation to the authors if you can!

disclaimer: all stories that include mature themes will be labeled accordingly. DNI if you aren’t 18+

♡ - favorite

S E R I E S

the purge by @jungblue ◦ violence, gore, angst

heartbeat by @joonbird ♡ ◦ gang au, angst, smut

guarded by @xjoonchildx ♡ ◦ mafia au, angst, fluff, smut

madeleine by @kpopfanfictrash ♡ ◦ arranged marriage au, one night stand au, angst, fluff, smut

airplane mode by @out-of-jams ◦ idol au, soulmate au, fluff, angst, eventual smut

O N E - S H O T S

polaris by @junghelioseok ♡ ◦ time traveler au, fluff, smut

covenant by @junghelioseok ◦ werewolf au, friends to lovers, angst, smut

party on you by @here2bbtstrash ◦ idol au, light fluff, smut

a universe to you by @readyplayerhobi ◦ soulmate au, angst, smut

oranges & lemons by @fantasybangtan ◦ modern greek mythology, smut

sonic rain by @jungblue ♡ ◦ college au, dancer au, smut, fluff, light angst

it's you by @jinpanman ◦ friends to lovers, teacher au, coworkers, fluff

note #1: if any fic recommended is in hiatus, the author has yet to update or left altogether, please do not pester them with updates.

note #2: These are not all of my JHS recs! There’s more with extensive commentary from me here and you can find more of my favorites here

[puck-luck]

oooh congrats on your 1K! for your celly could i request 26 of hearts with jack hughes ?

warnings: bit of a breeding kink, very rushed (implied that it's round 1 of many), unprotected p in v, bit of a commitment kink too

wc: 465

Jack’s been on an absolute tear since the reception ended and you limo-ed home. You can’t blame him– you’ve been wanting to jump his bones ever since you saw him in his suit. With the way he was dancing with you, you expect he’s been thinking the same thing since he saw you in your dress.

You’d hope so– you bought your wedding dress with the intention of Jack going wild. You also wanted to feel pretty, and you do, but some of that involves Jack thinking you’re pretty. 

“I’m so in love with you,” Jack mutters, his fingers still undoing the final buttons of your dress. “My wife, fuck, I love how that sounds.”

“Doesn’t sound better than calling you my husband,” you say. You’ve already pushed his jacket off and you’re loosening his tie now. 

“In the interest of what’s about to happen, I don’t want to argue with you,” Jack laughs. “We’ll agree to disagree.”

“That’s okay with me,” you agree. You’re mostly agreeing because Jack has unfastened the final button and found your zipper, ready to drag it down and rid you of the fabric. As soon as you’re done, you’re going to hang up this dress and preserve it like it’s in a museum. But, first– Jack. You pull his loosened tie over his head and start to unbutton his pressed white shirt. 

The dress falls to your ankles, pooling. Jack bends at the waist and sweeps an arm under your knees, picking you up bridal style and dropping you on the bed. He falls on top of you, hands roaming your body. 

He leaves his shirt on, unbuttoned, and barely shoving his pants down. He’s in such a hurry to get inside of you that he looks more disheveled than he would if he had fully undressed.

Jack is inside of you and rocking forward in a split second. He’s at 100 from the first moment, groaning and bucking into you like he’s already close. “I’ve been thinking about this for ages,” Jack says. “The first time I get to fuck you as my wife. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Saw you in that dress and felt like I was gonna get hard on the altar, you looked so good.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Our photographer would’ve had to edit that out.”

Jack dips his head and chuckles. “I know,” he drawls. “It would’ve been so embarrassing.”

“I would’ve teased you forever.”

“Cuz we can do that for real now,” Jack says. “Legally. Forever. God, that’s awesome.” He dips his head and kisses you. “Gonna come inside you,” Jack continues. His face breaks into a smile at your wanton moan. “Yeah, you like that? You want me to fill you up? My wife and the mother of my child?”