Hii! I Really Wanna Read Your Fics. But I Am Confused. It Seems Like You Have 2 Or More Series Going

Hii! I really wanna read your fics. But I am confused. It seems like you have 2 or more series going on. And I can't pinpoint which part is a part of which series!

hiii, angel, i'm currently working on just one series called the berries series. each part has a different title, so i understand that could be confusing :( each chapter is listed by numbers in my masterlist, though, and i always put the previous parts at the end of the post.

so, if you want to read my current series with hobi and jk, you'll find it under hobi's section. <3

240612 - bts on twitter: I'm in home!

— 🍒. so, my babies,

who wants chapter 4 of berries today? 🤗

i’m almost at the end and the plot twist that just came to my mind… it’s so delicious.

i’m really happy with this chapter. it’s beautiful. i rly needed to not rush this time and take my time with it. i already had 1k words written, but i was so dissatisfied with it. then, out of the blue, in the middle of the night, i rewrote the entire thing and it was the best decision ever.

i’m so excited to show it to you.

especially what jungkook sent to oc. 🤭

kisses.

luna

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

but like what was mr. artist thinking when he sent that? what is he plotting???? what does it meaaannn??? like this series makes me so fucking curious i’m always ending up with questions in mind that’ll keep me up at night

“MR. ARTIST” SJDNSJS YOU CAN’T EVEN SAY HIS NAME IM DYINGNFNF FNF

your questions will be answered in the next part bby i got you 🫶🏻

if you have any more, let me know. so i don’t forget anything once i start writing the next part

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who proposed to you on vacation on the outskirts of florence. four days of beautiful scenery and incredible memories were just a cover for Jungkook's true plan: in a green field dressed in brightly colored flowers, the two of you were having a small picnic while laughter and tender words danced with the gentle breeze of the day; and when Jungkook's question flowed as naturally as any other sentence he could have said, your heart immediately accelerated, sending waves of happiness and fulfillment throughout your body. “will you marry me? make a whole life by my side? only you and me?”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who insisted on throwing floating lanterns at your wedding. but Jungkook didn't want any lanterns, no; Jungkook wanted your dreams and desires for your life to be written and decorated on the light fabric of the lantern, believing that, when they reached the vast starry sky, they would be able to cling to the various stars and guard your future forever. “the celestial magic of the stars will make all our dreams come true, you’ll see.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who kisses you under the rain on bad days. it was a simple gesture, something small and quite banal, but it was something precious, an action that warmed you inside and made you feel good, made you feel alive; it was between raindrops that Jungkook declared his love for you in the form of a kiss, the lips that sang so many promises to you and shared so many dreams reminding you that in all the darkness of the world, among all the rain and grey, there was always something warm, there was always his love for you. “just to remind you that after so long, i still love you. and i will love you forever.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who wears his wedding ring like a badge of honor. Jungkook was proud to be your husband; for him, you were the only person to exist, you were the only one who really mattered because you, quite simply, were incredible in every way; so, having a token of your love, something physical that people could see, only made Jungkook's eyes shine even brighter — after all, he was eternally united to the best person that could exist. “yes, i’m married to the love of my life. isn't it incredible? i’m the luckiest man alive.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who hugs you from the back in the morning and gently kisses your neck. still infected by sleep, Jungkook walked slowly through the kitchen, his feet leaving traces of need, his small yawns looking for you lazily; Jungkook's arms would wrap around you without any difficulty, squeezing you with all the love he felt for you, letting his natural scent mix with that of breakfast; Jungkook's lips kissed your neck innocently, an invisible mark of wishes for a good day beginning another opportunity to live life. “good morning. you weren’t in bed, i thought i wouldn’t have time to say goodbye.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who takes you on long car rides at night just to decompress. with the windows open to let the night breeze flood his car, Jungkook took you to different neighborhoods and streets without any destination in mind, just the desire to bring you a little peace controlling his steering wheel; soft music was gently played in the car, while the stars of the night guided you to moments of tranquility and serenity that made you realize that it was with Jungkook that life was worth living. “the night is beautiful today. do you wanna go out? we can eat ice cream later.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who will love you forever and ever. Jungkook deeply believed that it was the universe that brought you together; it was impossible for two such deep and similar souls to meet by chance — it had to be destiny. because, for Jungkook, your souls had already been formed in ancient times, wandering through worlds and constellations in search of a way of loving deeper than the spiritual — and here you two were, extending every fragment of your passion beyond the soul. “what are the chances of feeling like we’ve loved each other forever? believe me, we are made of the same celestial dust.”