RASPBERRIES | Jhs Ft. Jjk
RASPBERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!hobi x berries!oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk and luna)
genre: smut, angst
word count: 10.5k
summary: a step towards breaking the curse of your lifeânothing could be sweeter than that, could it?
pinterest board: raspberries / taglist: join
warnings:Â anal sex:), blowjob, a bit of an argument?:), bathtub sex, ass eating, pussy licking, this whole chapter is a warning itself, oc and hobi are just horny, anger, crying, daddy issues, breeding kink, praise kink, spitting:), their emotions are all over the place, brief mention of suicide.
note: okay, this chapter might have salvaged this entire series. i wrote entirely through my feelings and the plot took a whole different direction. like i had something planned, but the characters do what they want. :) SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER. THE CHAP WAS GETTING LONG. and i want the last (next) chapter to be juicy! please, send me your thoughts via my inboooox. i'll be waiting. do we trust jk or not? skfhskfhs. enjoy, my loves!

Perhaps, you shouldâve seen it comingâthe fact that Jungkook wouldnât pick up. The rosily gold sunlight warms your fire of anger as you try and try again, the number beside his name on your screen rising and rising until another digit joins it. Something about it feels like a childish payback and you donât really know why you like it so much. Why you like making him feel the way he made you feel when he spammed your phone after you made the worst mistake of your life by accidentally sending him the video of you professing that your intimate parts belong to Hobi.Â
Perhaps, it's as simple as thatâitâs childish. And you find yourself to be in a safe realm for your inner child to come out and live. Come out and take revenge.Â
Another layer of warmth is pressed against your bare back, heavier, more homely. You swivel your head to bump into Hobiâs jaw, to catch the furrow of his brows as they serve as a shadow from the morning sun, along with the antique structure of his body. His trembling hands hook onto your shoulders, squeezing once before they drift down your arms. Inching closer, he wraps them around you in a suffocating hold. And it isnât until he closes his lips down onto your temple and steals your phone, flinging it away, that you realize he did it in order to stifle the fire.Â
âThatâs enough,â he whispers and it graces you with the notion that it should be saved for another time, the picture of his tremor coming forth and the question of why. It kills you, slowly, the liveliness of his emotions, portrayed so gently by his hands. Why are they shaking?Â
They snuffed out the fire, but the residue of the painting, colorless and bland, remains. It lines your skinâyou can even see it in the streaks of the sunlight. The curves, the message. What was he punishing you for? Itâs a question that now unfolds within the strange calmness descending down your body. Was he punishing you for having a man? For returning to your salvation that is in a lung burner? For going against him? Or for raising your fistsâfeeding him the poisonous negativity of your emotions?Â
The need to reach for your phone and talk to Jungkook seizes you again and you fight against Hobiâs hold, but he says no. Sternly, seriously. Tightens his hold. Doesnât let go.Â
âLet it be,â he adds, rubbing your arm with the hand that lays across your chest. But you canât, you canâtâ
âHobi, I canâtââ
Your sentence is silenced by the sudden kneading of his hands upon your knotted shoulders. Relief evaporates every need, every black fume of your doused fire. His hands bear strength now as his thumb focuses on the tightness of your muscles and you droop, you crumble. And what you didnât expectâHobi droops and crumbles with you.Â
The violence of his heart against your back, it becomes yours when he pulls you into the shadows of the wavering structure of his body. Its stones ricochet off of your decaying figure, dropping onto the floor with a loud, thunderous thud. You feel the saddened line of his mouth against your cheek, into which he sinks, quietly as a mouse, his whimper. He doesnât cry and he doesnât yell, his infelicity, bound to yours, radiates the entire room in gloom. Clouds swim past the sun and linger, the rosy glow snuffed outâjust like your fire.Â
The wedding of your joy has been put off. The groom has been left at the altar, and itâs all your fault.Â
Why is everything so temporary?Â
Why are you unable to be stable? To stay submissive amidst the ups and downs of your life? To stay calm, unaffected?Â
Youâre so weary of it. Weary of yourself, weary of your life, of the curse.Â
You turn around and embrace him. Feel like itâs the only right thing you can do at this very moment. Hobi welcomes you in, lets you sign and recuperate in the kingdom of his arms. Rubs your back, gathers the ends of your hair in his hands as if it were a stream of water he longed to refresh himself with.Â
Itâs so different, to be given love when you donât ask for it. Something opens within you, a circle of mildness that cracks its mouth wide to consume the edges of the curse until only its axis, its middle core remains. Lightness drives your hands to embrace him tighter, only for Hobi to follow the movementâlungs in sync while your heart tries to mimic his rapid movement.Â
Itâs like a wordless eulogy. Goodbye to the old life, to the old pain, so the new can settle. Hobi can sense it, too. Supports it when he swallows, his Adamâs apple bobbing against the crown of your head, wets his mouth, prepares himself to speak.Â
But then your phone starts ringing.Â
Your heart lurches forward, but you dwell in motionlessness. You donât care anymore. Hold the serenity, the lightness in higher regard.Â
âLet it ring,â Hobi whispers, tracing circles on your back, the same pattern that has opened within you.Â
You nod against his clavicle. âI will.âÂ
His hands descend to your waist and clenches it for a while, a sensation of groundedness washing over you, cleansing you. You kiss his collarbone. Then, a message dings.Â
âHow about I run you a bath?â Hobi asks in your ear, nuzzling his nose in your hair, muffling out the sound of another Jungkookâs intrusion. The idea resembles a paradise to you and you beg for it with a singular, pretty word.Â
Scooping you up in his arms, he sets you down in front of your bathtub, your nipples brushing against his chest with the descent, awakening the dried pool of your arousal deep in your core. A fresh spring of water fills it until it brims over and so you donât waste a drop, you slam your mouth onto his, kissing him. He hums, lowly, into your mouth, not foreseeing something like this, and the sound splashes in the pool, drenching you whole, showering your orchard in the life it needs.Â
Slipping your tongue inside, he lets you taste him for a mere moment, before he clasps your mouth in his hand and stares you down. âHold it.âÂ
Hold what? Your incessant stream of horniness for him?Â
Reaching over, he fills up the bath with warm water with one hand, its mist rising up your body, spreading little dots of anticipation on your skin, erasing the lines, the curves and the message of the painting you never saw, but envisioned. And before he can straighten, you pull him back up. He smiles down at you, kissing you, tenderly, mouths smacking within the briefness and the pool within you heats up.Â
Except for the orgasm he gave you in the middle of the night, right before dawn, neither you or him got the release you needed when you were connected. Pity ripples in your water and you grasp his manhood in your hand, semi-hard. How did he get excited this quickly? You coo, but only for yourself, drifting your hand down his poor, blue balls, squeezing them, coaxing a pained sigh out of him.Â
âDoes it hurt?â you ask, softly, flicking your gaze up into his. They must be hurting, considering the amount of arousal that swirled inside without an ounce of alleviation.Â
He doesnât respond, but thatâs an answer for you. Light flows from his eyes as seriousness draws his features tight, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. You kiss his chest, gripping him a little before you let go, threading your fingers through your hair, parting them into three sections and, blindly, instinctively, you plait them into a braid, securing the end with a silk, thin scrunchie. Pink, like his imaginary wings.Â
âCome join me.âÂ
Hobi shakes his head, though. Holds you steady as you swing your leg over the lip of the bathtub, sinking into the warm, misty water. At the sight of you kneeling, he lets out another pained sigh, prolonged this time and you feel so bad for him that you donât think twice before you take him into your mouth.Â
âPup, fuck,â he moans, grabbing the crown of your head as his knees shake. All of his emotions are expressed through the tremors, you note, and it drives you to open your mouth wider, swallowing him deeper. âOh, yeah, thatâs so good.âÂ
Your walls clench and you mewl around him, dragging your tongue flat on the underside of him as you draw back, swirling the muscle around the tip of him as you grip him. You use your saliva to stroke him, making him cage in his bottom lip between his teeth again. Eyes rolled back, his reddened lip springs back, and he gazes down at you, fingers trailing down until they meet your loose plait, acknowledging themselves with the newness.Â
âI love your hair like this. Youâre so pretty,â he comments, voice so terribly strained, and you hum, pleased to hear such a compliment. You hollow out your cheeks on his tip, sucking him, slowly, and he repeats those words you love so much, your noises of pleasure rising in pitch. âYou really do love it when I say that, donât you? God, I adore you. All of who you are.âÂ
You withdraw, completely, without losing your grip on him, panting. Can feel your eyes send waves of love towards him as you bore them, piercingly, into his. He groans, divulging to you that he received the message, and you could burst, you could flyâturn this water into fire as his godliness from his precum sweetens your throat once you swallow, the aftertaste of him transforming you into an unknown being of holiness. Youâre not God, youâre not an angel, either. Youâre something else, entirely. A figment of his creation on the cusp of awakening and living. A moving picture of stability, submission and feline softness. Something he adores. Something heâll soon love.Â
And it pleasures you, intensely.Â
âDo you adore me, pup?â Hobi asks as he wraps his hand around your braid. One time, two times, three timesâuntil your hair is pulled so tight that he inclines your chin up to him, waiting for your answer. And he doesnât have to voice it outâthe dark side of his desire, the bad things he wants to do to you. You perceive them clouding his pearlescent eyes, making them brighter.Â
You wish the moon would turn its face towards you, so it could see the change that is occurring. So it could see the way youâll use its magnetism to blanket yourself with Hobiâs darkness.Â
Now youâre able to. Now youâre prepared.Â
âI adore you, Daddy,â you breathe out, stroking him faster, your chest mimicking the rhythm. âAnd I want to show you just how much. You said you wanted to make me forget. Let me do that for you.âÂ
His moan transmutes into a vulgarity, a tender shade of pink scattering along his cheeks and you could eat them. Your heart thumps, colorfully, your longing to help him forget the taste of the bane of your life growing and growing like a thick bush of raspberries. He deserves itâneeds it, considering the infelicity of his that he poured over you when he held you, his lack of words shared with you. He deserves the fucking world and youâre willing to go above and beyond to give it to him. To give it to your boyfriend. Your husband.Â
âHow? Tell me how youâre gonna do it.âÂ
You draw your face to his cock, but he pulls you back by your braid, coaxing a dark mewl out of you. A drum begins to beat in your clitâthe start of his song, incited by his darkness.Â
âDid I not tell you to use your words?â Hobi scolds, so awfully sternly, and you flutter all over, the peaks of your nipples stiffening, the drum picking up its rhythm. Your eyes widen as that darkness of his overwhelms you and you want more of it.Â
âHelp me say it,â you say, your heart not letting you lie to him as the words, âI donât know how to say itâ were on the tip of your tongue.Â
Hobi smirks, tightening his grip on your braid. Pain shoots up your scalp and even though you hiss, you like it. He inches forward, his lips a mere centimeter away. The radiation of his pleasure hits you, drifting down to your core. You almost reach your hand down to it, so the ache disappears, but you yearn to focus on him, wholly.Â
âIf you want to suck on this cock and if you want me to praise you, then youâre gonna have to give me those pretty words that I know youâre capable of saying,â he murmurs, clicking his tongue at the halt of your hand around him and you resume, pressing play on the movie of his guttural moansâand you moan along with him, enjoying the sound.Â
Is that a hint of his pent-up anger? You believe, wholeheartedly, that itâs somewhere hiding in him, that heâs keeping inside, adamant on not letting it out in your presence. You want to unlock that cage and beckon it out, meet it, learn its name and its desires. And youâll do itâjust so Hobi feels better.Â
You can handle it.Â
And to do it, you linger, intentionally, in your quietness, ceasing your movement on his cock. In fact, you withdraw altogether. Arch your spine when you sit back, your breasts bouncing a little. And he lets you, unbelief slackening his hold on your braid, mouth parted. Perhaps, heâs thinking you donât want to go along with the foreplay, so heâs taking a step back, but what he doesnât know is that what youâre doing is as much of a means of it as it is one of healing.Â
Thereâs no way he isnât angry at your ex-boyfriend for punishing you silently for whatever he thinks you did. Thereâs no way there isnât the same fire in him that burned in you at the sight of him marking you with the palm of his hand. He saw the painting, you didnât. There is simply no way he doesnât want to explode.Â
Hobi does lots of things for you. Stifling his emotions until they lash out in the form of his tremor is one of them. And you crave, with your whole being, to do the same for him. Let him feel like he let you feel. Make him come, vividly, like he made you come.Â
Adore him like he adores you.Â
âIâm such a bad girl, arenât I?â you purr, lifting your fingers to your breasts and swirling them around your hardened nubs. His eyes flick to them and enlarge. You spread your legs and let him see all of you, bolts of pleasure swaying your body like the water lapping at your stomach. âWithholding my words on purpose when youâre so hard, when you need me. Hm, donât I deserve to be punished? Donât I deserve to be punished so hard that I willingly give you my words?âÂ
Hobi pants and his nostrils flare, chest heaving and slightly shuddering in tandem with the drum in your clit. Sweat coats the antique structure of his body, darkening it as if rain fell upon it, staining it for a little while. You want to stain it with his ivory arousalâmake a magnificent sculpture out of him to remember this important moment.Â
His anger will change everything. His anger will be a step to breaking the curseâto settling the process of the bane, Jungkookâs intrusion. You may have decided to do this alone, but it was wrong of you. He should be the one to make order like the father he is while you stand behind him, clutching the material of his pants.Â
You will get him there.Â
âI want you to spank me.âÂ
He doesnât let a second pass. Doesnât blink. âI canât.âÂ
Your heart cracks, but you will strength of the raspberries into it. âYes, you can. You can make me red and you can show him. You can show him whoâs the boss. Who owns me. Who has his handprint on me. Itâs you and itâs always going to be you. You have every right to do what I know you want to do, Hoseok.âÂ
He raises his brows, mouth agape. Clenches his fists. âYou want me to spank you and send a picture of it to him?âÂ
You nod, dipping your hands into water.Â
âWhy would I stoop to his level?â he asks, scoffing, and your throat dries, struck with shock. You didnât anticipate this kind of answer from him and you donât know what to say, his fatherliness and dominance enveloping you in a milky blue aura of smallness. What does he want to do, then?
Hobi steps closer. Doesnât bend at the waist. Doesnât crouch. Doesnât get on his knees. He lets you look up at him in your smallness. Lets you feel his control, the manliness of his stature and energy and you gulp. Turned on and intrigued at the same time.Â
âIâm not a boy, pup,â he says and you wish he would touch you, touch your pebbled nipples, soothingly, feeling yourself needing it as he reprimands you. âI donât need to play games. Iâm too old for this shit. This is what pubescent boys do when they feel threatened, when they feel jealous. If I were to play his game for you, Iâd only encourage him. I wouldnât be stopping it, Iâd be kicking the ball over to him. Do you really think I want to do that?âÂ
You let out a breath. Your muscles tense, ready to scream out the question that has been boiling in you all this time.Â
âWhat do you want to do?âÂ
He sucks in a breath, baring his teeth. There it isâthere is that anger, the whole resplendent, monumental rawness of it.Â
âWhat do I want to do?â he asks as if he couldnât believe youâre asking him that question, as if he couldnât believe youâre allowing him to have a part in it. It thrills youâand as it thrills you, it moves forward your transformation.Â
âYes, tell me what you want to do. Tell me how you want to settle this.â You stand your ground, inviting him in, inviting him into your life, to have a say in it, to have a fatherly hand in it; letting the sunlight make it right, make it alive, real and serious.Â
âIs that what you want? For me to step in?â he whispers, that disbelief still ringingâand you pout, touched by it.Â
âYes, Hobi,â you hush out, leaning over and grabbing his hands. He lets you hold them for a second before he untwines your hold and cradles your face, kneeling by the bathtub.Â
The light in his eyes is too overwhelming and you melt into it, your breath hitching in your throat as you surrender. He presses his lips in a firm line, his thumbs brushing away your flyaways, and you lean into his touch, head tilted to the side.Â
As he tastes the newness of the conjunction to your life and his, you ask again. âWhat do you want to do?âÂ
He sighs and takes in heavy breaths right after, seething, pressing his forehead against yours. And as you and him close your eyes simultaneously, he finally answers. âI want to break his fucking face.âÂ
Dots of gooseflesh chill your skin and you donât stop yourself from humming out your pleasure of hearing that. âYes, Hoseok.âÂ
You feel his gaze on you as he continuesâand it might as well have been him who opened your eyes. âI want to break his hands for creating that degrading, shitty painting of you. And I want to break it. Destroy it. So it never sees the light of the day again.âÂ
You choke out a moan, your whole body set on fireâa different one, this time. A blue fire, milky blue like your aura of smallness. âYes, Daddy.âÂ
Hobi groans, kissing you, nastily. Tongues and clashing of teeth, hunger and anger gratified as he pours it out into your mouth. Lets you taste it, swallow it. The same fire, but brighter, bigger, scorching hot, so alluring.Â
You donât have to fan the flames of his will. Heâs already decided.Â
âOnce Iâm done with you, youâre gonna send him a text,â he shares his plan with you between hard kisses; you can only whimper in your neediness in response. âYouâre gonna tell him that youâre coming over to his place to talk, to look at the painting.â A sigh, a suction of lips, a moan. âAlone.â A swirl of tongues until the details of his plan spiral in the same dance in your brain. âIâll come with you. And Iâll settle this once and for all.âÂ
He withdraws, letting you breathe. Your body tingles, your lips, especially, every nerve ending crying out in need, whimpering at the way he studies your formâeyes lifting and falling over your swells, curves and marks. And something about the way he ogles you like that makes you feral.Â
âDo you understand what Iâm saying?â he asks, that urgency flashing again in the light of his eyes, and you nodâa thousand times. âRepeat it back to me.âÂ
The drum in your clit becomes unbearable and you can hear its song in your brain. All thoughts fade to nothingness, memories, triggers, pains. All of it evanesces, but one thing remains.
His plan. Â
âIâm gonna text him that Iâm coming over to his place alone to talk and youâre gonna come with me and settle this like the Daddy you are,â you stream out, panting, focusing on the sudden numbness of your lips as his kiss still engulfs them as a new memory.Â
Hobi grins, pleased, and it propels you so fucking quickly to lean over and lick up the underside of his now fully hard length. Even though you canât see it, you know the grin breaks as he deeply moans, your tongue circling his sensitive, red tip. You begin to suck it, bobbing your head up and down in a short, curt motions, and he fists your braid in one hand while the other digs into your hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as you give him what he befittingly deserves.Â
âGood girl. My good fucking girl. Oh, yeah. Like that, pup. Fuck, it feels so good. Just like that,â he praises and your whole body clenches and doesnât let up, your nectar dripping into the water. âIâm gonna fix everything and then Iâm gonna make you a Mommy, arasseo?âÂ
You growl around him, taking after him, his words intoxicating you enough to withdraw, yearning to have him inside you. But not in the place, where he engraved his enigma, the breaking of the curse. You burn to have him stretch out the hole, where no one has ever beenâthe one you teased him about on your first date.Â
He blinks at you, hearing your sound, and his grin grows all over again, massaging the back of your scalp as if you were a puppy. You reciprocate it, devilish with your own plan. Feral, feline, and incessantly horny for him.Â
The water reaches your belly button and you turn off the tap without breaking the contact. Then, you tug his hand, inviting him into the bathtub.Â
âLetâs pretend,â you say, knowing beforehand that heâll get the message, the meaning of your vague words, and Hobi curses, pleasing you, brushing his hair out of his forehead, exposing the undercut that makes you even wetter.Â
Such a beautiful Father.Â
You tug him again. Create space for him in your tiny bathtub and he loosens your breath when he gets in and manhandles youâpushing you flush to his body and over his lap, his hands coming over your bum, kneading it, his slender fingers sneaking to the little hole that craves him. The sunlit water sloshes and itâs so intimateâthe way it ripples around your body and his, stilling as he looks deeply into your eyes, the two of his digits circling around that virgin part of you.Â
Heâs going to consume the little purity you have left and thereâs nothing you want more at this moment.Â
âYou want me here?â he murmurs, growling as he feels you open for him there when he prods it, and you drip, drip, drip onto his thighs.Â
You kiss him, chastely, in his fashion, willingly giving over your purity. âAnd from the back.âÂ
He chuckles, flashing his white teeth, and you want them all over your body. The effulgence of his blush, too.Â
âLie back. Iâll get you ready for it.âÂ
Preparation, such an important word in your relationship.Â
You do as he says, giddy, leaning against the rounded wall of the bathtub. Yelp as he raises your hips above the surface of the water and right onto his mouth, delving onto your pussy without a second spared, licking over the entirety of her, mouth open, letting you see everything.Â
âFuck,â he moans, smacking his mouth, and your legs hanging in the air begin to tremble. âI can feel you throb for me. You wanna be Mommy so bad, donât you?âÂ
You canât stop it, the scream of agreement that emits out of your mouth; that goes on once he swirls his tongue around that drumming pulse, learning its songâbecause as soon as he does, he sucks it, possessing it. Your orgasm crests and his hands never shake, never waver, holding you up as if in Greek celebration.Â
You can feel the stone burst forth from your legs, completing, little by little, your transformation. Heâs creating a sculpture out of you. Not of Virgin Mary, not of Mary Magdalene, either. A sculpture, authentic, of you. And on the cusp of your orgasm, he takes his tongue to your other, tiny hole, fucking you there with a verve as if he sensed the work of his hands that resume the godly abuse on your clit after he tells you to place your feet on the rim of the tub.Â
And when you come, youâre white, smooth, magnificent and whole.Â
Youâre you, in the simplest of words.Â
Mind spinning, swimming in the delight of groundedness, authenticity and love, all your body asks for is to be taken. You go to turn around, but Hobi stops you with a hand on your waist.Â
âI want to look at you when I fill you up,â he croaks out, shades of pinks adorning him. As he is the God of everything, you think at heart he must be the God of all pink flowers with the way they blossom underneath his skin. You believe the same flowers will sprout out of your stone as soon as youâre stuffed full and feignedly bred. âI want to see the look on your face when you feel our kids inside you.â
Our kids. You close your eyes at the wave of a profound emotion sprinkling over you and you feel like crying, feel like sobbing, begging him for it, wanting your old life to be finally ended, killed, destroyed, wanting to cling to him with your whole being and newness, to his godliness, his flowers, his masculine fatherliness. You want to live in him, and the notion, the craving is so intense in you that you exhale it out with every breath, with every pleading word you give him.Â
âPlease, breed me. Please, please, please.âÂ
He sucks in that breath, eyes large and dazzling, filled with so much tenderness and adoration. Pulls you flush to his body again, raising you just a little bit as he lines himself up at your little hole. Spits on his fingers while boring that gaze into yours, so terribly up close, his knuckles brushing against the flesh of your bum as he spreads that lubrication over his tip. Does it again, rubs it over your hole. And a perverse obsession with it overpowers you, seizes you in its grasp, and you crave it.Â
You gaze your lips along his, sharing a breath that is perfumed with the scent of roses. âSpit in my mouth.âÂ
Those eyes of his narrow in dark, dark pleasure and he nods in a promise. Driving your fingers up his undercut, you let your body follow his guidance as he sinks you down on him, stealing your mouth in a deep, long kiss that showers your figure in those familiar tingles. Discomfort parts them while you stretch around his tip, though, and he doesnât stop kissing you, even when you mewl. In fact, he steps into that realm of the painful sensation by thumbing your clit, by toying with your tongue, and whimpering into your mouth when you convulse around him. Gets rid of anything that prevents you from accommodating him.Â
Your thighs burn at the slowness of your descent, but once heâs nestled, at home, and you feel so full that you could come from it alone, Hobi breaks the kiss; and using the height difference, he spits into your waiting mouth, growling. Even his saliva is filled with powerful godliness and when you swallow and show him, the same power becomes yours.Â
And he smiles. It seems as though he can see it on you and his mouth widens in a lopsided grin. You clench around him.Â
âYouâre such a good pup,â he praises and you do it again, coaxing a growl out of him. He still remains motionless, waiting for you to get used to him, and your love for him grows owing to that. âThat was your reward.â A sigh, a grin. âNow Iâm gonna fuck you hard.âÂ
You latch onto his neck, trembling like him. âYes, please, Daddy.âÂ
Itâs not just your life and his that joined. Itâs your soul and his that becomes one singular face of joy when he begins to pound you. He whispers to you to keep holding onto him like that as he drives in and out of your little hole with such rapidness and hardness that you lose your own knowledge of your name. All you know is his.Â
Hobi. Hoseok. Daddy.
And you whisper it, you say it, you scream it. All while the water sloshes around you; all while you stretch and tighten around him and his praises for you are strained, choked out, giving you all of his strength while remaining full of it as if he never gave you an ounce of it.Â
His eyes never leave you, never stray away from your emotions, your pleasure, the twists of your features, the opening and closing of your mouth. And you look right back, your feline energy dousing him in sweat and ardor, the force that furrows his brows, that tightens his lips in a firm line and loosens it in pleasure as he bares his all.Â
And suddenly, youâre up in the air and your wet back soaks your bed sheets. Hobi rummages in your Nike box under your bed and you feel yourself stretched open, a gaping hole for him. You gasp when you drift your finger along it and you already miss him there.Â
Hobi chuckles at your disbelief, your most favorite toy in his hand. A pink eggâa clit sucker and a vibrator at the same time, though the vibrations never did much for you. Itâs the pressure, sucking waves that kept you company in your singleness before Jungkook and after, save for the waves of the sea.Â
âYou never thought you could stretch like that, huh?âÂ
The âhuhâ pinches you, but you shake that feeling away, understanding Hobiâs dislike when you asked him to spank you. A momentary sensation before your horniness washes it away at the soft sound of the toy coming to life.Â
âDo you have lube somewhere?â Hobi asks, but you canât speak. You point to the bedside table and heâs quick to slide it open, fishing out your raspberry and strawberry scented lube.Â
What a coincidence.Â
And you laugh when he squirts it on you from a distance, its coldness refreshing like a lick of ice cream to your heated body. And Hobi laughs along, smearing it all over you, especially over your still gaping, red hole, fingering you there with two fingers, fleetingly, just to tease you, just to pull those sounds out of you that get his head back in the game.Â
Then heâs inside, back home. You canât keep your eyes open and Hobi canât swallow down his noises, growling and humming as loud as his body asks, ramming into you until all you can hear is his pleasure and the music of skin slapping on skin.Â
And when you least expect it, he places the pulsing toy on your swollen clit.Â
Your muscles strain, tense and taut, your throat dead silent as you canât speak, canât compose any sort of song of the delight that paralyzes your body. You scratch your nails down his back in effort to declare to him the beauty of his artwork and Hobi whimpers, pounding you into the mattress while keeping the toy steady, your breasts bouncing up and down, gleaming in the sunlight, pebbled, aroused, begging for his tongue when he looks down at them, his blush deepening.Â
âLook at me,â he commands, stopping, so you can focus, and you begin to inhale quick, staccato breaths as your orgasm nears, the pressure in your tummy coiling and coiling, threatening to rip. You open your eyes, just in time to catch his endeared cooâbecause he can see how close you are. His lungs mimic the same rhythm, abdominal muscles prominent and defined as he, again, gives you his all. âThere, baby?â he asks, speaking of the placement of the toy, and youâre only able to nod. âReady to become a Mommy? Daddy is right there with you, pup. You squeeze around me so well, youâre doing such a good job. Weâre gonna come together, yeah? You want to come with Daddy?â Another nodâbecause youâre trying your hardest to stall your orgasm as he jackhammers your little hole. You thank him in your heart, like the God he is, that heâs keeping the toy steady because if he were to move it⌠youâd come on the spot. âSay âyes, Daddyâ or Iâm not letting you come.âÂ
You hiccup, shuddering so awfully pitifully while your cat-like aura of power strengthens, giving you all that you need to say it. And your eyes narrow in that sultriness, mouth pouts and you dig your claws deeper into his back, making him fuck your ass harder in payback that feels more than fucking delicious.Â
âYes, Daddy. Fuck, fuck. Give it to me, please. Make me a Mommy, please, fuck. Daddy, Daddy, Daddyââ
And itâs a litany without end as Hobi moves the toy side to side and sweeps you off your feet, bringing you over the threshold of your shared home with you as his bride in his arms. You come, violently, its electric sparks shocking Hobi and he pumps you full of his cum, never stopping his hard motions, even as he twitches, growlsâpraising you, groaning the two words you likeâand shudders just like you. He fucks you through your feigned impregnation, throwing the toy away when you squeak in overstimulation in the middle of your delirium, and he kisses you as if he hadnât done so in a thousand years, sucking your lips so hard that they must bruise, his mound hitting your clit and stimulating it further. The warmth, the wetnessâtears line your eyes and the same ones wet his eyelashes as he presses his elbows on either side of your head, panting against you, his nose brushing yours. He stares down at you, a look full of shadowed, yet pure love, the realization that youâve done it, at last, but differently, bathing his face in light that blinds youâand blinds your tears, drying them as you smile up at him, running your fingers through his hair, through his undercut.Â
âI got a big load for you, pup,â he croaks out, fucking you, slowly. âI canât fucking stop coming. You feel so good. Iâm weak for you, fuck.âÂ
You sob, finding your voice, made tender by his cock. âGive it to me, Hobi. I want it all. All your kids.âÂ
He moans and proves it to you how weak he is by emanating such a pathetic sound that forces you, most saccharinely, to clench around him all over again, milking him out of every drop you stirred but never drank.Â
And for it, Hobi marks you in the middle of your breasts. A big, red hickey, redolent of your raspberries. You hold him to your chest, like the Mommy he made you into, as he sucks onto your skin, nibbling, licking, the noises akin to blowing those raspberries while he makes sure the bruise lingers for as long as possible. Then, he travels to the peak of your left nipple, trailing his tongue flat over the curve on his way up, and youâre wet, bespeckled with his children that trickle out of you as another wave of sopping arousal comes over you, because he begins to make love to that stiffened pebble. You cry out, tug his ruined hair, try to tell him you canât anymore and Hobi hears you, takes care of you.Â
Drags his teeth along your nub. Flicks his eyes up to you as he sucks. âMilkie, please, Mommy.âÂ
You burst into a roaring laughter, your shoulders shaking, arousal erased, and Hobi chuckles, lifting himself onto his hands and kissing your forehead. He moves you to your side of the bed, your skin dry and scented by him, soothed by his natural scent and the residue of his patchouli fragrance. And you revel in it, as he leaves you for a moment to fetch some wet wipes, with which he, mirthlessly, cleans you off his stickiness. His aversion to it makes an indentation in his face as his brows curl downward, features solemn and terribly serious.Â
Such an abrupt, speedy change of energy. Laughter dies out and fades into nothingness that spreads across your private atmosphere shared with him. Your mouth emulates the form of his dourness, cheerlessness blotching your now clean skin with invisible, downcast glitter that scarcely shines in the sunlightâand even that lessens, a cloud expanding over it, dimming it.Â
You touch his face and he looks up.Â
âJust a little more time and itâll be here,â you say, seeping that hope, that promise into his pores by swiping your thumb along his warm cheek. âAnd then my belly will be big and full. And youâll be Daddy Hobi.âÂ
He smiles, sadly, eyes glistening, and he kisses your nose, folding into your chest. You caress him, his hair, his backâdiscover plump, thick marks of your fingernails and you lighten your touch, barely grazing his skin with the tips of your fingers. When he resurfaces, another, different dents embellish his faceâthe fresh memory of the way heâs accepted hope on your bosom and you kiss him, sealing it. Kiss that downturned smile. That red nose, those brisk cheeks. And his eyelids, wetted by his eyelashes.Â
âHow do you like your coffee in the morning?â Hobi asks, turning over a new leaf, moving past.Â
You brush his hair back, enjoying the silky feel of his strands slipping through your fingers. âWith you.âÂ
He blushes, profusely, and youâre struck by the impression that heâs falling for you. Thereâs no fight this time, no war, only housewarming, submission and stability. You grip his hair, thank him with the silent gesture that also expresses how much it means to you because you, too, have fallen for him. With your heart, with your soulâwith your entire being that has undergone so many transformations.Â
Now youâre climbing a mountain with him and on its peak, your children, your home, your future await you. Youâre almost there. Youâve become who you were meant to become and Hobi has received the promise of his deepest longing.Â
One more thing, one more lift of the knee and youâre there, hand in hand with himâyour husband, your God.Â
He kisses you one last time, tells you to rest while he makes you coffee and breakfast. Hands you your phone. Helps you think of a short message that you immediately, without a thought spared, send. And while you lightly slumber, you dream of the promise, of the hope. Dream of your swollen belly, the ethereal picture revealing you looking at yourself in a floor-length mirror as Hobi stands behind you, assuaging you of the weight of your child by holding it with both of his hands, his imaginary wings, fully rosy, carrying half of it, folded over his knuckles, your fingers sunk between his and the feathers, silky, soft like his hair. It melts into another scene, in which you both hold the child, hip to hip, gazing at the mountain you climbed together once upon a time and the child, bearing a heavenly, delectable concoction of your and his features, cannot pull away their eyes from the peak. Their hair blows in the wind, rippling like their Fatherâs wings, and you and Hobi break their hypnotion by kissing each of their cheek.Â
Hobi wakes you up with the same kissâas if he was kissing you and not his child. And something about it heals you, gravely.Â
You tell him about it over coffee and breakfast and he weeps. And while you weep with him, your tears fall for another, secret reason. For the period that you slept, Hobi baked vanilla pastries with raspberries and you would tell him about it, too, but youâd sit at the table all day. He has a curse to break and you donât wish to prolong the time, not when you sense that itâs burdening him.Â
Because his shirt is blood-splattered, he takes you to his house. And what youâve never expected to happenâyou meet his roommate.Â
A munchkin cat with the littlest legs youâve ever seen. Black and white coat blankets her chunky body and you sink onto your knees, extending your fingers to her tiny pink snout, just like her Daddyâs, and you die as the fur baby sniffs you and doesnât run away in fear. It keeps smelling you in curiosity and you think itâs due to the fact she can recognize Hobiâs scent all over you. Youâre so absorbed by the furry animal that you donât even care to look around the vastness of its home and, like your child, you get broken out of the spell when Hobi chuckles.Â
âPet her. She likes you,â he says and you hear the familiar clanging of keys being set on the table, the leather of his wallet sliding along the wood and the thud of his phone as he empties out his pockets.Â
Giddiness seizes you.Â
You stroke down the babyâs fur on its head, cooing at its softness, at the way the wisps whirl in the air the more you pet it. And you squeal when she leans in into your touch as Hobi did not that long ago. Now you know who he gets it from.Â
You take it into your arms, scratching its neck. It purrs and your heart springs, eager to embrace it.Â
âIs it a boy or a girl?â you ask, enthralled by it, nuzzling your face into her fur.Â
Hobi pets your head and you feel as small as the baby. You look up at him, knowing you radiate, visibly, the energy. He smiles down at you, shines down his love and joy clutches you so hard that you canât breathe.Â
âA girl,â he says, his smile widening, and before you can ask about her name, he already tells you. âHer name is Luna.âÂ
Luna. Sheâs your new best friend, your little baby, and you begin to entertain the idea of bringing her along to your misfit visit to your ex-boyfriendâs apartment because you canât let go of her. Not when she purrs most homely, most happily. Not when she likes you so much that sheâs not afraid of you.Â
You havenât grown up with animals, so when the opportunity comes and you get into contact with them, itâs difficult for you to unattach yourself from them.
Luna is yours now.Â
Hobi pivots on his feet and youâre quick to scurry onto yours, following him into his bedroom. As you carry her, you take a moment to look around his living room. The color beige lines every detail of its spaciousness. From the walls, to the pigmentation of the stones that decorate the side, where a huge flatscreen hangs up, to the smooth floors that glow in the light. Beige, whites and grays, with the tiniest hints of browns, greens and yellows. Small plants and bigger palms sit in the corners, by the windows, and they give the room those colorsâas well as his collection, which comes as the biggest surprise of all, of his modern art. You can see a rainbow of Bearbricks everywhere you look, especially in the brown kingdom of his bedroom.Â
Those pretty one-eyed fuckers stare at you there. Along with their KAWS brothers. And theyâre colossal.Â
Hobiâs back faces you as he rummages in his closet. You kiss Luna on her empty head before you set her on the bed, walking over to Hobi amidst the dimmed light. His curtains are pulled in tight and you think about how he mustâve been getting ready for bed when he called you last night, only to sleep in your light-filled bed. You wrap your arms around him, too hasty with your need to give him your affectionâyou smear your foundation on his blue shirt, staining it further. And you kiss his back, planting a red lipstick mark right in the middle. Itâs going in the laundry bin, anyway.Â
Hobi reaches his hands back, fingers tapping along the open back of your white top, drumming there and you smile, finding it cute.Â
âYou really like those figurines,â you murmur, propping your chin on his spine, drumming your fingers on his abdomen in similar fashion.Â
He laughs, softly, as if embarrassed, and you dig your claws, faintly, into his skin. No embarrassment for himâyouâre not letting that in within him.Â
âDonât you fear they watch you while you sleep?âÂ
Now he laughs through his nose, swiveling his head halfway. âTheyâre my dream catchers.âÂ
You hum, endearingly, in high pitch, liking the sound of that. Wonder if he knows that heâs such a poet. âEverything you say is so poetic.âÂ
He massages your waist, deepening your hum. âSomething tells me thatâs your doing.â You punctuate the sound with a vulgar word and he squeezes the place he holds. No laughter, only alluring, affectionate seriousness. You sigh, blissfully. âI actually have a book of poetry here.âÂ
Your brows rise. âWhat?âÂ
Hobi clasps your hand, dragging you to his small library that is organized with his dream catchers. He pulls out a thick book with a white cover and hands it to you.Â
Birthday letters by Ted Hughes. The husband of Sylvia Plath, the reason behind her suicide. The female poet who loved E. E. Cummings, the female poet, whom you loved, too, in your lonely girlhood. Who always inspired your longing to die as the curse over your life went on.Â
Itâs surreal to be holding a link to her when youâre standing at the end of the chapter of this curse.Â
You didnât die.Â
You didnât die.Â
âI stole it from my school library,â Hobi explains with that lopsided smile of his, so fond, so full of old memories that youâre learning at this moment. Time stands still and you strain your ears, wanting to hear every syllable of it. âEverytime I would go hide there, mess around or just study, Iâd always see this book. It would always be right in front of me. I thought, and I still do, that it has some kind of meaning. That it somehow needs to be in my life. So I took it. And itâs been here for more than a decade. Iâve never even read it.âÂ
You pout, touched by the symbolism, by the fact he never opened it. âNever?âÂ
Hobi shakes his head, shortly. âNever.âÂ
You look down at it, caress its cover. âMaybe itâs a dream catcher, too.âÂ
His mouth ends curl. âOpen it. Read me something.âÂ
His fingers begin to undo the buttons of his shirt and you sense the magnetism of the symbolism attached to the book closing over you. You watch the work of his hands as you slip your digit into the middle of the book. Page one hundred and forty two. Portraits, the title of the unknown poem. But you donât read it until he bares his chest and sits down on the edge of the bed.Â
You stand between his outstretched legs. He rubs the back of your knees, waiting.
You skim your eyes over the page and break, prematurely.Â
Licking your lips, you begin.Â
âWhat happened to Howardâs portrait of you? / I wanted that painting.âÂ
You lose a breath, your throat constricting, and you gaze down at Hobi to see him lost in a thought that you canât discern.Â
Can he perceive the link? Does he realize who Howard is as you bring that poem into reality with your recitation?Â
You continue, biting your lip, momentarily.
âSpirits helped Howard, âSometimes / When Iâm panting, I hear a voice, a / womanâs, / calling Howard, Howard â faint, / far-off, / fading.âÂ
Your phone dings in the front pocket of your ivory mini skirtâHoward has texted you back. The book droops out of your grasp as you fish out the device, your screen enveloping the room in a small twirl of brightness.Â
Jungkook: my door is always open for youÂ
You pocket it back, the light snuffed out. The book quivers and you steady it with your other hand. âJungkook texted me back.âÂ
Hobi is deathly still, in an uncanny way. âWhat did he say?âÂ
You lick your lips, but itâs not enough moisture. âThat his door is always open for me.âÂ
He props an elbow on his knee, his teeth nibbling on a fleck of skin upon his thumb. âKeep reading.âÂ
Your breath shakes. You risk the question swathing your heart, needing to know whether youâre on the same page before you can go on. âCan you see the correlation?âÂ
He blinks, rapidly, as if awoken. âTo what? You mean to the painting of you that Iâm about to break?âÂ
You nod, relieved that he sees it, but the heaviness loiters. Slightly, you fear the next lines. âJungkook is Howard.âÂ
His eyes stray, his being crestfallen, his mouth biting into his cuticle. He doesnât say anything and youâre not sure if you should read on, but he taps the back of your knee that he still holds, propelling you to do so.Â
In fact, he tugs on it, guiding you to sit on his thighâlike you did in your favorite reading armchair when you cleaned his wound. You flutter a kiss on the healing bruise that has the colors of his home and with a wet thumb, Hobi angles the book so he can read along with you, staining the page with his humanity, imprinting his presence, the gravity of the moment into it.Â
It took a decade for the time to be right. Enough for him to read this.Â
With you.Â
You push away the panic regarding him not reacting to your affection, figuring the importance of this moment is held in higher regard. Clearing your throat, you continue.Â
âHe got carried away / When he started feeding his colors / into your image,â you stop, the words affecting your vocal cords with emotions. Hobi is the only one who knows what colors Jungkook used in the painting. How can a random page in a random book describe the flavor of the bane of the curse upon your life? How is it possible? You take a moment to regain your composure, willing smoothness into your voice. Hobi rubs your thigh with his hand, thumb tracing patterns, a help in need. âHe glowed / At his crucible, on its tripod. / How many sessions? / Yaddo fall. Woodstoves. Rain, / Rain, rain in the conifers.â The rain that fell upon Hobi when you exited the museum after you talked to Jungkook. The rain that brought you closer to him as he shrouded you and himself in your trenchcoat. The memory is sweet, another help in need.Â
âTribal / conflict / Of crows and their echoes. You deepened. / Molten, luminous, looking at us / From that window of Howardâs vision of you.âÂ
Your scream in the middle of the night after that morning at the museum; the physical violence that followed after. The painting that was created in the same hours.Â
âYourself lifted out of yourself / in a flaming of oils, your lips exact.âÂ
The flaming of your reddened bum within Jungkookâs made-up world of the painting; the punishment that you broke out of his clutches and became your own person.Â
You suddenly understand it, the painting.Â
You feel sick.Â
The poem is a maze, but Hobi looks as though he has the sixth sense that enables him to navigate through it. Youâre burdened by your emotions, dragging your feet as you follow him, looking at him. He burns his sight into the scattered words, not breathing, not blinking, his thumb stuck in his mouth. Heâs connecting the dots, the wheels turning in his brain.Â
Luna crawls onto the other side of his lap, the third help in need.Â
You take a deep breath.Â
âSuddenly â âWhatâs that? Whoâs that?â / out of the gloomy neglected chamber behind you / Somebody had emerged, hunched, gloating at you, / Just behind your shoulder â a cowled / Humanoid of raggy shadows. Who?âÂ
The squeaks of breaks behind you, Jungkook stepping out of his car and joining the demon of shame looming at you, waiting for you to end your phone call with Hobi.Â
âHoward was surprised. He smiled at it. / âIf I see it there, I paint it. I like it / When things like that happen. He just came.â / Came from where? Mystery smudge extra, / Stalking the glaze wetness / Of your new-fired idol brilliance. / I saw it with horrible premonition. / You were alone there, pregnant, and unprotected.âÂ
You snap the book shut, the lump in your throat so enormous in size that it alone begs you not to read on. Your chin quivers, but no tears come out, mind barren as the words alone, pregnant and unprotected echo within there. On an ungodly, immoral loop.Â
Hobi takes the book from you and flings it into a corner of his room, hitting a lonesome gray figurine that topples over. Your eyes witness the movement, but you donât grasp it. Numbness seizes you, the paralyzation of bizarreness that causes bile to push through the lump in your throat.Â
You gag.Â
âWhereâs your bathroom?âÂ
Hobi is quick on his feet, but you donât make it. The vomit spills through the cup of your palm over your mouth, staining your white top. Hobi carries you to his toilet, stained just the same. Holds your hair as you retch your guts outâthe letters of the poem, the realization of its meaning, the symbolism, the raspberry pastries. Presses his lips against the nape of your neck, holding you together.Â
Wipes your chin with toilet paper. Puts his plastic cup with cold water to your mouth to wash it clean with.Â
Rips the three pages of the poem out of the spine of the book in taciturn fury, its ending never to be known. Â
You watch him do it, with the same speechlessness, and youâre not sorry for the prosaic lawlessnessâit strengthens you and it relieves you. Watch the tremor of his hands, after, as he constringes the poisonous papers in his fists. The book abandoned back in the corner with the figurine, vanquished.Â
He paces the room, fleetingly, stopping in front of you. Gets on both of his knees. Grips your hands, with the crumpled papers. Kisses them. Over and over.Â
âIâm sorry,â he whispers onto them. The noise of the papers is like the shaking of leaves and you want to leave. You want this wretched thing settled. The smell of your puke hits your nostrils and itâs what prevents you from folding into him in the way he did this morning.Â
âNothing to be sorry for, baby. Itâs fate,â you reassure, tearing the papers from his hold and throwing them away from his sight. Yours, too. Itâs not his fault that the curse sneaked into something intimate he desired to share with you. But your heart aches that it did it before he knew you all those years ago, planted in its mind false beauty, only to cause ruination. You need it gone. âHelp me take this off. Letâs go.âÂ
He sighs and the sadness of the sound deepens your ache, though all you can do is accept it and fight. The will is enoughâif the conscious will is there, things will change, things will move forward and all will settle into place.Â
Tomorrow will look different.Â

Hobi dressed you in his clothing. A white linen shirt, to match your skirt. One would say itâs oversized, the way the fabric puffs and slides off your shoulder, not an item of masculine affection. You left your bra hanging by its strap on the handle of his closet. Left the buttons undone. Left the bruise between your breasts unconcealed, proudly, for every eye to see. He tied it in the middle, a tiny sliver of your midriff exposing tanned skin, because the hem would only bunch up the waistband of your skirt as it reached way down below. It couldâve been a dress alone, meant for loungewear, but you werenât going to do much lounging.Â
Hobi dressed you for war.Â
He himself matched you. A white polo, beige pants, a vivid green beanie to hide the sweat coating his tousled hair. A king, ready to march.Â
The king is dead, long live the king.Â
You know the ending. You trust Hobi, you believe in him. So did Luna when he grabbed his keys, phone and wallet. She meowed so much encouragement that it curled a smile on yours and Hobiâs face. You nuzzled her, considering saying goodbye to her harder than facing Jungkook, the dead king, but her purring made it better. It was a promise that she would be here with another set of fluff balls of encouragement once you come back from the war.Â
You thought the ride to Jungkookâs apartment would be silent, but no. Hobi put on his The Weeknd playlist, the dark, ambient songs from The Trilogy album saturating the shifting atmosphere. Placed his hand on your thigh while he drove. Things seemed normal as they did before shit hit the fan. Your body submitted to that impression and so you pretended it was so. Relived, quietly, in your mind the way you rubbed your clothed pussy on that very seat, steering him into insanity, which he controlled so well.Â
A coping mechanism, that lustfulness. As you know it. But oddly, it didnât turn you on. No, it composed youâtranquilized your emotions, so they wouldnât be burdensome in the battle.Â
âWhat are you thinking about?â Hobi asked, knowing he was five minutes away from Jungkookâs apartment. He didnât live far away from him.Â
Bizarreness.
He probably noticed your lack of visible reaction to your favorite singer.Â
âIâm having flashbacks.âÂ
A beat of pause. âAbout?â
âAbout the way I drove you insane when I stuck my hand in my panties.âÂ
He hummed, softly, the noise barely audible. âYou got so wet just from me praising you.âÂ
You sighed, delighted. âI did.âÂ
âIâll never forget the fact that I ate you out first before I kissed you.âÂ
You smiled, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. âIt comforts me,â you admitted, baring your private soul. âSex. Lust. Itâs not always dirty to me and it doesnât always make me horny. It makes me feel safe.âÂ
He thought about your words, thumb searching for yours, waggling. You closed your palm over the back of his hand on the shift stick, hooking your thumb over his.Â
âHow did that painting make you feel?âÂ
You didnât feel much. Just one singular emotion. âFurious.âÂ
âWhy?âÂ
âIt makes me angry that he thinks he still has a right to control my life. That he took what I consider to be safe and made it unsafe.â
He ruined the act of spanking for Hobi, which ultimately ruined it for you. It scarred him enough that he wasnât able to do it to you when you asked him. And for that, youâll never be able to forgive Jungkook. Â
Hobi clenched his jaw. âWhen we get inside, I want you to think twice before you look at that painting. Youâve gone through a lot these past twenty-four hours. Put your well-being first, okay?âÂ
Your veins pump warmth into your heavy heart due to his care and you kiss his knuckles, leaning your cheek into them. âOkay.âÂ
âGood. Iâll break it anyways.â
The deal rings in the hallway as you walk towards his door, Hobi two steps behind you, obfuscating his presence. You rack your knuckles on the wood, your stomach rolling, your blood curdling into bits of frozen cranberries, and your lungs lack air. You donât know if you can do this, if you can be posturing stoicness when the threat is right in front of you. You wish Luna were here with you, her fluffy wisps a reminder of her encouragement. You canât even find her on the material of your skirt, for sheâs as much clothed in white as you.Â
The door opens, revealing a distressed, wrinkly Jungkook with the stars in his eyes tear-stained. The lines of his sleep shoot across his bare chest, down to his abdomen that he sucks in at the sight of you. And you donât hate him for the way his eyes skip to the bruise in the middle of your breastsâbecause it were your eyes first that skimmed that low on him first.Â
Shame stops your blood flow, which restores your forgotten memory of how further aroused your body became when you saw his excited manhood in the picture he sent you. It floods back at full speed, in tandem with the bile in your throat.Â
âI didnât expect you to come over so soon,â he says, confusion rasping his tone, and his wide eyes narrow once they whisk to a taller head behind you. He doesnât say anything to acknowledge his presence, despite the fact you expected that much from him. A rude remark, the closing of doors. Anything but him opening the door wider and turning around, wordlessly inviting you in.Â
And Hobi.Â
The bile lowers. You exchange a worried look with him, but he runs a hand down the length of your hair upon your back.Â
Bloodthirst flashes in his eyes.Â
And youâre no longer sure if his plan is the right one to unravel.Â

đ ๨ŕ§Â LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan.

Š 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.
BACK to masterlist | READ part one | READ part two | READ part three | READ part four
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More Posts from Hoseoksluna






yoongi and his hair long âĄ
Another update when I was 100% not expecting it T-T
The way i was on my knees sweating profusely is really unlady like,
but I'm just a girlđ
It had me wet and ended me back in the vicious world I have in my head where me and hobi live happily ever after, a place I guess I'll never leave, a place where I belong... afterallđ
OFC I WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO LEAVE WITH GODDESS OF AUTHORS LIKE YOU GUYS JUST PULLING ME BACK IN
But sincerely love you and I hope you reach highest places in lifeđ

iâm so happy to be of service. i love you. it genuinely makes me happy when you read my work. and, tell you what. i just posted another part for you to read.
i hope you like it. it has heavy smut with hobi.
also the way it affected you? iâm HONORED. giggling, overjoyed and honored.
mwah mwah.
âwhy would i stoop to his level?â A REAL MAN. FATHER.
what my baby said ^^^^








i just think that sope undercut {cr. namuspromised}
Please do another Jungkook x oc series with him as like a provider/father figure boyfriend đđ˝đđ˝
oh, fuck, baby. i'll do that. <3