LIFE | Jhs

LIFE | jhs

pairing: military!hobi x f. reader (ft. namjoon)

genre: slow burn ; tension ; converse high trope / smut, tiny fluff

word count: 8.6k

summary: hoseok has always had a secret thing for you and once he learns you're single, he doesn't waste time and knocks on your door. 

pinterest board: life / playlist: listen / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: mutual pining, hobi is a feet guy, mentions of a partner giving you a cold shoulder and silent treatment, strong tension, praise kink, petting, nipple play, oral sex (f. receiving), overstimulation, slight dd/lg, raw and rough sex, size kink.

note: SHE'S BACK. HOSEOKSLUNA IS BACCKKKKKKKK. HELLO, MY BABIES. I MISSED YOU ALLLLL SOOOO MUCH AND I MISSED WRITING SO MUCH THAT THIS IS SOMETHING I WROTE IN MY YEARNING TOWARDS THE END OF MY HIATUS. fuck, this is way too hot. and i, again, had to take breaks to do something :D actually, i was inspired to write this at 4 am when i landed in my country after my vacation in dubai and got the weverse notification from hobi. :) yep. he ruined me, destroyed me, and i had to start writing. ENJOY THIS FILTHHHHHH. i missed writing abt dd/lg, too.... hehe. let me know what you think. and if you mayhappsss want part two? I LOVE YOU, MY BABIES. MWAH.

Hoseok, at your doorstep bringing in the moonlight before the midnight hour, was not something you quite expected to see when you heard the bell ring. You were lounging around on your couch, clothed in your new silky pajamas that you bought to heal your wounded heart a little, along with a peachy Korean face mask, a banana vape and a vanilla candle that you lit up as soon as you exited the shower. The creamy white sheet is what you were still wearing on the planes on your face when you stood there, taken aback because the man, clad in his military uniform, was certainly not your friend that visited you often. 

Hoseok was a mutual friend. A friend of your best friend Karina… and a friend of your now ex-boyfriend Namjoon. A friend that hated your guts—a friend that could not stand you. 

A friend that would let his eyes linger a little while longer on you upon seeing you on regular night outs and then ignore you for the rest of the event. A friend that would lock his gaze on your intertwined hand with Namjoon’s before narrowing it and scoffing in a private way that you invariably saw through. 

You weren’t stupid. You knew what his deal was—it’s only that you couldn’t do anything about it. You were Namjoon’s for eight wonderful months that were splotchy with the depth of poetry. Words from his heart that would give your life meaning, keep your head up above the surface. You needed those words as you spent your whole girlhood drowning in the sea of FOMO, rowing your arms through the waves of life that never got you anywhere. Seeing the little beauty of day and night of Seoul with your friends paled in comparison with what Namjoon showed you. You always believed that your life would begin with a man by your side—you prayed for it, you waited for it and it became reality. 

But it was not the reality that your body sought in the long run. 

Yes, the sex was great. Significant to your mental development, especially to your female one as you truly did become a woman in his hands, letting the lush girlish version of you die in his palms. As well as the museums, the hikes, the dinner dates that let you in on the complexity of Namjoon’s intellect that you found so profound and full of beauty. 

But as you nearly reached a year with him, your body began to seek more. The flowers beyond the box of your relationship with him—and you knew that those petals carried the scent of Hoseok. 

He liked you. You saw it in the extremity of his purposeful ignorance towards you, in the forced hatefulness he put across, and in the distance he set as a boundary. You saw it, too, in the way he would entertain other women in the bars and glance at you every now and then to make sure you’re seeing what he wants you to see. And it excited you, his interest in you that he kept at bay. 

It was a forbidden fruit that you smelt and smelt, but could never bite into—and it drove you insane. And when he got enlisted in the military, it drove you off a cliff. 

Missing him made you search for him. Not in Namjoon, but in other men. Privately, in your soul. And it cost you your relationship. 

Namjoon was a jealous, possessive man. He would fight with you if you looked at a guy for a beat longer than is necessary and if a half of a smile crept up upon the corner of your lips, he would give you the cold shoulder. An action that cut through you deep enough to make you bleed and you had to put a stop to it. 

You thought talking to him about it like an adult would straighten the road you were walking upon, but like the intelligent man Namjoon is—he knew that what he was giving to you was no longer what you needed. He threw it back at you, using the poetry of his words, and all you could do was be honest with him. Nod your head, tell him he was right, that you were seeking something more. And what surprised you was that Namjoon wasn’t willing to go the extra mile. 

He didn’t consider it. Didn’t mention it. 

He nodded his head, too. And you parted your ways as friends who loved each other and lived an artistic life together. 

And at that moment, a door to your mind opened and Hoseok stepped in. Made a bed, fluffed the pillows, and rested. 

It seems now he has awoken. Rang your doorbell, bashed his fist against the wood and narrowed his eyes at you in his normal fashion. 

An action that weaves a rhythm into that flat, bruised heart of yours. 

His military jacket is slung over his arm. His two black dog tags, hung by a silver chain around his long neck, rattles as the breath of the fresh, autumn evening breezes past, scattering goosebumps along your chocolate-buttered skin. You notice, within the brief silence while you look at each other and exchange words long overdue, that his hair is way shorter. Not buzzed anymore like Namjoon showed you on Hoseok’s first day in the military six months ago, but tousled and sticking out in different directions as if he raked his fingers through the strands a million times over. Your own itch, wrapped around your vape, his beauty heightened by his evident newly-gained manliness washing over you like an icy stream of water. 

You shiver, blaming it internally on the wind, and not on the lightness of the attraction that you feel sinking beneath your skin, overpowering you. 

And that small movement of your body propels Hoseok to speak, at last. 

“I come home to find you single,” he scoffs, his voice deep and raspy, marked possibly by his job in the military. And you feel it marking you just the same, opening windows in the house of your body for that wind to blow in and exhilarate you, help you breathe. “He’s drunk out of his mind, crawling on Jungkook’s lap and you’re here. In your pajamas with a fucking face mask on.” 

Briefly, you furrow your brows, not understanding the meaning of his words. Is he bashing you for not crying your heart out? Or is he bashing his brother for doing whatever it was. Your heart turns halfway, painfully. Those days are gone—those you spent in bed while that broken muscle wept while your body used that time to repose from all the stress it went through, being in an environment it grew out of. 

You sigh, weary of the recollection of that peculiar pain, and show no sight of the turbulence happening within you. “Jungkook must be happy about that.” 

Hoseok chuckles, humorlessly. A chilling noise that erects your bare nipples beneath your pajama button down. Awkwardness slinks down your sternum and you shift your weight on your other foot as Hoseok deepens his gaze down on you. 

Tension settles between you and you use it. You use it, wholeheartedly, as you should have all those months ago. The only thing you ever took advantage of were the touches Namjoon graced your skin with. You’d grab his hand, while Hoseok watched, and bring it underneath the table. Part your mouth, pretending he was touching a sensitive, private place while he was merely drifting his fingers along your thigh. Hoseok would gulp, but he would keep his gaze locked on yours, very much like he’s doing now. It’s the only form of intimate interaction you ever had, save for the heated debates about different things you two did not have in common. 

All else remained hidden in the silence shared between you. 

And it no longer shall. 

If he came all the way here, unannounced, then you shall let fate, one that is enamored with your body, have her way in your life. 

“If you came here to talk about him, then I’m not interested,” you say, letting go of the door and slipping off your face mask, ignoring the hurtful pinpricks along the perimeters of your heart. “If you came here for me, then the door is open.” 

And with that bravery, you pivot on your heel and walk back into the living room, not expecting him to follow you and not expecting him to walk away. You let fate do her thing, and you begin to tap in the essence of the peachy face mask into your skin with quick, gentle slaps. 

You toss the sheet, along with the packaging, into the trash, your hair clipped away from your face whooshing around you with your movement. Kicking off your slides, you hear them bump into something stable, and when you turn around to seek that strange sound, you see Hoseok standing by your armchair near your couch. 

So he did come here for you. You tremble in a different manner, filled with sparks of excitement, and, turning around to sit on the couch, you flush, smiling happily to yourself. 

But all those feelings turn to dust when Hobi kneels by the edge of your couch and fixes your home slippers. Aligns them rightly in front of you so you can comfortably slide your feet into them once you get up. 

Your stomach drops and your fingertips tingle, all of your nerve endings set on blazing fire by that one act of service. 

The first kind thing he’s ever done for you. 

He throws his military jacket over the backrest of the armchair, where he nestles himself. Legs spread, elbows propped on his knees. His long dog tag chain swings back and forth in the sudden, atypical calmness of the atmosphere that you cannot adapt to fully. Not when your mind creates an image of that chain hanging over your face, your neck and your chest when you’re bare and ready for him, laying on your back, all for him to take. 

You bite your lip, tracing the band of your sleep sock with your fingers, and Hoseok’s eyes fall to it. You quickly lift them, sheepish. Distract your mind by opening a package of eye patches and placing them on your dark circles that just won’t leave. His gaze skims over each motion, studying it, wordlessly, and you can’t take it anymore. 

You can’t be the only one who’s brave this evening. 

You take a puff of your vape, inhaling its sweetness, and stare right back at him. A smile, a foolish girlish smile quivers upon your lips. One that you dislike because you did grow out of it, but it seems as though the more you swallow the intensity of his shadowed, violent sea-charged energy, the more you transform back into that little girl you were. 

And the process soaks your panties. 

So much is said in the silence, always has been, but you can’t stand it anymore. 

“You should start talking before I go to bed,” you bite, willing your smile to flatten, and Hoseok kneads his hands. His knuckles bear a faint memory of yellow bruises, veiny and strong as they are, and for a moment you wonder how far his ferocity reaches. 

He showed you little of it. You know he’s capable of doing things that would change you for all eternity, give you a new form that would not wither with age. 

And you yearn for it. Have yearned for it all those months without knowing that was the thing your body sought. The thing Namjoon could never give you. 

Violence. Roughness. The licks of an outraged sea. 

You’re a witness to it sloshing in the pools of his darkened eyes as he chews the provocation you uttered his way. And you can bet he likes the taste. 

“Did he break your heart?” he asks amidst the banana-flavored smoke, his knuckles whitening for a split second as he clenches his fist before relaxing—as if the thought of Namjoon breaking your heart angers him. 

It rouses you, and the way your chest lifts with each breath stimulates your stiffened nipples. The candlelight sways, casting shadows on his worn features, and you’d much rather sit on them than talk about your ex. 

“Did you not hear what I said?” you spit, throwing your vape on the cushion of your couch. Hoseok’s façade splits as he smirks, dropping his gaze for a moment before lifting it back to you. 

He leans back, slouching in the chair. “Answer the question.” 

The sedatedness of his tone stuns you. Your heart begins to thump as well as the bundle of nerves between your folded legs. It has been too long since you had your release. Months upon months. And you’re too weak to not get carried away by these new feelings you’ve shamefully forgotten about. 

The veins from his knuckles travel all the way back to his arms and your brain empties out. Too, too fucking long. You should’ve fooled around with every guy you found attractive, use them for orgasms, make the best of your womanly years, but instead you dwelled at home—in and out of your misery. And now, now it feels as though you’re a virgin, alone for the first time with an older man that enlivens your body. 

And you might as well give him what he asks of you. 

Sucking on your vape for a puff of bravery, you don’t blink as you stare at him through the smoke. You elongate your legs, placing them on the coffee table next to him, your toes facing his outstretched knee, and his eyes, once again, plummet to them. 

“He didn’t break my heart, I broke his,” you say, your words shrouded by that white mist curling out of your mouth, and you watch as his eyes widen en route to yours. 

He didn’t expect that. 

Something about that satisfies you. Selfishly. 

Hoseok runs the pad of his finger across his bottom lip, his head tilted to the side a little bit. “It was about time you did.” 

The searing heat that rushes forward in your cheeks forces your gaze away from him, begs you to look away, but you don’t. A bead of perspiration trickles down your cleavage, one that is visible to him as you couldn’t be bothered to do all the buttons after your shower. But Hoseok’s eyes don’t flick to it. No, he can’t miss this. He can’t miss the gravity of the moment, of the spoken confirmation of the fact that what went on between the two of you for so long is real. You squeeze your thighs together, the thumping in between unbearable, and the longer you bask in his brave words, in the masculinity of his initiative, the more your own poetry begins to rise in you.

If it drags, it’s not meant for you. If it’s fast, it couldn’t wait to meet you. 

And Hoseok notices. It is only when you let out a little, barely hearable sigh that his eyes do travel down to scrutinize your bodily reaction. To your nipples poking through, the shine of your sweat in between your bare breasts, to the friction you’re rubbing—the miniscule grinding movements that you make in order to alleviate yourself of the ache of desperation that you feel. And because you’re baring yourself out for him, he does the unthinkable. 

He lets you see his true face, his façade collapsing at his big, sock-clad feet. 

Hoseok lifts his hips, hides behind the pretense that he’s just making himself more comfortable, but in reality he did it to turn your attention to his lower region. His length, semi-hard yet still long, stands out, protruding from the camo of his pants and you’re hot, hot all over. 

The thumping worsens—and you need him, all of him, to make it better. 

Perceiving that he’s succeeded in his strategy by the way you just won’t stop ogling him, he blushes and hides it, in vain, with outstretched fingers spread across his face. As if he was doing his signature idol move. It’s a riveting sight to behold, a seemingly cold person growing warm from you gaping at that private part of him. 

And you want more. You want to see more places of his body that are flushed. And you want it now. 

“It was about time you and I talked alone, don’t you think?” you ask, following on from his previous statement. All that pining, those stolen glances, that distance—all that tension advances forward now, stronger than ever.

Hoseok can feel it, too. At your words, his manhood grows harder and his breathing quickens. He tries to stabilize it, but he fails. He fails even when he returns to his original position with his elbows propped on his knees. That chain of his swings with more momentum, teasing you, and you place your legs even closer towards him, and upon witnessing the light flash in his eyes, you realize that you teased him right back. 

The man likes feet.

You draw in a sharp breath when he fists both of your feet in one hand, brushing his thumb over the tips of your toes. The first touch in this lifetime, the first time upon your new virgin body, so intimate, private; he might as well have wrapped a blanket around them with how warm his hand is, secure and trustful. Goosebumps flood your skin, bringing in the iciness that you felt when you took in his beauty against the background of the trees and the moonlight. And its beams must be stitched around his fingers because daintiness clasps you close, the notion that you’re taken care of, in good hands, descending upon you like the most delicate feather tickling you, and you let it—you let it consume you. 

And you let his following question consume you just as much. 

“Were you in love with him?” 

It’s a question you never had the bravery to ask yourself in the two months you’ve been single, but it is here and you welcome it. You hear it whisper to you the hint of your answer and your body is smart enough, capable enough to figure it out. 

No need for long nights of overthinking. 

No need for long hours of listening to your heart crack.

“No, I was used to him—that’s different,” you hush out and the moon lowers herself, spilling through your windows, bathing you in a milky light that feels as welcoming, as right as your confession. And maybe, just maybe it’s the way the shining stream submerges in your neediness that drives you to be bratty. And briefly, before you do, you ponder over the fact how in your life shared with this person drives, moves forward. There’s never a still time—and you find that mesmerizing. Enough for you to simply brood in greed. “What’s it to you?” 

Hoseok flinches. Parts his mouth. His chain rattles and his fingers squeeze the balls of your feet, coaxing a hum out of you that is immediately silenced by his sudden outburst. 

“What’s it to me?” 

There it is. Another plot point. Your heart hammers. 

Hoseok lets go of your feet and you lament the absence. Stands up and towers over you, the moonshine soaking him in divine light that causes your breath to hitch in your throat. A faint layer of sweat has coasted along his hairline and settled there—and you long to swim in his bodily fluids. In the persona of his, in the tumultuous sea of the tension locked within him. 

“You’re genuinely asking me this question?” he pressures, lifting your legs in order to step in between them, and the unthinkable visits you once again. He props his hands on either side of your head and those two dog tags swing in your face. 

A wet patch forms in the center of your pajamas. Your breath mirrors his—hasty, deep and strained—and you can’t take it anymore. 

How far into this road of bravery until the moon averts its opaque eyes away from your sin? 

You arch your spine, hook your fingers on his dog tags and pull him a little closer. Breathe his air, breathe in his masculine, musky scent that intoxicates your senses to the point that there is absolutely nothing stopping you from getting dragged in the natural flow of this situation. 

“Yes, Hoseok. What’s it to you?” 

He pants. Glides, delicately, his fingers along your arm until he winds up at your small fist, clutching it in his as if it was his. And that warmth, you want to dip your head in it. 

“I had to watch you sit in that chair and not crack a smile. Sit next to him like an obedient girl, not allowed to speak. To me,” he grunts, tightening his lips, and that anger of his seeps into you, becoming yours. “He didn’t deserve you. You’re not a pretty toy. You’re a person.” 

He straightens but, panicking, you draw him right back by that chain. “Don’t fucking walk away from me.” 

He seethes and you feel your essence trickling down your thigh. That sea, inching forward, you whimper. And then he spreads that warmth over the crown of your head, rubbing your hairline just once with his thumb before he peels off your eye patches that you have forgotten about. 

And this is when your brows curl. This is the time that says there’s no going back. 

“I talked to you. We fought, don’t you remember?” 

He sweeps that digit over that soaked dark circle of yours underneath your eye. “What do you think would’ve happened to you if I talked to you nicely?” 

Cold shoulder. Uncomfortable time of forced aloneness, filled with the abyss of guilt that you had done something wrong. A toy that didn’t move its lifeless limbs right by his will. 

“I’ve known him for far longer than you. I know how he treats those he thinks he loves. I brushed it away with the others, but with you… I couldn’t. You were so full of life that was stuck in you because of him. Because he didn’t let you let it out. And I can’t forgive him for that.” 

What life? The one you searched for all your girlhood, the one Namjoon molded with his own hands until it no longer recognized the once-familiar lines of his palm? The one that yearned for Hoseok instead? 

A film of tears clouds your eyes and as hard as you try to blink them away, they linger, pooling at your waterline like sea foam. You need your vape, you need him inside you—you can’t face the mirror of the reality of that unfair treatment. 

How blind you were; how Hoseok has become that guiding stick. 

“Don’t forgive him,” you utter, grasping his chain tighter, drawing him even closer, making his breath tremble. The first tear that pours out leaks into the print of his thumb and at the sound of your soft cry, Hoseok topples. Kneels on the couch with your legs on either side of him and you pull, you pull him closer. 

“Do you want me?” he asks—a foolish, foolish question. Presses his forehead against yours, cups your face with both hands now while his back shakes and you touch it, you drag your fingernails down those prominent muscles. And he sighs, so desperately, so tenderly. “Do you want me to let out that life in you?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, sliding your hands underneath his black shirt, scratching the lowest part of his warm, warm waist before hooking your fingers on the waistband of his pants. It’s his—it always belonged to him. “Take me. Here.” 

He brushes his nose against yours, your breath and his singular. “You’re so feisty.” Lips nearly touch yours and your lungs give out on you, your air coming out in pathetic staccatos that make him growl, subduedly. Muscles rigid, bundle of nerves devoutly pulsing. Please, please. “But no.” 

The world implodes, the mocking shimmer of that planetary light gushing through—hand in hand with sobriety. 

But Hoseok, the prince of the unthinkable, dips your head back into that darkness. Lifts you by your armpits and sets you down on his lap, his hard length against your core uprearing your need for release. 

A hand sailing down your neck, your sternum, acknowledging itself with your respiration. “Don’t give it to me that easily.” 

Your own cages him there, right at the apex of the fleshiness of your breasts. “Jebal, Hobi.” 

Please, Hobi. You drive, in his fashion, your hips forward—ever so slightly. His eyes round at the mellow variation of his name wandering out of your mouth and wrapping around his neck, as if the gentleness you give him pains him, transforms into a noose around his vocal cords and he can’t speak. 

He sighs, the noise melting into a soft, low-pitched moan. “Don’t beg me,” he croaks out, so terribly strung out. “I’m-I’m—”

You lengthen your spine, closing your mouth over that one spot on the side of his throat that you can reach, silencing him. He doesn’t need to speak—you’re fine with the tacit language of his hands. And the taste of his skin, that fucking warmth dissolving upon your tongue, you can’t help but to moan just the same against him like that, rocking your hips awfully, awfully slowly, driving him to the point of madness that he stood at the edge of for so long. 

“I want you to touch me,” you murmur, tugging his hand lower to the first done button of your silky shirt and it’s him who hooks his fingers over that fabric now. You lick a stripe across the thick vein of his throat, grinding a little harder when you hear him suck in a pained breath. “I want you to feel that life in me and know it’s yours. Jebal, Hoseokie.” 

He grunts, ripping you away from him. You expect his eyes to be narrowed in that typical manner of his, but they’re not. They’re soft, round and glossy, looking down at you, unblinking. A face you’ve never seen before, that feels too, too significant—and you’re not sure if you deserve to get a load of it. Of his pinkish cheeks and downturned mouth, of his fingers agonizingly sluggishly undoing the first button of your shirt. 

Of his sentimentality that you never thought he was so efficient at. 

The sea that has remotely stilled—but you’re still riding the lenient waves, your torso curving with each button popping off as he engraves his warmth into your cold, cold skin. And once he reaches the very last one, he stops. Holds your shirt together, squishing your breasts, waiting for you to lift your head out of the sea water. 

And you do. 

He inches forward, grazing his lips against yours, making you feebly cry out. 

“Did you cry for him?” 

Your cry prolongs, vexation splattering over your arousal, and you’ve had enough of it. You flick your eyes between his, drawing back, flattening your lips in that anger of his that seems to be still flowing in you somewhere. No more, no more Namjoon; no more talk of your past relationship. It’s over, it’s over.

“Stop fucking—”

Hoseok doesn’t relent. Sinks his fingers into the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck to make you listen. “Did you cry for him?” 

Your heart wept, but your eyes didn’t. The tear you shed in front of him was the only liquid emotion that spilled out of you since the day of the break up. “No.” 

He blows a heavy breath of relief that oddly validates you—and light opens in your sensitive bosom. “Good girl.” 

And it is now that Hoseok presses his chest, his dog tags against that light of yours and clamps his mouth down on your top lip, hoisting you a tiny bit to sit you right down on his manhood. His strong arm wraps around your back while the other floats down and curls around your bum, growling into the kiss that he deepens. And then he parts your lips with his, slipping his tongue inside, and the dam breaks between your legs—as well as the quick little whines and squeaks that begin to leak out of your mouth and into his. 

The life in you throbs. 

His cock hardens even more underneath you and he pushes your clit against it, his noises and yours growing louder and louder in tandem until he’s breathless, panting so vivaciously that he needs a moment. A moment to focus on the mess he’s created of you, a glowing ball of rosiness, the prettiest of all flowers—and you feel like it, being looked at like that. 

“I knew you were smart,” he coos, peppering feathery kisses upon your cheek, jaw and chin, descending to the base of your neck. You moan out, fisting his shirt below his collarbones, the continuation of his validation for you nesting in your core. “That life in you will always win. No matter what.” 

You believe him—in fact, there’s nothing left for you to do, but to submit, submit and submit. And it feels like entering a dream that is kind, a reality that appears to be a dream, but is better. An existence smeared with clemency, where you can be a little girl again. 

“Touch it, please.” 

Hoseok hums, kissing the cleft between your clavicles. Shifts forward on the couch so you can rest your spine on the backrest, your head against the wall, and he slides his palms upward from your tummy to the apex of your breasts. You whine, torturously, at the contact, and you shudder and double over when he swipes his thumbs over your still stiffened nipples, buzzing shocks of acute pleasure coursing down your body, rooting in your clit that asks for his fingers, his tongue, but he remains where he is. Transfixed, starving, ravaged. 

He kneads your breasts like he kneaded his hands, with overpowering strength that quickens your blood flow, your body submitting to him and flushing like his does. A sliver of skin that your shirt exposes catches his attention—and at the sight of the flesh of your breasts spilling through, his cock twitches, his breath ragged, eyes droopy and so, so drunk. He pinches your nipples, still through that silken fabric, as if he was punishing you for causing him this unfair pain. 

Knead, flick, pinch. Your noises are obnoxious, his heat in you rising and rising, and you can’t take it anymore. The drum in your clit thuds and you push him away, the pleasure too overwhelming, too good and too arousing. 

And he pushes away the fabric, revealing your perky breasts. A glint settles on the edge of his irises and he gives you a coy smile before he smashes his mouth against yours, moving it in a rhythm that reflects the one in your bundle of nerves. And you grind, you grind like your life depends on it, your nipples and your pussy rubbing against him, against his icy dog tags, getting you closer and closer to your orgasm. And you would come like this had he not physically ripped you away from him. 

Heaving, he focuses, all over again, on the ruination he makes of you. The warmth in you flits so invitingly that you have to touch the places he did—your stomach, your sternum, your breasts. And as you do, you watch his gaze darken, you watch him nod his head, and wipe the corner of his mouth clean, catching his drool. 

“You feel it, don’t you?” he rasps, following the invisible traces you left on your body. Your stomach, your sternum, your breasts. “Right here. Life. Beautiful life.” He teases your hardened nub, circling it with the pads of his fingers, sliding it between his knuckles and squeezing, his smile growing with each shudder of your chest, with each response. “It’s time to make you come and let it out, you ready? Let’s take these off.” 

He tugs off your pajama pants, throws it behind his shoulder, examines the large wet stain on your panties that he coos at, raspily, petting it with his thumb—and you’re so turned on that even such faint touch like that brings you pleasure. You hold onto his arms for dear life, depending on him, trembling when the panties and the shirt are next, tossed upon the pile of your pants. 

You’re bare and he’s still fully dressed. Such titillating unfairness that turns you unhinged, maddened by liveliness your body is diffused with. 

Hoseok pins your legs back. Takes one hand and glides his fingers across your entire femininity, soaking them in the dew he has coaxed out of you, moaning gutturally. 

“He never made you wet like this, did he?” he asks, pride dripping out of him like his masculine pheromones, and with his wet fingers he palms himself. “You don’t even have to answer that. I know. I need to taste you, baby.” 

You don’t even get to fill a lungful of the stuffed, vanilla-scented air and he dives in, keeping your legs glued to your shoulders as he seizes your clit in his mouth, sucking on it briefly before he flattens his tongue all over you. He licks you like a lost man finding an oasis, humming into your heat while he tastes your personal slickness, swallowing everything he sowed. You bang your head on the wall, a numbed pang expanding all throughout your scalp by your claw clip, taking it all, moaning so loudly the whole of Seoul must be hearing you. Even Namjoon in his drunkenness, shameful that he never managed to eat you like this in the eight months you were his to consume. 

Your orgasm inches to you quickly. With half-lidded eyes, you watch the candlelight create sublime, eccentric images on his back. And as if he couldn’t handle the warmth anymore, he peels himself away from you just to take off his shirt, adding it to the pile. He doesn’t let you see his muscular body—he plunges back down, tongue outstretched, flicking the muscle on your swollen clit. He pinches your thigh, your mound, your folds, whimpering onto your flesh, hurrying to close his mouth over you to suck your clit. 

And within that divine suction, you come apart. The beautiful images on his back advance, fluttering on his smooth skin, and you hold him to yourself. The life in you explodes, saturating him in a dimmed, soft-hued, colorful light that he himself must be sensing because he moans, loudly, sinking his index finger inside your clenching hole. You can’t speak, you can’t breathe—you can only feel, you can only take. Your orgasm continues on, a ceaseless stream of delight untwisting in every part of your body. 

And when he begins to fuck you with that finger of his and hits that good spot, your orgasm melts into another one. And this time, you can’t take it. 

You shake so vivaciously that you fall off the edge of the couch, but he catches you. Hoseok unclips your hair and lays you down, propping your hips on the armrest instead and when he bends at the waist and opens his mouth, you scream out your disagreement, pushing him away. 

He blinks at you, mouth sopping wet. “I wasn’t finished.” 

Your oxygen is stuck in your throat, one that gets bespeckled with the beads of your dew. “Hoseokie—”

He traces it, wiping it off, holding you there. Presses his hard, clothed length against your bare pussy, rocking slowly, casting a private, affection-filled shadow with the arch of his body over yours. Hoseok kisses you once, a nasty kiss perfumed with your tangy scent, and you cry out. 

“The fact you can’t take the bare minimum personally offends me. He had you all to himself and he didn’t do his job well,” he mutters, squeezing your throat once. Drags his wet hand down your sternum, grasping a hold of both of your breasts, clenching them until they flush, again, like him. 

There it is, the saltiness of his sea. You yearn for the physical principle of it coating your tongue—for his cum to trickle out of the tip of it like your dew is off of his. And his words, his anger towards his best friend because of you—it heals you in a way you could never heal yourself. Another person seeing you and telling you that you deserve better, it is the most pristine form of remedy there is and you splutter on the whole beauty and compassion of it all, too weak to accept it at once. 

“That’s right,” you agree, as enthusiastically as your dopeness allows you, smiling lopsidedly, heart pounding. “Go slow on me.”

He croons, squeezing his eyes. “My little girl.” 

He buries his face in your neck, kissing you there, and along with the life in you—your heart explodes, too. The finality of your detransformation. Tears of joy ache in the corners of your eyes, the rawness of human fulfillment housing in you for all eternity. 

He kisses his way down to your breasts. “I’ll go slow on you,” he promises, darting out his tongue and flicking it over your nub, making you tremble. He straightens and dances his fingers along your thighs—up to your knees. “Do you want to stop here?” 

You shake your head. Place your feet flat on his toned stomach while you feel your dew dribble down your bum. Hoseok smiles, his mouth curving in that way of his that causes your own stomach to drop. He holds your heels, hooking his finger under the band of your socks and yanking them off. 

And his grin blooms at the sight of your dusty-pink toes, an endeared look thawing his eyes. He rubs them like he did at the beginning of this journey, keeps one at his stomach while he lifts the other one to his mouth. 

Your poor heart skips a beat. 

“Do you want me to fuck you like a little girl like you deserves?” 

He kisses the ball of your foot, doesn’t break the eye contact. Watches your mouth part in absolute astonishment and your cheeks deepen in their hue. And when he kisses it again, slower this time, it wakes you up from your stupefaction, and you lower your free foot down to his clothed cock. Hoseok groans, the sound muffled against your tootsie, shutting his eyes at the impact. Your chest flickers with a sense of pride that you made him react like that—and you want it again. You trail your toes across that length of his, but before you could reach the most sensitive part of him, he stops you. 

Sucks in that pained breath of his, red all over. 

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come.” 

You mirror him, the idea of being capable of doing that to him pleasuring you. You leak onto the couch. Your blood boils. 

“That’s so hot.” 

He chuckles, anchoring your foot upon his heart, tapping it with your big toe. “It’s because you have my heart.” 

Your body ceases all work, as well as time. Even the candlelight pauses its dance, concentrating its caressing radiance on that chain of his. 

And you don’t think as you scurry onto your knees and embrace him, his dog tags no longer icy. He plants his nose into your hair, inhaling you, sealing you into the hug with both of his arms. Your heart reaches its own towards his and they cling to each other, too. 

And you’re not afraid to reciprocate his feelings—they’re as clear to you as that very luminescence of the vanilla candle. 

“You have me,” you whisper into his ear, his body not quivering but stable, safe. “You have my life. It’s more of a treasure than my heart.” 

He had you the moment he so evidently disapproved of your past relationship. He had you the moment he was curious to see if you were jealous when he was entertaining other women. He had you the moment he purposefully put a distance between you and him because he didn’t want you to get hurt by Namjoon. 

You just didn’t know it yet, not until clarity arose in front of you in the form of his honesty. 

Hoseok kisses your own ear, lingers there. “I want both.” 

“Then, have it.”

And he kisses your forehead. “Thank you. I’ll take care of it.” 

You can see in the ivory mist of his eyes that he means it—and so you tug off his military belt as you begin to pepper kisses down the column of his neck because he deserves it, because he cares for you, because he came to you as soon as he heard that you were single. And when you reach those dog tags, the words of his title imprinting themselves onto the surface of your lips, you clasp his cock in your hand. Too big for your small fist, too warm for you to handle—

“Lay back down.” 

You bite into the flesh right above that first steel pendant while keeping your eyes locked on his. “Yes, Sergeant.” 

Hoseok curses. Wrings a sharp gasp out of you when he pulls on your hair, giving you a nasty kiss full of tongue. “Don’t call me that when I need to be gentle with you,” he scolds, sucking on your bottom lip to make it better and you disintegrate. “Right now I would bend you over this couch and fuck you until Sergeant and Sir was all you knew, but I can’t do that. Not when you’re not used to me yet.” 

Yes, the promise of the sea—you convulse from head to toe, pining after it. 

“I want that so bad.” 

He nods, marking you on your neck. You whimper and he groans in response. “And I’ll give it to you, you just need to be good now. Lay down.” 

You comply, but you take him with you—grabbing him by that chain as you arch your back on the couch. He lets you, grins at you like the utmost sunshine, but that expression of delight breaks when a certain realization dawns upon him. 

“I didn’t bring any condoms.” 

You huff out a soft noise. “Good. I want you to come all over me.” 

Hoseok hangs his head low, sighing, on all fours above you. His chain swings, drawing the memory of this very night on your breasts. He looks up at you from this position, his eyes thin slits that cause you to clench around nothing. 

“I’ll give you a big load.” 

You beam like the purest angel, in spite of the context. “Yes, please.” 

Hoseok rolls his eyes back, his façade cracking, and he beams just the same, his mouth widening in the shape of a heart that moves through you. He kisses you deeply, a long peck that breaks you down into a putty, and when he withdraws, you can still see that smile plastered on his glowing face. 

“Good girl. Such good manners.” 

And with that praise, he sheathes himself inside you. You both gasp in union, entering a paradise no other human will ever witness in the afterlife. He stretches you out, slowly, careful not to hurt you as he waits it out, petting your hair in the meantime. 

“I can feel you stretching around me, fuck. You’re so warm, so tight for me,” he rasps, panting, that smile trembling on his lips as he tries to keep it together. He straightens, pinches your nipple and you feel yourself accommodating him quicker at that sudden electricity of pleasure, at the sight of his toned body and that chain. The shine of sweat, the dance of the candlelight, the width of his shoulders and carmine chest as it heaves in desperate hums and groans. You could come just from that—and the sensation is so dizzying that your eyes droop. Hoseok notices, grappling the crook between your neck and shoulder. “Stay with me, baby, you can take this. I’m gonna make you feel so good and you’re gonna come on this cock.” 

Those hums of his cruise all the way to your mouth as he sinks that encouragement into it, kissing you deeply, pinning your hands back above your head and sliding his fingers into a celestial intertwinement with yours. They throb within you, those words of his, where they disperse all around, helping you believe that you truly can take the whole manliness of him. Your mind spins, the pressure of your shared atmosphere ringing in your ears, and he knows, he knows that you’re ready for him.

“I’m gonna start moving now. Talk to me, baby. Tell me everything you’re feeling as I fuck you,” he murmurs, unsheathing himself a tiny bit before he curls his hips forward and upwards, creating a languid, spine-tingling rhythm that replicates the waves of his sea. They slosh to and fro with every slow stroke and he kisses your good spot with the tip of his cock. Your eyes flutter open and close, rolling like those waves, but you can still see the way his jaw is clenched, his gums on full show as he seethes in his self-control, the flush of his neck and the flexing of his abdomen that you can’t help but to touch in your otherworldly daze. He stares down at you, intensely, narrows his eyelids and furrows his brows when he feels your touch, and you discover that the spot, where his V-lines lead to your antidote, is one of uttermost sensitivity. 

He moans, burying himself deep in you, and stopping there. Mound to mound, soul to soul.

“Fuck, baby, you just know where all my spots are, don’t you?” he asks, his voice so terribly strained, torso doubled over, and you grin. 

“I think I was born already knowing them,” you flirt and Hoseok pounds into you for it—a singular thrust that scrambles all your brain cells. Your smile falls, your brows crunch, your throat utters such whiny noise that he himself grunts at the sound of it, and when you lift yourself onto your elbows to see his length driving in and out of you, he pushes you right down by your throat, kissing you hard enough that it hurts.

And he alleviates the lip lock by licking over your tongue, toying with it—all while he, little by little, picks up the rhythm, fucking into you with a force that coaxes your rawest moans out of you. 

“You can’t handle my tongue and I can’t handle it when you flirt with me,” he scoffs, smacking his mouth as he turns his head, claiming your mouth, claiming you. “God, I wanna destroy you so bad.” 

Your cry is cut out by another savage thrust and you claw at that sensitive spot of his, inciting him to do it again and again. “I’m yours to destroy.” 

He pauses, the crown of his cock teasing the beginning of your heat. Sweat drips down his temple and he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes your heart twitch in absolute sensuality and relish. 

“Say that again.” 

Your breath hitches. “I’m yours to destroy.” 

Hoseok curses, driving into you all the way. You whine out, clenching your fists, feeling every ridge and every vein of his cock glide forwards and backwards along your walls. And by tensing your body and focusing on the delight he’s gracing your body with, the build-up of your orgasm announces its presence.

“Fuck, Hobi, you feel so good,” you cry, gripping his forearms as he begins to hold your waist steady. He jackhammers into you so viciously that your vision scatters with a creamy hue of ivory, moaning in ragged staccatos that influence you so much that you naturally imitate them, fading into him, becoming one. 

“Whose are you?” he growls without interfering with the gracefulness of his sadism, moving back only an inch before slamming back into you, bruising your cervix—and you lose all brain cells, the synapses blanking out. 

But only one thing is clear. 

“I’m yours.” 

And the following snap of his hips drives you out of this world and out of this universe. The gravity keeps your muscles tense, confining your pleasure and the closeness of your orgasm within. The ringing grows in volume and you’re on the cusp. 

Hoseok is, too, because he begins to beg. 

“Please, please, baby. Come for me. I’m so fucking close for you. Please, I’m gonna come all over you.” 

And with a scream that vibrates through the walls of your living room, you comply. Your core grips him, your skin prickles and you levitate—your back arches off the couch, aching to be closer to him, and Hoseok whines. 

Pulls out, straddles you, and fist-fucks his shaft with frantic, frenzied motions. Covers you with ropes and ropes of his cum that ripple on your stomach, your sternum and your breasts as you drift in and out of consciousness. Warm, warm essence of his masculinity that is warmer than the rest of him. 

Blood-hot. 

And you feel as though you deserved every drop. 

Deserved to see the beauty of his orgasm. The flush of his lower regions, especially. The sight you longed to see. 

Hoseok lets go of his manhood, his hand shiny and wet, though he’s still hard, reaching the beginning of your parting lungs with how big he is. Bigger than Namjoon, bigger than anyone you ever dated. Their names wither in your mind, decomposing. And they lose all meaning. 

They cease to exist. 

You’re not his best friend’s ex. You’re not anyone’s ex—

“Look at how little you are,” Hoseok comments, interrupting the surge of your maddened thoughts. He smears the puddle of cum on your stomach that his cock can reach and your pussy flutters in constant motions that ask for him again. “So little under me and all mine, aren’t you?” 

His avowal brings a fresh dose of oxygen into your lungs and you breathe it in. Want to breathe it in for the rest of your life with him. 

But Hoseok doesn’t stop there. Once you agree with him by the nod of your head and a dopey, gratified grin that casts an affirming light on him, he bends over you, his fists on either side of your head. 

“I’ll show you what true possessiveness looks like. The world will burn if it hurts you and if people say one bad word to you, it will be the last one they ever said. But they will talk to you and you will talk to them. You will learn about this life of yours. What it holds, what it looks like. And I’ll be standing beside you and I’ll watch over you. Learn it, live it with you.” 

He rubs your forehead with his thumb in a fond gesture. Looks at you with a mute meaning that touches your heart and crawls inside before he kisses you, relaxes his lips against yours, and kisses you again. 

Again and again. 

Again in the shower. Again in your bed when you’re riding him, tasting the life he let out of you, because you blazed up with desire after you washed his body. And the sex is quiet, smothered with those kisses until your mouth and his is numb. 

And again throughout the years you acknowledge yourself with that life and realize that you understand it more profoundly and clearly in the process of getting to know Hoseok than this world. 

Hoseok is that life. 

And you kiss him and whisper those words onto his mouth when you marry him at the altar, years and years later, connecting your life and his forever. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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guess who’s back

LIFE | jhs

pairing: military!hobi x f. reader (ft. namjoon)

genre: slow burn ; tension ; converse high trope / smut, tiny fluff

word count: 8.6k

summary: hoseok has always had a secret thing for you and once he learns you're single, he doesn't waste time and knocks on your door. 

pinterest board: life / playlist: listen / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: mutual pining, hobi is a feet guy, mentions of a partner giving you a cold shoulder and silent treatment, strong tension, praise kink, petting, nipple play, oral sex (f. receiving), overstimulation, slight dd/lg, raw and rough sex, size kink.

note: SHE'S BACK. HOSEOKSLUNA IS BACCKKKKKKKK. HELLO, MY BABIES. I MISSED YOU ALLLLL SOOOO MUCH AND I MISSED WRITING SO MUCH THAT THIS IS SOMETHING I WROTE IN MY YEARNING TOWARDS THE END OF MY HIATUS. fuck, this is way too hot. and i, again, had to take breaks to do something :D actually, i was inspired to write this at 4 am when i landed in my country after my vacation in dubai and got the weverse notification from hobi. :) yep. he ruined me, destroyed me, and i had to start writing. ENJOY THIS FILTHHHHHH. i missed writing abt dd/lg, too.... hehe. let me know what you think. and if you mayhappsss want part two? I LOVE YOU, MY BABIES. MWAH.

Hoseok, at your doorstep bringing in the moonlight before the midnight hour, was not something you quite expected to see when you heard the bell ring. You were lounging around on your couch, clothed in your new silky pajamas that you bought to heal your wounded heart a little, along with a peachy Korean face mask, a banana vape and a vanilla candle that you lit up as soon as you exited the shower. The creamy white sheet is what you were still wearing on the planes on your face when you stood there, taken aback because the man, clad in his military uniform, was certainly not your friend that visited you often. 

Hoseok was a mutual friend. A friend of your best friend Karina… and a friend of your now ex-boyfriend Namjoon. A friend that hated your guts—a friend that could not stand you. 

A friend that would let his eyes linger a little while longer on you upon seeing you on regular night outs and then ignore you for the rest of the event. A friend that would lock his gaze on your intertwined hand with Namjoon’s before narrowing it and scoffing in a private way that you invariably saw through. 

You weren’t stupid. You knew what his deal was—it’s only that you couldn’t do anything about it. You were Namjoon’s for eight wonderful months that were splotchy with the depth of poetry. Words from his heart that would give your life meaning, keep your head up above the surface. You needed those words as you spent your whole girlhood drowning in the sea of FOMO, rowing your arms through the waves of life that never got you anywhere. Seeing the little beauty of day and night of Seoul with your friends paled in comparison with what Namjoon showed you. You always believed that your life would begin with a man by your side—you prayed for it, you waited for it and it became reality. 

But it was not the reality that your body sought in the long run. 

Yes, the sex was great. Significant to your mental development, especially to your female one as you truly did become a woman in his hands, letting the lush girlish version of you die in his palms. As well as the museums, the hikes, the dinner dates that let you in on the complexity of Namjoon’s intellect that you found so profound and full of beauty. 

But as you nearly reached a year with him, your body began to seek more. The flowers beyond the box of your relationship with him—and you knew that those petals carried the scent of Hoseok. 

He liked you. You saw it in the extremity of his purposeful ignorance towards you, in the forced hatefulness he put across, and in the distance he set as a boundary. You saw it, too, in the way he would entertain other women in the bars and glance at you every now and then to make sure you’re seeing what he wants you to see. And it excited you, his interest in you that he kept at bay. 

It was a forbidden fruit that you smelt and smelt, but could never bite into—and it drove you insane. And when he got enlisted in the military, it drove you off a cliff. 

Missing him made you search for him. Not in Namjoon, but in other men. Privately, in your soul. And it cost you your relationship. 

Namjoon was a jealous, possessive man. He would fight with you if you looked at a guy for a beat longer than is necessary and if a half of a smile crept up upon the corner of your lips, he would give you the cold shoulder. An action that cut through you deep enough to make you bleed and you had to put a stop to it. 

You thought talking to him about it like an adult would straighten the road you were walking upon, but like the intelligent man Namjoon is—he knew that what he was giving to you was no longer what you needed. He threw it back at you, using the poetry of his words, and all you could do was be honest with him. Nod your head, tell him he was right, that you were seeking something more. And what surprised you was that Namjoon wasn’t willing to go the extra mile. 

He didn’t consider it. Didn’t mention it. 

He nodded his head, too. And you parted your ways as friends who loved each other and lived an artistic life together. 

And at that moment, a door to your mind opened and Hoseok stepped in. Made a bed, fluffed the pillows, and rested. 

It seems now he has awoken. Rang your doorbell, bashed his fist against the wood and narrowed his eyes at you in his normal fashion. 

An action that weaves a rhythm into that flat, bruised heart of yours. 

His military jacket is slung over his arm. His two black dog tags, hung by a silver chain around his long neck, rattles as the breath of the fresh, autumn evening breezes past, scattering goosebumps along your chocolate-buttered skin. You notice, within the brief silence while you look at each other and exchange words long overdue, that his hair is way shorter. Not buzzed anymore like Namjoon showed you on Hoseok’s first day in the military six months ago, but tousled and sticking out in different directions as if he raked his fingers through the strands a million times over. Your own itch, wrapped around your vape, his beauty heightened by his evident newly-gained manliness washing over you like an icy stream of water. 

You shiver, blaming it internally on the wind, and not on the lightness of the attraction that you feel sinking beneath your skin, overpowering you. 

And that small movement of your body propels Hoseok to speak, at last. 

“I come home to find you single,” he scoffs, his voice deep and raspy, marked possibly by his job in the military. And you feel it marking you just the same, opening windows in the house of your body for that wind to blow in and exhilarate you, help you breathe. “He’s drunk out of his mind, crawling on Jungkook’s lap and you’re here. In your pajamas with a fucking face mask on.” 

Briefly, you furrow your brows, not understanding the meaning of his words. Is he bashing you for not crying your heart out? Or is he bashing his brother for doing whatever it was. Your heart turns halfway, painfully. Those days are gone—those you spent in bed while that broken muscle wept while your body used that time to repose from all the stress it went through, being in an environment it grew out of. 

You sigh, weary of the recollection of that peculiar pain, and show no sight of the turbulence happening within you. “Jungkook must be happy about that.” 

Hoseok chuckles, humorlessly. A chilling noise that erects your bare nipples beneath your pajama button down. Awkwardness slinks down your sternum and you shift your weight on your other foot as Hoseok deepens his gaze down on you. 

Tension settles between you and you use it. You use it, wholeheartedly, as you should have all those months ago. The only thing you ever took advantage of were the touches Namjoon graced your skin with. You’d grab his hand, while Hoseok watched, and bring it underneath the table. Part your mouth, pretending he was touching a sensitive, private place while he was merely drifting his fingers along your thigh. Hoseok would gulp, but he would keep his gaze locked on yours, very much like he’s doing now. It’s the only form of intimate interaction you ever had, save for the heated debates about different things you two did not have in common. 

All else remained hidden in the silence shared between you. 

And it no longer shall. 

If he came all the way here, unannounced, then you shall let fate, one that is enamored with your body, have her way in your life. 

“If you came here to talk about him, then I’m not interested,” you say, letting go of the door and slipping off your face mask, ignoring the hurtful pinpricks along the perimeters of your heart. “If you came here for me, then the door is open.” 

And with that bravery, you pivot on your heel and walk back into the living room, not expecting him to follow you and not expecting him to walk away. You let fate do her thing, and you begin to tap in the essence of the peachy face mask into your skin with quick, gentle slaps. 

You toss the sheet, along with the packaging, into the trash, your hair clipped away from your face whooshing around you with your movement. Kicking off your slides, you hear them bump into something stable, and when you turn around to seek that strange sound, you see Hoseok standing by your armchair near your couch. 

So he did come here for you. You tremble in a different manner, filled with sparks of excitement, and, turning around to sit on the couch, you flush, smiling happily to yourself. 

But all those feelings turn to dust when Hobi kneels by the edge of your couch and fixes your home slippers. Aligns them rightly in front of you so you can comfortably slide your feet into them once you get up. 

Your stomach drops and your fingertips tingle, all of your nerve endings set on blazing fire by that one act of service. 

The first kind thing he’s ever done for you. 

He throws his military jacket over the backrest of the armchair, where he nestles himself. Legs spread, elbows propped on his knees. His long dog tag chain swings back and forth in the sudden, atypical calmness of the atmosphere that you cannot adapt to fully. Not when your mind creates an image of that chain hanging over your face, your neck and your chest when you’re bare and ready for him, laying on your back, all for him to take. 

You bite your lip, tracing the band of your sleep sock with your fingers, and Hoseok’s eyes fall to it. You quickly lift them, sheepish. Distract your mind by opening a package of eye patches and placing them on your dark circles that just won’t leave. His gaze skims over each motion, studying it, wordlessly, and you can’t take it anymore. 

You can’t be the only one who’s brave this evening. 

You take a puff of your vape, inhaling its sweetness, and stare right back at him. A smile, a foolish girlish smile quivers upon your lips. One that you dislike because you did grow out of it, but it seems as though the more you swallow the intensity of his shadowed, violent sea-charged energy, the more you transform back into that little girl you were. 

And the process soaks your panties. 

So much is said in the silence, always has been, but you can’t stand it anymore. 

“You should start talking before I go to bed,” you bite, willing your smile to flatten, and Hoseok kneads his hands. His knuckles bear a faint memory of yellow bruises, veiny and strong as they are, and for a moment you wonder how far his ferocity reaches. 

He showed you little of it. You know he’s capable of doing things that would change you for all eternity, give you a new form that would not wither with age. 

And you yearn for it. Have yearned for it all those months without knowing that was the thing your body sought. The thing Namjoon could never give you. 

Violence. Roughness. The licks of an outraged sea. 

You’re a witness to it sloshing in the pools of his darkened eyes as he chews the provocation you uttered his way. And you can bet he likes the taste. 

“Did he break your heart?” he asks amidst the banana-flavored smoke, his knuckles whitening for a split second as he clenches his fist before relaxing—as if the thought of Namjoon breaking your heart angers him. 

It rouses you, and the way your chest lifts with each breath stimulates your stiffened nipples. The candlelight sways, casting shadows on his worn features, and you’d much rather sit on them than talk about your ex. 

“Did you not hear what I said?” you spit, throwing your vape on the cushion of your couch. Hoseok’s façade splits as he smirks, dropping his gaze for a moment before lifting it back to you. 

He leans back, slouching in the chair. “Answer the question.” 

The sedatedness of his tone stuns you. Your heart begins to thump as well as the bundle of nerves between your folded legs. It has been too long since you had your release. Months upon months. And you’re too weak to not get carried away by these new feelings you’ve shamefully forgotten about. 

The veins from his knuckles travel all the way back to his arms and your brain empties out. Too, too fucking long. You should’ve fooled around with every guy you found attractive, use them for orgasms, make the best of your womanly years, but instead you dwelled at home—in and out of your misery. And now, now it feels as though you’re a virgin, alone for the first time with an older man that enlivens your body. 

And you might as well give him what he asks of you. 

Sucking on your vape for a puff of bravery, you don’t blink as you stare at him through the smoke. You elongate your legs, placing them on the coffee table next to him, your toes facing his outstretched knee, and his eyes, once again, plummet to them. 

“He didn’t break my heart, I broke his,” you say, your words shrouded by that white mist curling out of your mouth, and you watch as his eyes widen en route to yours. 

He didn’t expect that. 

Something about that satisfies you. Selfishly. 

Hoseok runs the pad of his finger across his bottom lip, his head tilted to the side a little bit. “It was about time you did.” 

The searing heat that rushes forward in your cheeks forces your gaze away from him, begs you to look away, but you don’t. A bead of perspiration trickles down your cleavage, one that is visible to him as you couldn’t be bothered to do all the buttons after your shower. But Hoseok’s eyes don’t flick to it. No, he can’t miss this. He can’t miss the gravity of the moment, of the spoken confirmation of the fact that what went on between the two of you for so long is real. You squeeze your thighs together, the thumping in between unbearable, and the longer you bask in his brave words, in the masculinity of his initiative, the more your own poetry begins to rise in you.

If it drags, it’s not meant for you. If it’s fast, it couldn’t wait to meet you. 

And Hoseok notices. It is only when you let out a little, barely hearable sigh that his eyes do travel down to scrutinize your bodily reaction. To your nipples poking through, the shine of your sweat in between your bare breasts, to the friction you’re rubbing—the miniscule grinding movements that you make in order to alleviate yourself of the ache of desperation that you feel. And because you’re baring yourself out for him, he does the unthinkable. 

He lets you see his true face, his façade collapsing at his big, sock-clad feet. 

Hoseok lifts his hips, hides behind the pretense that he’s just making himself more comfortable, but in reality he did it to turn your attention to his lower region. His length, semi-hard yet still long, stands out, protruding from the camo of his pants and you’re hot, hot all over. 

The thumping worsens—and you need him, all of him, to make it better. 

Perceiving that he’s succeeded in his strategy by the way you just won’t stop ogling him, he blushes and hides it, in vain, with outstretched fingers spread across his face. As if he was doing his signature idol move. It’s a riveting sight to behold, a seemingly cold person growing warm from you gaping at that private part of him. 

And you want more. You want to see more places of his body that are flushed. And you want it now. 

“It was about time you and I talked alone, don’t you think?” you ask, following on from his previous statement. All that pining, those stolen glances, that distance—all that tension advances forward now, stronger than ever.

Hoseok can feel it, too. At your words, his manhood grows harder and his breathing quickens. He tries to stabilize it, but he fails. He fails even when he returns to his original position with his elbows propped on his knees. That chain of his swings with more momentum, teasing you, and you place your legs even closer towards him, and upon witnessing the light flash in his eyes, you realize that you teased him right back. 

The man likes feet.

You draw in a sharp breath when he fists both of your feet in one hand, brushing his thumb over the tips of your toes. The first touch in this lifetime, the first time upon your new virgin body, so intimate, private; he might as well have wrapped a blanket around them with how warm his hand is, secure and trustful. Goosebumps flood your skin, bringing in the iciness that you felt when you took in his beauty against the background of the trees and the moonlight. And its beams must be stitched around his fingers because daintiness clasps you close, the notion that you’re taken care of, in good hands, descending upon you like the most delicate feather tickling you, and you let it—you let it consume you. 

And you let his following question consume you just as much. 

“Were you in love with him?” 

It’s a question you never had the bravery to ask yourself in the two months you’ve been single, but it is here and you welcome it. You hear it whisper to you the hint of your answer and your body is smart enough, capable enough to figure it out. 

No need for long nights of overthinking. 

No need for long hours of listening to your heart crack.

“No, I was used to him—that’s different,” you hush out and the moon lowers herself, spilling through your windows, bathing you in a milky light that feels as welcoming, as right as your confession. And maybe, just maybe it’s the way the shining stream submerges in your neediness that drives you to be bratty. And briefly, before you do, you ponder over the fact how in your life shared with this person drives, moves forward. There’s never a still time—and you find that mesmerizing. Enough for you to simply brood in greed. “What’s it to you?” 

Hoseok flinches. Parts his mouth. His chain rattles and his fingers squeeze the balls of your feet, coaxing a hum out of you that is immediately silenced by his sudden outburst. 

“What’s it to me?” 

There it is. Another plot point. Your heart hammers. 

Hoseok lets go of your feet and you lament the absence. Stands up and towers over you, the moonshine soaking him in divine light that causes your breath to hitch in your throat. A faint layer of sweat has coasted along his hairline and settled there—and you long to swim in his bodily fluids. In the persona of his, in the tumultuous sea of the tension locked within him. 

“You’re genuinely asking me this question?” he pressures, lifting your legs in order to step in between them, and the unthinkable visits you once again. He props his hands on either side of your head and those two dog tags swing in your face. 

A wet patch forms in the center of your pajamas. Your breath mirrors his—hasty, deep and strained—and you can’t take it anymore. 

How far into this road of bravery until the moon averts its opaque eyes away from your sin? 

You arch your spine, hook your fingers on his dog tags and pull him a little closer. Breathe his air, breathe in his masculine, musky scent that intoxicates your senses to the point that there is absolutely nothing stopping you from getting dragged in the natural flow of this situation. 

“Yes, Hoseok. What’s it to you?” 

He pants. Glides, delicately, his fingers along your arm until he winds up at your small fist, clutching it in his as if it was his. And that warmth, you want to dip your head in it. 

“I had to watch you sit in that chair and not crack a smile. Sit next to him like an obedient girl, not allowed to speak. To me,” he grunts, tightening his lips, and that anger of his seeps into you, becoming yours. “He didn’t deserve you. You’re not a pretty toy. You’re a person.” 

He straightens but, panicking, you draw him right back by that chain. “Don’t fucking walk away from me.” 

He seethes and you feel your essence trickling down your thigh. That sea, inching forward, you whimper. And then he spreads that warmth over the crown of your head, rubbing your hairline just once with his thumb before he peels off your eye patches that you have forgotten about. 

And this is when your brows curl. This is the time that says there’s no going back. 

“I talked to you. We fought, don’t you remember?” 

He sweeps that digit over that soaked dark circle of yours underneath your eye. “What do you think would’ve happened to you if I talked to you nicely?” 

Cold shoulder. Uncomfortable time of forced aloneness, filled with the abyss of guilt that you had done something wrong. A toy that didn’t move its lifeless limbs right by his will. 

“I’ve known him for far longer than you. I know how he treats those he thinks he loves. I brushed it away with the others, but with you… I couldn’t. You were so full of life that was stuck in you because of him. Because he didn’t let you let it out. And I can’t forgive him for that.” 

What life? The one you searched for all your girlhood, the one Namjoon molded with his own hands until it no longer recognized the once-familiar lines of his palm? The one that yearned for Hoseok instead? 

A film of tears clouds your eyes and as hard as you try to blink them away, they linger, pooling at your waterline like sea foam. You need your vape, you need him inside you—you can’t face the mirror of the reality of that unfair treatment. 

How blind you were; how Hoseok has become that guiding stick. 

“Don’t forgive him,” you utter, grasping his chain tighter, drawing him even closer, making his breath tremble. The first tear that pours out leaks into the print of his thumb and at the sound of your soft cry, Hoseok topples. Kneels on the couch with your legs on either side of him and you pull, you pull him closer. 

“Do you want me?” he asks—a foolish, foolish question. Presses his forehead against yours, cups your face with both hands now while his back shakes and you touch it, you drag your fingernails down those prominent muscles. And he sighs, so desperately, so tenderly. “Do you want me to let out that life in you?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, sliding your hands underneath his black shirt, scratching the lowest part of his warm, warm waist before hooking your fingers on the waistband of his pants. It’s his—it always belonged to him. “Take me. Here.” 

He brushes his nose against yours, your breath and his singular. “You’re so feisty.” Lips nearly touch yours and your lungs give out on you, your air coming out in pathetic staccatos that make him growl, subduedly. Muscles rigid, bundle of nerves devoutly pulsing. Please, please. “But no.” 

The world implodes, the mocking shimmer of that planetary light gushing through—hand in hand with sobriety. 

But Hoseok, the prince of the unthinkable, dips your head back into that darkness. Lifts you by your armpits and sets you down on his lap, his hard length against your core uprearing your need for release. 

A hand sailing down your neck, your sternum, acknowledging itself with your respiration. “Don’t give it to me that easily.” 

Your own cages him there, right at the apex of the fleshiness of your breasts. “Jebal, Hobi.” 

Please, Hobi. You drive, in his fashion, your hips forward—ever so slightly. His eyes round at the mellow variation of his name wandering out of your mouth and wrapping around his neck, as if the gentleness you give him pains him, transforms into a noose around his vocal cords and he can’t speak. 

He sighs, the noise melting into a soft, low-pitched moan. “Don’t beg me,” he croaks out, so terribly strung out. “I’m-I’m—”

You lengthen your spine, closing your mouth over that one spot on the side of his throat that you can reach, silencing him. He doesn’t need to speak—you’re fine with the tacit language of his hands. And the taste of his skin, that fucking warmth dissolving upon your tongue, you can’t help but to moan just the same against him like that, rocking your hips awfully, awfully slowly, driving him to the point of madness that he stood at the edge of for so long. 

“I want you to touch me,” you murmur, tugging his hand lower to the first done button of your silky shirt and it’s him who hooks his fingers over that fabric now. You lick a stripe across the thick vein of his throat, grinding a little harder when you hear him suck in a pained breath. “I want you to feel that life in me and know it’s yours. Jebal, Hoseokie.” 

He grunts, ripping you away from him. You expect his eyes to be narrowed in that typical manner of his, but they’re not. They’re soft, round and glossy, looking down at you, unblinking. A face you’ve never seen before, that feels too, too significant—and you’re not sure if you deserve to get a load of it. Of his pinkish cheeks and downturned mouth, of his fingers agonizingly sluggishly undoing the first button of your shirt. 

Of his sentimentality that you never thought he was so efficient at. 

The sea that has remotely stilled—but you’re still riding the lenient waves, your torso curving with each button popping off as he engraves his warmth into your cold, cold skin. And once he reaches the very last one, he stops. Holds your shirt together, squishing your breasts, waiting for you to lift your head out of the sea water. 

And you do. 

He inches forward, grazing his lips against yours, making you feebly cry out. 

“Did you cry for him?” 

Your cry prolongs, vexation splattering over your arousal, and you’ve had enough of it. You flick your eyes between his, drawing back, flattening your lips in that anger of his that seems to be still flowing in you somewhere. No more, no more Namjoon; no more talk of your past relationship. It’s over, it’s over.

“Stop fucking—”

Hoseok doesn’t relent. Sinks his fingers into the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck to make you listen. “Did you cry for him?” 

Your heart wept, but your eyes didn’t. The tear you shed in front of him was the only liquid emotion that spilled out of you since the day of the break up. “No.” 

He blows a heavy breath of relief that oddly validates you—and light opens in your sensitive bosom. “Good girl.” 

And it is now that Hoseok presses his chest, his dog tags against that light of yours and clamps his mouth down on your top lip, hoisting you a tiny bit to sit you right down on his manhood. His strong arm wraps around your back while the other floats down and curls around your bum, growling into the kiss that he deepens. And then he parts your lips with his, slipping his tongue inside, and the dam breaks between your legs—as well as the quick little whines and squeaks that begin to leak out of your mouth and into his. 

The life in you throbs. 

His cock hardens even more underneath you and he pushes your clit against it, his noises and yours growing louder and louder in tandem until he’s breathless, panting so vivaciously that he needs a moment. A moment to focus on the mess he’s created of you, a glowing ball of rosiness, the prettiest of all flowers—and you feel like it, being looked at like that. 

“I knew you were smart,” he coos, peppering feathery kisses upon your cheek, jaw and chin, descending to the base of your neck. You moan out, fisting his shirt below his collarbones, the continuation of his validation for you nesting in your core. “That life in you will always win. No matter what.” 

You believe him—in fact, there’s nothing left for you to do, but to submit, submit and submit. And it feels like entering a dream that is kind, a reality that appears to be a dream, but is better. An existence smeared with clemency, where you can be a little girl again. 

“Touch it, please.” 

Hoseok hums, kissing the cleft between your clavicles. Shifts forward on the couch so you can rest your spine on the backrest, your head against the wall, and he slides his palms upward from your tummy to the apex of your breasts. You whine, torturously, at the contact, and you shudder and double over when he swipes his thumbs over your still stiffened nipples, buzzing shocks of acute pleasure coursing down your body, rooting in your clit that asks for his fingers, his tongue, but he remains where he is. Transfixed, starving, ravaged. 

He kneads your breasts like he kneaded his hands, with overpowering strength that quickens your blood flow, your body submitting to him and flushing like his does. A sliver of skin that your shirt exposes catches his attention—and at the sight of the flesh of your breasts spilling through, his cock twitches, his breath ragged, eyes droopy and so, so drunk. He pinches your nipples, still through that silken fabric, as if he was punishing you for causing him this unfair pain. 

Knead, flick, pinch. Your noises are obnoxious, his heat in you rising and rising, and you can’t take it anymore. The drum in your clit thuds and you push him away, the pleasure too overwhelming, too good and too arousing. 

And he pushes away the fabric, revealing your perky breasts. A glint settles on the edge of his irises and he gives you a coy smile before he smashes his mouth against yours, moving it in a rhythm that reflects the one in your bundle of nerves. And you grind, you grind like your life depends on it, your nipples and your pussy rubbing against him, against his icy dog tags, getting you closer and closer to your orgasm. And you would come like this had he not physically ripped you away from him. 

Heaving, he focuses, all over again, on the ruination he makes of you. The warmth in you flits so invitingly that you have to touch the places he did—your stomach, your sternum, your breasts. And as you do, you watch his gaze darken, you watch him nod his head, and wipe the corner of his mouth clean, catching his drool. 

“You feel it, don’t you?” he rasps, following the invisible traces you left on your body. Your stomach, your sternum, your breasts. “Right here. Life. Beautiful life.” He teases your hardened nub, circling it with the pads of his fingers, sliding it between his knuckles and squeezing, his smile growing with each shudder of your chest, with each response. “It’s time to make you come and let it out, you ready? Let’s take these off.” 

He tugs off your pajama pants, throws it behind his shoulder, examines the large wet stain on your panties that he coos at, raspily, petting it with his thumb—and you’re so turned on that even such faint touch like that brings you pleasure. You hold onto his arms for dear life, depending on him, trembling when the panties and the shirt are next, tossed upon the pile of your pants. 

You’re bare and he’s still fully dressed. Such titillating unfairness that turns you unhinged, maddened by liveliness your body is diffused with. 

Hoseok pins your legs back. Takes one hand and glides his fingers across your entire femininity, soaking them in the dew he has coaxed out of you, moaning gutturally. 

“He never made you wet like this, did he?” he asks, pride dripping out of him like his masculine pheromones, and with his wet fingers he palms himself. “You don’t even have to answer that. I know. I need to taste you, baby.” 

You don’t even get to fill a lungful of the stuffed, vanilla-scented air and he dives in, keeping your legs glued to your shoulders as he seizes your clit in his mouth, sucking on it briefly before he flattens his tongue all over you. He licks you like a lost man finding an oasis, humming into your heat while he tastes your personal slickness, swallowing everything he sowed. You bang your head on the wall, a numbed pang expanding all throughout your scalp by your claw clip, taking it all, moaning so loudly the whole of Seoul must be hearing you. Even Namjoon in his drunkenness, shameful that he never managed to eat you like this in the eight months you were his to consume. 

Your orgasm inches to you quickly. With half-lidded eyes, you watch the candlelight create sublime, eccentric images on his back. And as if he couldn’t handle the warmth anymore, he peels himself away from you just to take off his shirt, adding it to the pile. He doesn’t let you see his muscular body—he plunges back down, tongue outstretched, flicking the muscle on your swollen clit. He pinches your thigh, your mound, your folds, whimpering onto your flesh, hurrying to close his mouth over you to suck your clit. 

And within that divine suction, you come apart. The beautiful images on his back advance, fluttering on his smooth skin, and you hold him to yourself. The life in you explodes, saturating him in a dimmed, soft-hued, colorful light that he himself must be sensing because he moans, loudly, sinking his index finger inside your clenching hole. You can’t speak, you can’t breathe—you can only feel, you can only take. Your orgasm continues on, a ceaseless stream of delight untwisting in every part of your body. 

And when he begins to fuck you with that finger of his and hits that good spot, your orgasm melts into another one. And this time, you can’t take it. 

You shake so vivaciously that you fall off the edge of the couch, but he catches you. Hoseok unclips your hair and lays you down, propping your hips on the armrest instead and when he bends at the waist and opens his mouth, you scream out your disagreement, pushing him away. 

He blinks at you, mouth sopping wet. “I wasn’t finished.” 

Your oxygen is stuck in your throat, one that gets bespeckled with the beads of your dew. “Hoseokie—”

He traces it, wiping it off, holding you there. Presses his hard, clothed length against your bare pussy, rocking slowly, casting a private, affection-filled shadow with the arch of his body over yours. Hoseok kisses you once, a nasty kiss perfumed with your tangy scent, and you cry out. 

“The fact you can’t take the bare minimum personally offends me. He had you all to himself and he didn’t do his job well,” he mutters, squeezing your throat once. Drags his wet hand down your sternum, grasping a hold of both of your breasts, clenching them until they flush, again, like him. 

There it is, the saltiness of his sea. You yearn for the physical principle of it coating your tongue—for his cum to trickle out of the tip of it like your dew is off of his. And his words, his anger towards his best friend because of you—it heals you in a way you could never heal yourself. Another person seeing you and telling you that you deserve better, it is the most pristine form of remedy there is and you splutter on the whole beauty and compassion of it all, too weak to accept it at once. 

“That’s right,” you agree, as enthusiastically as your dopeness allows you, smiling lopsidedly, heart pounding. “Go slow on me.”

He croons, squeezing his eyes. “My little girl.” 

He buries his face in your neck, kissing you there, and along with the life in you—your heart explodes, too. The finality of your detransformation. Tears of joy ache in the corners of your eyes, the rawness of human fulfillment housing in you for all eternity. 

He kisses his way down to your breasts. “I’ll go slow on you,” he promises, darting out his tongue and flicking it over your nub, making you tremble. He straightens and dances his fingers along your thighs—up to your knees. “Do you want to stop here?” 

You shake your head. Place your feet flat on his toned stomach while you feel your dew dribble down your bum. Hoseok smiles, his mouth curving in that way of his that causes your own stomach to drop. He holds your heels, hooking his finger under the band of your socks and yanking them off. 

And his grin blooms at the sight of your dusty-pink toes, an endeared look thawing his eyes. He rubs them like he did at the beginning of this journey, keeps one at his stomach while he lifts the other one to his mouth. 

Your poor heart skips a beat. 

“Do you want me to fuck you like a little girl like you deserves?” 

He kisses the ball of your foot, doesn’t break the eye contact. Watches your mouth part in absolute astonishment and your cheeks deepen in their hue. And when he kisses it again, slower this time, it wakes you up from your stupefaction, and you lower your free foot down to his clothed cock. Hoseok groans, the sound muffled against your tootsie, shutting his eyes at the impact. Your chest flickers with a sense of pride that you made him react like that—and you want it again. You trail your toes across that length of his, but before you could reach the most sensitive part of him, he stops you. 

Sucks in that pained breath of his, red all over. 

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come.” 

You mirror him, the idea of being capable of doing that to him pleasuring you. You leak onto the couch. Your blood boils. 

“That’s so hot.” 

He chuckles, anchoring your foot upon his heart, tapping it with your big toe. “It’s because you have my heart.” 

Your body ceases all work, as well as time. Even the candlelight pauses its dance, concentrating its caressing radiance on that chain of his. 

And you don’t think as you scurry onto your knees and embrace him, his dog tags no longer icy. He plants his nose into your hair, inhaling you, sealing you into the hug with both of his arms. Your heart reaches its own towards his and they cling to each other, too. 

And you’re not afraid to reciprocate his feelings—they’re as clear to you as that very luminescence of the vanilla candle. 

“You have me,” you whisper into his ear, his body not quivering but stable, safe. “You have my life. It’s more of a treasure than my heart.” 

He had you the moment he so evidently disapproved of your past relationship. He had you the moment he was curious to see if you were jealous when he was entertaining other women. He had you the moment he purposefully put a distance between you and him because he didn’t want you to get hurt by Namjoon. 

You just didn’t know it yet, not until clarity arose in front of you in the form of his honesty. 

Hoseok kisses your own ear, lingers there. “I want both.” 

“Then, have it.”

And he kisses your forehead. “Thank you. I’ll take care of it.” 

You can see in the ivory mist of his eyes that he means it—and so you tug off his military belt as you begin to pepper kisses down the column of his neck because he deserves it, because he cares for you, because he came to you as soon as he heard that you were single. And when you reach those dog tags, the words of his title imprinting themselves onto the surface of your lips, you clasp his cock in your hand. Too big for your small fist, too warm for you to handle—

“Lay back down.” 

You bite into the flesh right above that first steel pendant while keeping your eyes locked on his. “Yes, Sergeant.” 

Hoseok curses. Wrings a sharp gasp out of you when he pulls on your hair, giving you a nasty kiss full of tongue. “Don’t call me that when I need to be gentle with you,” he scolds, sucking on your bottom lip to make it better and you disintegrate. “Right now I would bend you over this couch and fuck you until Sergeant and Sir was all you knew, but I can’t do that. Not when you’re not used to me yet.” 

Yes, the promise of the sea—you convulse from head to toe, pining after it. 

“I want that so bad.” 

He nods, marking you on your neck. You whimper and he groans in response. “And I’ll give it to you, you just need to be good now. Lay down.” 

You comply, but you take him with you—grabbing him by that chain as you arch your back on the couch. He lets you, grins at you like the utmost sunshine, but that expression of delight breaks when a certain realization dawns upon him. 

“I didn’t bring any condoms.” 

You huff out a soft noise. “Good. I want you to come all over me.” 

Hoseok hangs his head low, sighing, on all fours above you. His chain swings, drawing the memory of this very night on your breasts. He looks up at you from this position, his eyes thin slits that cause you to clench around nothing. 

“I’ll give you a big load.” 

You beam like the purest angel, in spite of the context. “Yes, please.” 

Hoseok rolls his eyes back, his façade cracking, and he beams just the same, his mouth widening in the shape of a heart that moves through you. He kisses you deeply, a long peck that breaks you down into a putty, and when he withdraws, you can still see that smile plastered on his glowing face. 

“Good girl. Such good manners.” 

And with that praise, he sheathes himself inside you. You both gasp in union, entering a paradise no other human will ever witness in the afterlife. He stretches you out, slowly, careful not to hurt you as he waits it out, petting your hair in the meantime. 

“I can feel you stretching around me, fuck. You’re so warm, so tight for me,” he rasps, panting, that smile trembling on his lips as he tries to keep it together. He straightens, pinches your nipple and you feel yourself accommodating him quicker at that sudden electricity of pleasure, at the sight of his toned body and that chain. The shine of sweat, the dance of the candlelight, the width of his shoulders and carmine chest as it heaves in desperate hums and groans. You could come just from that—and the sensation is so dizzying that your eyes droop. Hoseok notices, grappling the crook between your neck and shoulder. “Stay with me, baby, you can take this. I’m gonna make you feel so good and you’re gonna come on this cock.” 

Those hums of his cruise all the way to your mouth as he sinks that encouragement into it, kissing you deeply, pinning your hands back above your head and sliding his fingers into a celestial intertwinement with yours. They throb within you, those words of his, where they disperse all around, helping you believe that you truly can take the whole manliness of him. Your mind spins, the pressure of your shared atmosphere ringing in your ears, and he knows, he knows that you’re ready for him.

“I’m gonna start moving now. Talk to me, baby. Tell me everything you’re feeling as I fuck you,” he murmurs, unsheathing himself a tiny bit before he curls his hips forward and upwards, creating a languid, spine-tingling rhythm that replicates the waves of his sea. They slosh to and fro with every slow stroke and he kisses your good spot with the tip of his cock. Your eyes flutter open and close, rolling like those waves, but you can still see the way his jaw is clenched, his gums on full show as he seethes in his self-control, the flush of his neck and the flexing of his abdomen that you can’t help but to touch in your otherworldly daze. He stares down at you, intensely, narrows his eyelids and furrows his brows when he feels your touch, and you discover that the spot, where his V-lines lead to your antidote, is one of uttermost sensitivity. 

He moans, burying himself deep in you, and stopping there. Mound to mound, soul to soul.

“Fuck, baby, you just know where all my spots are, don’t you?” he asks, his voice so terribly strained, torso doubled over, and you grin. 

“I think I was born already knowing them,” you flirt and Hoseok pounds into you for it—a singular thrust that scrambles all your brain cells. Your smile falls, your brows crunch, your throat utters such whiny noise that he himself grunts at the sound of it, and when you lift yourself onto your elbows to see his length driving in and out of you, he pushes you right down by your throat, kissing you hard enough that it hurts.

And he alleviates the lip lock by licking over your tongue, toying with it—all while he, little by little, picks up the rhythm, fucking into you with a force that coaxes your rawest moans out of you. 

“You can’t handle my tongue and I can’t handle it when you flirt with me,” he scoffs, smacking his mouth as he turns his head, claiming your mouth, claiming you. “God, I wanna destroy you so bad.” 

Your cry is cut out by another savage thrust and you claw at that sensitive spot of his, inciting him to do it again and again. “I’m yours to destroy.” 

He pauses, the crown of his cock teasing the beginning of your heat. Sweat drips down his temple and he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes your heart twitch in absolute sensuality and relish. 

“Say that again.” 

Your breath hitches. “I’m yours to destroy.” 

Hoseok curses, driving into you all the way. You whine out, clenching your fists, feeling every ridge and every vein of his cock glide forwards and backwards along your walls. And by tensing your body and focusing on the delight he’s gracing your body with, the build-up of your orgasm announces its presence.

“Fuck, Hobi, you feel so good,” you cry, gripping his forearms as he begins to hold your waist steady. He jackhammers into you so viciously that your vision scatters with a creamy hue of ivory, moaning in ragged staccatos that influence you so much that you naturally imitate them, fading into him, becoming one. 

“Whose are you?” he growls without interfering with the gracefulness of his sadism, moving back only an inch before slamming back into you, bruising your cervix—and you lose all brain cells, the synapses blanking out. 

But only one thing is clear. 

“I’m yours.” 

And the following snap of his hips drives you out of this world and out of this universe. The gravity keeps your muscles tense, confining your pleasure and the closeness of your orgasm within. The ringing grows in volume and you’re on the cusp. 

Hoseok is, too, because he begins to beg. 

“Please, please, baby. Come for me. I’m so fucking close for you. Please, I’m gonna come all over you.” 

And with a scream that vibrates through the walls of your living room, you comply. Your core grips him, your skin prickles and you levitate—your back arches off the couch, aching to be closer to him, and Hoseok whines. 

Pulls out, straddles you, and fist-fucks his shaft with frantic, frenzied motions. Covers you with ropes and ropes of his cum that ripple on your stomach, your sternum and your breasts as you drift in and out of consciousness. Warm, warm essence of his masculinity that is warmer than the rest of him. 

Blood-hot. 

And you feel as though you deserved every drop. 

Deserved to see the beauty of his orgasm. The flush of his lower regions, especially. The sight you longed to see. 

Hoseok lets go of his manhood, his hand shiny and wet, though he’s still hard, reaching the beginning of your parting lungs with how big he is. Bigger than Namjoon, bigger than anyone you ever dated. Their names wither in your mind, decomposing. And they lose all meaning. 

They cease to exist. 

You’re not his best friend’s ex. You’re not anyone’s ex—

“Look at how little you are,” Hoseok comments, interrupting the surge of your maddened thoughts. He smears the puddle of cum on your stomach that his cock can reach and your pussy flutters in constant motions that ask for him again. “So little under me and all mine, aren’t you?” 

His avowal brings a fresh dose of oxygen into your lungs and you breathe it in. Want to breathe it in for the rest of your life with him. 

But Hoseok doesn’t stop there. Once you agree with him by the nod of your head and a dopey, gratified grin that casts an affirming light on him, he bends over you, his fists on either side of your head. 

“I’ll show you what true possessiveness looks like. The world will burn if it hurts you and if people say one bad word to you, it will be the last one they ever said. But they will talk to you and you will talk to them. You will learn about this life of yours. What it holds, what it looks like. And I’ll be standing beside you and I’ll watch over you. Learn it, live it with you.” 

He rubs your forehead with his thumb in a fond gesture. Looks at you with a mute meaning that touches your heart and crawls inside before he kisses you, relaxes his lips against yours, and kisses you again. 

Again and again. 

Again in the shower. Again in your bed when you’re riding him, tasting the life he let out of you, because you blazed up with desire after you washed his body. And the sex is quiet, smothered with those kisses until your mouth and his is numb. 

And again throughout the years you acknowledge yourself with that life and realize that you understand it more profoundly and clearly in the process of getting to know Hoseok than this world. 

Hoseok is that life. 

And you kiss him and whisper those words onto his mouth when you marry him at the altar, years and years later, connecting your life and his forever. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

this was so hot of her

she’s actually iconic and i want to be like her

SOMEONE HAD TO SAY IT AND IT WILL BE ME

YOU NEED YOUR ASS ATE FOR THAT.

OH MY GOD KSNDND DJX DKXNDJDNSJDNDJJD

RIPPING MY HAIR OUT HE JUST KNOWS WHAT TO DO

I CAN SEE IT IN MY HEAD AND ITS TORTUREEEEEEE

that was so hot of him i can’t

SMOKE, v. | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x smoke!oc (ft. jungkook & taehyung)

genre: smut, fluff

word count: 8.2k

summary: everything that hurt has stopped.  

pinterest board: smoke / playlist: moon kitty's playlist / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: yoongi is perfect, mutual masturbation, lots of lustful thoughts of sex and oral, yoongi's pov—literally the biggest warning, sex toys, desperation, praise kink, neediness, mentions of punishment & an actual punishment, too.

note: this might be the best chapter in the series and unfortunately, it's the last chapter i post before my hiatus. thanks to my bestest friend in the world, @tkslovechild, this series is finally moving forward somewhere and it's not a source of my depression anymore. i hope you all enjoy this chapter, my babies. see you after my hiatus. i will miss you all, terribly. luna loves you forever.

side note: make sure to listen to oc's playlist. it's so good.

The lights must be blaring, in the bizarre simplicity of our current happenstance, and the toys for adults must be tinged with a variety of colors, but my eyes are moored on the prismatic delicacy of her utter engrossment. 

Pupils wide and swallowing each detail of the display of the instruments of pleasure, my cock is so tight in my pants that I struggle for air, my fists clenched by my sides, ever so ready to snatch the product she points at just so I could become the means to make that joy explode further in her. She teased me in the car with her naughty songs, with her coy glances at me to suss out whether I caught onto the meaning—when in reality I tried my fucking hardest not to give in to my imagination and crash my car. Her body was curled so divinely, facing me, and my hands gripped the steering wheel until the leather squeaked. We laughed about it, she blamed me for farting, and I longed to kiss her until she would shut up. 

And I should have—because now she’s teasing me with her utmost fascination with a certain clit sucker. 

Whatever color it is. 

It was her idea to head inside this store. We drove around through the moonlit streets of Seoul for an hour, listening to her playlist reverberating throughout the vehicle. With the windows pulled down, the miscellaneous paraphernalia of her soul—the erotism of persona, the melancholia of her heart and the despondency caused from her pain—rumbling out of them, letting everyone see and hear the echo of her newly bloomed enthusiasm and the sprightliness of her being. She was alive at night, alive with me, liking the principle of me learning about her through this artful form. And I liked her liking that. 

The songs spoke what our mouths couldn’t, communicating for us, because we acted as though my own pain didn’t break us apart. In the vivacity of the car drive, in the lapis lazuli of our own exclusive, atmospheric globe, I didn’t tell her off for being bare for me the previous morning. No, I took off her night dress and drank from the sweet nectar of her bosom, right there on the ivory of her plush couch until she drenched it so well that she blushed. 

In fact, it’s the only thing I voiced out in terms of the conflict. 

Perhaps it was due to the influence of her songs, laced with the heady aroma of her energy—fuck, if I know, but I didn’t regret my words. 

Not this time. 

And her glimmering cheeks flushed like they did in my imagination, tightening my cock in the easy way that she was only capable of doing. I seized the tension between us—and I might as well clasped my hand over her thighs, which were still turned to me, with how her breath hitched in her throat in reaction to my brazenness. 

It was the reason why she wrapped her fingers around my wrist when we walked by that sex shop en route to the restaurant I chose, stopping me dead in my tracks. She held our sexuality close to her chest, not adding to it in the car, but unraveling it there, in the middle of the street, with strangers passing by. Gave me a look only a moon kitty like her could, mischievous yet innocent, and tilted her head in the direction of the store. And I knew, deep in my heart, that it was the little creature inside her that dragged me in—no longer neglected, but attuned to my attention, to my care and the respect I wafted towards her. 

There were no two sides to her, and on no account did we stand on the opposite sides of the chessboard with our agonies, despite the fact all I could see was the monochrome of its pattern once I regarded her enthrallment. 

Somehow, we are unified at this very moment,  and I crave to buy her that clit sucker. 

“Choose a color,” I rasp, and my cock agrees with me, twitching at the idea of her picking a color of her liking, one that can match her nails or perhaps the dark wine of her hair. One that bewitched me so profusely once I observed it under that soft white light of the interior of my car, its sleekness dipping into my heart that began to thunder for her. One that absolutely pales in comparison as I look at it now, the red dull and bleak, my sight unfolding in colors. My craving expands when her eyes widen at my seemingly brainsick idea, digging into mine while her tightened lips quiver in a smile. I smirk, enjoying her coy reaction, and I take this teasing into another dimension, austerely because I want to—and because I can, because we can. “Maybe the red one to match your hair.” 

Her gasp melts into a delicate laughter that tickles my insides and, mindlessly, she runs her elongated fingers through the ends of her hair at her tummy. Taps her long, cross-embellished nail, on another package beside it. “This one has the thingy that vibrates inside you.” 

It’s the same rose toy, but with a silicone attachment with a bulbous end. I’m not sure how those violent vibrations inside her walls can feel pleasurable for her, but the way she gazes at it—with a smirk akin to mine and lowered long lashes that languidly beat against the tops of her cheeks—propels me to seek my answer. 

I take it in my hands, inspecting it further. And I notice that the petals hide a small tongue in their center, simulating an oral sex for her lonesome times. 

Heat clings to my skin as I grow feverish. I am leaving for a tour in a few weeks. Who will be there to eat her sweet little pussy? 

The apples of her cheeks blaze in pinkness, regarding me as she is, and I lick my lips. “This one licks your clit. Do you think it’ll do a better job than me?” 

The rose tint deepens at my teasing words and all I can think about is how she’s gonna press those petals deeper and deeper into her folds, digging her long nails into the silicon surface just like she dug her nails into my scalp. And suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. 

I fast forward. 

“Do you want this thing or the bullet?” I ask her, impatient, but for what—I don’t know. What I do know is that I can’t stay in this place any longer with my imagination bursting forth and clouding everything negative I ever felt towards this girl. And while the newness crests joy and contentment in me, I need to be distracted from the lust that has become so natural between us. Or else, I bend her over in this aisle, rip the package open and use it on her while I fuck her dumb. 

I might become unhinged. Just for her, just for the flush blanketing her features. Just so I have her positive feelings in my hands. 

She’s too overwhelmed to respond, redder than her hair and it’s endearing. Kitty cups her face and turns around, letting me see her back, and I do the thing I unknowingly wanted to do the moment I inched closer to her. 

I brush my hand down her noble spine, clothed in the sheer fabric of her tight top that exposes her camisole underneath to me. I hook my fingers on the belt loop of her baggy jeans and bring her back to me. Her gasp is so tender and so unlike her when she collides into me, her fists bunched on the top of my chest, her hair a mess—tangled on her forehead and eyelashes and I’m awestruck. 

By her beauty, by the way there’s no end to her. And I want to keep acknowledging myself with the inexhaustible wholeness of her until I’m gray and stooped in the old age of my affection for her. 

No gold, no golden power staining my hands. She’s silver and I am desperate for that moonlit glory to mist my veins. Privately, for me and her. A thing only we know of. 

No Sun-mi, no Jungkook. 

Pinching the strands of hair away from her face, she seems to be swimming in a thought I’m very curious about. Even more so, when she engages her hands and hangs them over my neck. Calmness relaxes the muscles of my stomach and I take a detailed note of that. 

No anxiousness, no winged demons beneath. 

This is right. This is how it should’ve been from the start. Playfulness, a little bit of lust, and a whole lot of exuberance. Nothing else, at least not this early on. 

And even though I asked her a million naughty questions that I’d love for her to sophistically answer for me, something whispers in my gut that I should share my thoughts with her. And without a hint of fear, I do. 

“This is good, isn’t it?” I murmur, tipping my chin, my body leading me to lean my forehead against hers and I do—I do, I do. Kitty sighs, oddly validating me, and I continue. “I mean I wasn’t planning on buying you a fucking clit sucker tonight, but I’m glad we’re here.” 

She laughs and I lift my head, needing to see her expression of delight. And atypically, my mouth rounds in the same grin and the same laughter spills out of me. 

One that breaks into an indecent groan when she finally graces me with her response. 

“You know, they have rose toys for men as well. So if I’m getting one, you’re buying one, too.” 

It’s like she palmed me over my jeans with her words, but I disagree with a fraction of it. 

“Wrong. I’m getting you one.” 

She appears to be stunned by my willfulness to not let her spend a dime when she’s with me, her mouth parted and her head cocking back just once. And when she closes her pretty, half-glossy mouth, curls the pillows under her teeth and drops her eyes, her palms sliding down my chest, she accepts it. 

And I feel like a man, not a skeleton of who I used to be. 

“You’ll be getting two, then.” 

I chuckle. Draw near to her ear, sinking under the waterfall of her hair, and I hear her breathing harden. “I can get three if you can’t decide,” I flirt, pulling back more to edge her than to stuff my hand with the other toy that includes the bullet, holding it up for her. Her pools sparkle as she looks at them before perching up at mine, melting.

I bite my lip, feral; and I don’t wait for her to answer once I stack them up in one hand, pivoting on my feet. 

“Wait.” 

She steals the box with the bullet and puts it back to its original place. Replaces it with a male version of it, her smile cheerful and full of mischief. I take something else that I cover from her sight, which glides upon the display of all kinds of different cock rings and whatnot. 

Little does she know what I intend to surprise her with as soon as she allows me back into her girlish lust. 

My heart hammers in my chest in tandem with my cock as I pay for it. And I hope that she gets the memo. 

That she’s not just a fling—and certainly not just a friend. 

“Do you think your toy will pass through security?” 

Had I not swallowed my noodles, I would’ve spat them out at her black little outfit. Kitty giggles at my reaction—at the frozen tension in my face as I gaze up at her from my bowl, the soup dripping from my chin. Our movements are simultaneous—hands letting go of our chopstick, but while mine reach for a napkin, hers rummage in the white plastic bag I set down on the empty chair beside me. 

The table is too narrow, and it’s a blessing and a curse. 

Her vanilla perfume hits my nostrils and I’m convinced it’s what the moon must smell like. The box of the male toy is overly big for her hands and her hair shields her from me as she discreetly reads the description and the instructions. I widen my legs under the table, my bloodstream focusing on only one body part of mine, and I wonder if that’s what she was truly thinking of while she ate her own bowl of noodles. 

Fucking myself with a rose fleshlight. Away from her; across the sea. 

Jungkook must’ve told her about our tour. I wasn’t going to mention it tonight because I didn’t want to ruin the night with the sombreness of my work. As much as I looked forward to seeing our Army from that side of the globe, I wasn’t happy with the decision installed upon us—wasn’t happy that our management didn’t ask us about our feelings, whether we’re ready for it or not. It was more of a—you have a job now, do it well, cameras will be rolling—and that was the end of it. Namjoon sensed my dissatisfaction, slouching in his chair in front of me, with his jaw propped between his fingers and his eyes piercing through me but he, too, couldn’t say a thing. 

None of us could. 

It cast me to a deeper sea of my anguish that I didn’t want to stream into my ordinary life with Kitty. I was going to tell her as soon as my fresh emotions would’ve settled and we would’ve settled to the same extent, though having the toy be in the center of it changes everything now. 

It’ll be different. 

I won’t be a puppet, channeling my humanness through my love for our beloved Army. On the contrary, I will be a dancing fool, knowing I have someone waiting for me back in Seoul while being the epitome of my deepest longings and sentiments overseas. My heart, the toy and the means of our communication. 

I wasn’t going to bring the toy with me because if the members were ever to find out, I wouldn’t live it down. But if it makes that sparkle in her irises last a little longer, I shall put extra care into hiding it at the bottom of my suitcase. 

“You want me to take it?” I ask, softly, leaning back in my chair, one hand on the table, the other across my thigh. Her smile curves as she glimpses up at me, and I still can’t believe she pulled out an actual sex toy in a restaurant filled with hungry drunken people. If anyone recognizes me, I’m fucked. Majestically, devastatingly fucked if they take a picture, the said picture gets to our management and I have to write an apology letter on Weverse afterward. 

I’m sorry for having a personal life with a beautiful girl who’s unlike any shallow pretty faces I’ve come across. I will be more mindful of my actions in the future.

Fuck that. 

She can take it out of the packaging and see if it needs to be charged before we can use it if she so much as wishes so. 

We.

Yes, that’s right.

I’m not the same person I was yesterday, and something tells me that I have her to thank for that. 

“Well, I’m sure the Christmas spirit will get to you and you’ll be lonely. Also, let’s not forget it’ll be cuffing season most of all.” 

It’s funny she says that, considering what I secretly bought for her. Hysterical, in fact. Hilarious. 

It’s hidden in the pocket of my jacket, so even though she followed her curiosity into the bag, she still doesn’t know about the surprise that awaits her. I took it out when I let her walk in front of me, discreetly. It brought me more joy than I thought I was ever capable of bearing. 

Still, I wonder how much more of it I can be filled with. And I want to tempt it—brim with it. I reckon she’s the safest person to take that risk with, but the quiet, unknown voice in me adds that it’s not a risk at all. 

Quite the opposite. 

And the idea of cuffing her, both literally and figuratively, draws me closer to that cliff of brisk water of that ultimate joy and I want to get soaked. I want to drink. 

I want to be cleansed by it. 

“Would you like to be cuffed by me, little one?” 

It was automatic, the pet name streaming out of my mouth like that mini waterfall I seem to be dazed by. The question, too. And I’m not afraid, not even a hint of dread crawls upon me, and I find myself hoping that it stays. That everything I do and say from now on is of that automatic matter, unabashed, not blocked, not held back. 

I hope to be a real person with her. Without any ghosts, any demons. Any pain to scar her with. 

The little one doesn’t smile this time, shrinks in her flummox, but still I don’t fear, I don’t wish to grasp my words and put them back in my throat. Taking little steps means grazing your knees and I’m here to place band aids on her bleeding spots. 

I’m here for her. 

And my belief is supported by my actions this whole evening. 

The person I was yesterday is almost unrecognizable to me and I pray, I pray and I will pray once this night is over that it shall remain so. 

“I’m not sure what kind of question you’re asking me right now,” she murmurs, leaning her elbows on the table, drawing close to me like I’m drawing close to her, and it’s good enough. I don’t ask for anything else from her. 

“It’s the one you think it is,” I rasp, making her eyes widen slightly, and I have to chuckle. She’s so damn adorable, standing outside of her comfort zone, and my own eye is watchful over her, over her little steps, band aids ready in my hands. 

At the sound of my soft laughter, she drops her gaze, running her tongue over the inside flesh of her cheek—and there it is. That kind heat rushing through her. I want her to be smoldered by it. 

I want a lot of things when it comes to her, a phenomenon that forces me ponder if there ever will be an end to it. It’s better than feeling dissatisfaction regarding someone, digging a hand deep in them, expecting gold, yet plucking out stones that only cut your skin eventually. The more you dig, the bigger the wound. But I don’t have to do that in her. The little one, the moon kitty herself, gives it over, willingly. All of her silver moon dust, glory, and the ashes from her firelight. 

Maybe that’s how it should be. 

Not expecting, not reaching, but being given, being provided. 

Her eyelids lift and descend over the package in her hands before they root upon mine. And her response to my words keeps me company all the way to America. 

“Show me how well you can use this and I just might be.” 

Dead or alive, I blur between the lines. Jet lagged or just sick with love, it is a conjoined affair in me like the two halves of my heart. 

I miss her, even though I haven’t been able to unattach myself from my phone, the only tangible connection between us—the back and forth exchange of words, emojis and stickers that I had never used in my life but began to spam our conversations with once she coyly hid behind them. I miss her, even though I spent nearly every day with her until I boarded my flight. 

In Jungkook’s hotel room, the members share a meal together while I stay back, settled comfortably on the beige couch by the floor-length windows as the morning sun shimmers its rays across the walls. I’m sporting a hard-on, which I camouflage with a rough-textured pillow across my lap, due to the contents of our text messages. Hobi is slurping his ramen next to me, elbows propped on his elbows, posture slouched, oblivious to the fact that the girl of his platonic dreams is horny and challenging me to join her in her evening self-care. 

Yes, Hobi has developed a crush on the moon kitty and I was the first one to know. 

During the last of our leisure time in November before the tour, Hobi called me up and asked me to join him on his last drinking adventure before our work duties swallowed us. He lured me into his apartment with the two bottles of Hennessy that he had bought for the occasion and we talked work, we talked our management and we talked girls. 

He admitted to me how guilty he felt for triggering such unpleasant memories in Kitty’s mind after I shared with him the reason why I picked her up into my arms and walked away from him. I was purposefully vague in my speech, not wanting to disclose such privacy without her present, without her knowing especially, and Hobi respected that. Told me he thought about her since that day, remembering only the negative, tethered wisps that seemed to curl tightly in his gut. And I, drunk out of my mind, doting and devoted, shared with him that I wanted her. 

Made sure to emphasize in my admission that she was mine. 

It was the bravest thing I ever had done. 

Hobi understood, explained to me that how he regarded her was strictly friendly. Thought that she carried a certain elegance of beauty that was unprecedented in today’s culture, however, with which I enthusiastically agreed. Then he clutched my shoulder, the wounded one, with extra tenderness, looked me carefully in the eye, and gave me a groundbreaking word of advice that shook through my world. 

Don’t treat her like you treated Sun-mi. 

I didn’t grasp the meaning until we opened the second bottle and Hobi, seeing my puzzlement, fleshed out his wisdom. 

Don’t cling, don’t make her the air you breathe. Just live your life by her side and breathe your own air. You worked too hard to get here to backtrack. 

And I tried, within the little time we had together. 

We didn’t fuck, we didn’t devour each other’s bodies. We conversed, I learned her favorite color, the name of her favorite band, the dishes she liked—and the common ins and outs of her life. White wasn’t the only color of her soul, she liked red; that deep, dark tint one would only witness alive in the depth of the night. She liked the color of the stop lights, of the tail lights; she liked the way it bathed my face in gentle, undangerous fire whenever we would get stuck in traffic on our car drives—and apparently she liked my patience. 

Chase Atlantic was her favorite band. 

Tteokbokki her favorite dish. 

And I was her favorite person. A fact I already knew by the way she would kiss me at those favorite stop lights of hers. 

That was all we did. Kiss and converse. And I didn’t cling to her, didn’t make her the air I breathed. On the contrary, following Hobi’s wisdom, I fell for her in the purest of ways, which I somehow made possible in this befouled world. 

And, perhaps, she did, too. A deduction of mine because she began to smoke in front of me at some point. 

She was afraid I wouldn’t like it, a sensitive wound that she let me in on—a formless, unclear one that kept me wide awake at night, scrambling my brain to try and figure out what the fucker before me did to her. That was, until she told me, upon our last car drive during that last week we’d have with each other, that the said wound was caused by my own fault. 

I told her off for being bare for me at the beginning of the trajectory of our closeness and I sowed a poisonous plant of a hang-up in her. A block in her brain that pressured her to hide the “questionable” parts of her from me. 

But there weren’t any questionable parts of her—and I told her, after I pulled out my own pack, lit up one, grabbed her by the back of her neck and kissed her until her lungs were depleted of air. 

It was the bloom of our lust, particularly the vocal, intense apology I strung into her lips, kissing them deeper and deeper until they swelled. It was the beginning of our naughty text messages—right on the cusp of my absence, hooking onto my yearning and expanding it to heavenly dimensions. 

Yes, heavenly. Our closeness represented heaven as we had forgotten about our toys and remembered them during our hypersexual conversations. Face to face, we focused on the stimulation of our connected intellect, our intertwined characters; phone to phone, our bodies sought compensation.

And right now, upon the first morning here in the US, the moon kitty is persuading me into unpacking my suitcase and using the rose toy in my room. 

She’s straining, working so hard, sending me her little stickers of adorable, pleading animals, incognizant to the fact that I don’t need to be that much impelled to do it. She’s staying up for me, needy in bed—I made my decision the second she mentioned it. 

I merely delight in her saying please. 

I get off on it; it makes my cock rock hard and the concept of the members being around and unaware of what she’s doing to me—especially Jungkook, who’s stimming and happy to be eating after a restless night—heightens my pleasure, lengthening towards the heavens. 

If only I could take her there. With my tongue. Like I did the first time, holding her body down so she wouldn’t rise higher without me. 

pleaseeeeee, i’m gonna start without you if you dont get up rn 

I smile at the text message and I imagine her writhing in her bed, her bedsheets crumpled and tousled around her, her fingers tracing the curved petals of her rose toy—itching, impatient, needy; waiting for me. 

My cock grows. And I, too, meet my impatience. 

Just a second. Be good, I respond back to her, locking my phone and immersing myself in reality. 

The boys are uncharacteristically quiet, each one indulging in an activity of their own. Jungkook is huffing, his cheeks full and around, staring down his plate of food as if it was about to grow its own legs and walk away from him. Jimin is watching him with an endeared smile that is split by a secrecy all of us are aware of. Lopsided, its glow is shunned out by the tender, doleful layer of wetness in his eyes. And I know that his tummy will get full by watching him eat and that it will be his only source of fulfilling food for today. 

I clench my fists. 

Hobi beside me has finished his own breakfast and has entered his food coma, staring into nothing at the ceiling as he rests his neck against the backrest of the couch. Taehyung is looking at me in a way that brings my eyes back to him for a double take. With a smirk and a glint in the gentleness of his eyes, he flicks his browns at his own phone and nods his head, telling me something in the silent language that I don’t want him to. 

He noticed something he shouldn’t have. 

The words are flung out of me long before I comprehend what I’m saying, up and ready on my feet, covering my erection with the thick hem of my oversized shirt. 

“I’m gonna head to mine for a bit and take a shower,” I announce, making heads lift in my direction, and considering my situation, I cower in shyness, keeping my back to them as I walk towards the front door. 

“The stylist is coming at one pm and we have a soundcheck at three thirty,” Namjoon informs, and I pivot to look at him, at all six of them while my hand remains on the doorknob. 

Jungkook is rubbing his eyes and I take one last look at his faded mint hair, saying goodbye to it in my heart. I know what hair color I’m changing my silver hair to, thought of it on the plane and was immediately convinced it was my greatest idea. I nod, sweeping my eyes over the last five heads as if I was going to come back to them as a different person. 

Perhaps I was. 

I ignore Taehyung and his knowing smile as I leave, racking my brain, trying to come up with the reason why he’s acting like this. Did Hobi say something or was I not careful enough, divulging my secret out in the open with my face or my body language? Was the pillow over my lap and my eyes, all of my attention glued to my phone making it that obvious that I’m seeing someone? 

How would they react if they knew it was the Kitty girl? 

I leave it be for now, my cock asking for attention. I fish out my hotel key card and close everything behind me. Taehyung’s all seeing eye, Jimin’s diet and I stoop in my homesickness. 

It’s been two days and I feel as though Kitty ripped my heart out of my chest and folded it somewhere inside her purse when we hugged for the last time. I reminisce on her innocent touch on my neck, the only place she ever touched me besides my hair, on her lips that pressed against that place her hands warmed as I video call her. 

She picks up, immediately. 

I can only see her round head, the red of her hair sprawled messily on the silky, light beige cover of her pillow while the rest of her body is shrouded by that material. She smiles at me, no hint of embellishment lining her face—and something tells me that she’s all bare underneath her bed sheets, too. 

I palm my cock, desperate. 

“How long were you gonna keep me waiting?” she asks, and proves me right as she raises a hand and props it behind her head, the duvet drifting down a little and exposing the beginning of her fleshy peak and my mouth waters. I licked and kissed that breast of hers once upon a time and I would do anything to have that opportunity right now. I would do a better job; I would drive her insane. Spoil her with kisses so harsh that she would reach a point in heaven that no one ever has. 

I think about her question and deem I could never keep her waiting long if I were all by myself. “You know who I was with. Was I supposed to pull out my dick in front of them?” 

She giggles at my bizarre response, shifting her head to find a more comfortable spot, and the wholeness of her breasts greets me.

Bless all silky beddings. The superior invention of all. 

“Oh, hello there,” I joke, deepening her giggles and she angles her phone so I don’t see anything, breaking me apart. 

I shall punish her for it. 

I set my phone down against the table by the wall and take my shirt off. My angle allows her to see the state of me that she created with her lust—by telling me that she was up and desperate for me, craving the toy that I bought for her and that she wouldn’t use it unless I did with her at the same time. I didn’t need any details, any obscenities that I know full well she’s capable of giving me. Just her admitting to me that she needed me, trusting me enough with that intimate information made me so hard that I couldn’t contain myself. 

I watch her eyes glide down my body that isn’t good enough to be regarded like she does, stopping at the weakness she’s effectuated in my groin. And I let her, the first person who ever looked at me with such raw, undomesticated hunger. 

And I wish she would eat me up. Get on a plane, get to this hotel, to my room and take her time taking out my bones. I am for her taking—and I have been since the first time our eyes linked. 

“You’re not really helping me right now,” she croaks out, her raspy voice enveloping around my aching cock and I can say the same. Especially when she shifts entirely, rolls over to her tummy and I can see her natural face better, the carmine of her hair that veils and tickles her cleavage, enough that she flicks it behind her shoulder, letting me be the witness to her bare skin. 

Now she’s punishing me. 

“Was I supposed to help you? I thought we’re helping ourselves,” I tease, and my words pull her mouth apart, even more so when I begin to take off my belt, making sure I tug it out of my belt loops swiftly. She bites her lip, ruining me, and I want to use that leather on her. I fold it in half and point it at her. “This is what you’re getting once I see you.” 

She licks the skin she bit onto, her eyes widening, and I quiver—I quiver because she likes the idea. 

“What for?” she asks, raising her voice a little bit, and I chuckle. 

“For being so goddamn beautiful.” 

Kitty blushes and curls her lips under her teeth like I’ve noticed she so often does. I like it so much, so fucking much that I yearn for her to do it when she takes my cock into her throat for the first time. 

I know she will do a good job, swallowing every inch. 

“Where’s your toy, huh?” 

My chuckle is savage this time, vibrating in my sternum and I watch her perk up at the sound like the kitten she is. I descend into madness, willingly, hasty to jump head-first into this thing, despite my following words. 

“You just can’t wait, can you?” 

Her ‘no’ is etched all over her flushed cheeks and I crave to kiss it, run my lips all over it so they can remember it beyond this day, this month—all the way into the new year. 

“Did you pass through security with it or does the entire LAX know what a slut you are?” 

Her words spring in me, exciting me further more, and I can’t help but smile and blush, like her. I drop my gaze, fondle the leather of my belt, and I feel little sparks of muted electricity shooting down my arms. My mind outruns me, picturing the way I physically destroy her for her bratty, delicious mouth, and my smile blossoms, denting into my face. 

“Your ass is gonna be red, little one. So fucking red you won’t be able to sit down.” 

She doesn’t back away at the threat and I visibly see my own reaction reflecting in her. And it’s my mouth that parts this time when she props her phone against something, rises her chest in the air and sits down on her folded legs. And I have to hold onto the table, with the belt still caged in my grasp, when she spreads her thighs and gives me the consent to see all of her. 

Her perked, full breasts, asking for me. Her soft tummy, perfect for my hands to hold. And my own personal ruination down low, between those thighs, glistening and sopping wet. 

“Not even like this?” 

My cock aches. I let go of the belt and the clanging sound accompanies me as I unbutton my pants. “Not even like this.” 

My desire lodges at the bottom of me, pent-up and animalistic. And I take my phone, rummage in my opened suitcase for the toy, lube and head for the shower. My manliness doesn’t even move due to how hard I am. 

Hearing the sizzling noise of the blasting stream of the shower, her brows scrunch up in confusion and I enjoy her obliviousness to her punishment. 

“You’re taking a shower?” 

I’m not too sure about how loud the toy is and I’m not risking having my members eavesdropping on our intimate act with their ears pressed against the thin walls. I’m absolutely not risking shit, locking the door behind me after I leave her in the small rectangular hole in the shower and dispose myself of my underwear. 

And when I step inside and the water dribbles down my sensitive skin, ignited from my lust and hers, I discover that my plan is working out perfectly. 

She can’t see anything. 

She can’t see the lower half of my body—and she won’t be able to watch the petal-ornamented mouth of the toy swirling around my cock. 

And that’s what she gets, talking like that. 

“Get your toy ready, kitty,” I say, letting the water drench me before I get the job done. I push my hair back and I hear her gasp, the sound making me stop my movements. I look over to her, swiping the drops from my eyes, and I find her humping her hand ever so slowly. I rage, beautifully, wishing that was my hand she was gliding her pussy on until I realize that I’m the reason she slid her hand down there. But that still doesn’t mean she’s allowed to do so. “No touching or we stop.”

My heart hammers in my chest when she complies and my weakness for her increases, filling up every part of me until she’s the very owner of me. 

I swell up with pride. 

“Good girl.” 

At my praise she plunges her wet fingers into her mouth and I lose my sanity. I lose my name, my identity, and the knowledge of my whereabouts. I’m not in LA, where I don’t want to be, carrying my responsibilities and the pressure of unfairness on my back, but I’m somewhere else entirely. All by myself in a place, where she’ll soon join me. A wintry island, just for us, where I’m not an idol, where I don’t have a job that forces me away from her, but where I’m free. Free to do whatever I please. 

“Good fucking girl. Let me have a taste.” I lean my palms against the edge of the hole and I die when she reaches her shiny fingers towards me, towards the camera. I hum, the sound interwoven with my gentle laughter, and I stop myself before I lick the screen. “Thank you. So good, Kitty. Now, can you be the best girl ever and lick your toy? Make it nice and wet for your pussy?” 

Her breath trembles as she exhales, reaching over for the red rose beyond the set-up of her phone. And she rests her chest against the mattress, upthrusts her bum in the air and while she’s this close to the camera, she darts out her tongue and drags it over the silicone hole in the center, her alluring eyes fixed on me. 

My arousal oozes out of my tip, scalding hot, and I suck in a breath, fucked out. 

“Fuck, baby,” I husk, my eyelids lowering as my whole body catches on fire, and I can’t respire. I grip the edge until my fingers are bathed in white. My desire asks for more. “Spit on it for Oppa.” 

She moans and I nearly explode, my memories of her noises when I was tongue-deep in her flooding through my mind, and I can’t take any more of it. Especially not the discovery that she’s keen on titles, keen on me being the dominant one. 

My palm itches for my cock, but I won’t give in. Not yet. 

Kitty gathers her saliva and she seizes all of me when she spits on it, circling her tongue around the rim, spreading it there. And then she whines and my manliness twitches, painfully, ridding me of any sense I had left. 

“Can we start now, please?” she begs, and I’m ready to give her everything. 

I moisten my lips. “Wait for just a little while, baby. Let Oppa get his toy ready.” 

And under her gaze, I squirt the lube inside the hollowness and all over myself, sighing and tilting my head back when I scatter the liquid along my shaft. The pressure of my fist is delicate, yet it feels as though I’m levitating. I’m confident it’s owing to the fact I’m being watched by those rounded eyes of hers and that she’s observing what her psyche has done to me. 

“I want to see you,” she whimpers, and I don’t feel like punishing her any longer. 

I unclench my fist. “What pretty word do you use when you ask for something?” 

She doesn’t even think about it and my pride enlarges. “Please.”

“That’s a good fucking kitty.” 

She sits up and nearly fucks her mattress, moaning into her hand—and I know, I already know that I won’t last long under these circumstances. 

I’m so eager to give her what she wants that I don’t perceive that she's never seen this private part of me before until she gasps so fucking loudly that I startle. I’ve set her on the lower shower shelf and her mouth is wide open, the toy prepared in her hand. 

“You’re so…” she trails off, shy all of a sudden, and I might pay for her plane tickets after my shower. I’m fucking her so hard that I’ll mark every single inch of mine inside her pretty pussy. 

“Tiny,” I finish for her, and she laughs in that dopey way, even though we haven’t even started yet. 

“Will that toy even… fit you?” she asks, her pools entwined to my cock, transfixed, and I long to kiss her. Despairingly. 

I look down to my little man, to the toy and eventually to her. “I’ll make it fit.” 

Her breath hitches in her throat, pleasuring me. “If you talk like that while we do our thing, I won’t be able to hold out.” 

I hum, deeply, my endearment. “Why is that a problem?” She’s taken aback, like she always is whenever we talk, and I tilt my head towards the toy in her hand. “I want you to ride it for me.” 

She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and places the rose between her legs without taking her eyes off of mine. Ever so dangerous, ever so aphrodisiacal. “I want you to fuck it for me.” 

I groan, wrapping my fist around my shaft. “Turn it on, Kitty. Make yourself feel good.” 

She mewls long before she turns it on—and once she does, her chest arches towards me and her eyes flutter back. Her hips slowly find their rhythm as she begins to hump it, unsure at first before falling into its temptation. And then she’s loud, louder than the raging waterfall behind me, sprinkling me, and louder than me when I get to work and tug on my length. 

My noises bring her to me, but she doesn’t fix her gaze on mine—they pass down to my cock, her moans becoming needier, and she encourages me to join her. 

“Come on, Oppa, it feels so good.” 

I wade in a haze, spurred from her pleasure and now the title, unable to move my limbs. “Is it sucking on your clit?” 

She nods her head, stopping, but it brings forth more delight for her. She crumbles, her chest curving, and she saves herself from tumbling by propping her palm flat on the mattress, struggling—struggling to breathe, struggling to talk. 

“I—I’m not doing it if—if you’re not,” she stutters, her words melting into a whimper and I’m gone. 

It’s her energy, her desperation-fueled energy that pushes me to move my other limb and glide the mouth of the toy down my tip. She orders me to turn it on and I do, bending forward in the paralyzing pleasure it begins to give me. 

And it’s me who’s loud as it sucks on my head so vehemently that I, too, struggle. 

“Fuck, fuck—” I groan, lowering the toy down my length just in time for it to take the other direction, and I don’t moan any of her pet names. No, I moan out her name—and I make her come. 

My name breaks on her tongue and it is as my undoing as it is hers. I have to pull it out of me in order not to stop our playtime there, recuperating by watching her convulse while sitting on the toy as it completely traps her in the celestial realm of her orgasm. My cock twitches in the air, yearning to be inside her, and feel her walls spasm around it. I accept my death for the longevity of the bursting of her pleasure and I fall, I face-plant, drastically, for her. Deeper and deeper. 

No way back. 

“Good girl. So good. Oppa is proud of you.” 

She yelps, overstimulation grappling her, and I bite my lip so hard I break skin. She lifts her bum, quivering, and only when she catches her breath and begs me to come for her do I fuck the toy and chase down my own orgasm. 

And it doesn’t take long. Not when she topples onto the mattress and her face is what I come on while she, again, joins me, working her fingers on her clit out of my view. 

“You know I’m fucking you and not this toy,” I mutter, focusing the suction on my tip as I pound it. And when she moans my name and I hear the squelching of her hole, I throw the toy on the shelf beside my phone and use my hand to stain her face as if she were here with me, on her knees. 

My orgasm erupts and erupts, triggering hers, and we come together like this. Close, yet far away. Looking into each other’s eyes—never failing, never deteriorating, never diving into our past pains. 

Lightness blankets me and I feel as though I could fly and drift through this world without any burdens to bear on my back. Kitty looks well-spent and I suppose I reflect her all over again—and shall reflect her until my last dying day. 

I wipe my screen, my innermost craving still yet not satisfied, and I identify what it truly is. As she raises onto her knees, I lean against the shelf with my elbows and reveal it to her. 

“Let me see your pussy. Show me how wet you were for me.” 

She saw me up close, I didn’t.

It is only fair. 

She swears, enveloping her vulgarities around my name, and she obeys. Lies back down against her silky pillows and takes her phone between her legs, spreading them. She parts her wet folds with the two of her fingers and I salivate. Her clit is swollen and carmine from the intense sucking of the toy, glimmering in the faint light, her lips dripping and her hole squeezing around nothing. I wither in need, tasting blood on my lip, and when she runs all four of her fingers up her clit, I begin to heave. 

Hard, all over again. 

“Such a pretty pussy. Oppa misses it.” 

She purrs nonsense, as sleepy as she is, and the transfer back to reality is brutal. I check the time and it must be almost four AM in Seoul. I grieve the time zone between us, hoping the endeavor we shared was worth her staying up for me. 

“Good night, moon kitty. Sleep well.” 

She mumbles the same without omitting my newly deep-seated title. The three beautiful words for her form on my tongue, but I don’t say them. I save them for a better time, for the end of this tour, once I fly her to me. 

I watch her sleep for a little bit, my cock softening. Her hand is furled under her chin and I think about how she’s protecting my heart right in there. It doesn’t allow me to end the call, so I take a shower, place her on the sink when I dry myself off, on the table when I dress myself and turn my microphone off when I blow dry my hair. 

It is only when Jungkook knocks on my door and sloshes his sudden plan over me that I am forced to let her flow in her dreams without me and keep them undisturbed. 

What he tells me is my duty and I don’t hesitate to pocket my inconspicuous knife that carries too many bad memories. 

I thank him in my head that I get to wash those memories away with a different blood. 

What he tells me is this: “Come with me, hyung, we have a son of a bitch to mutilate.” 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk.

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