#words of radiance was just peak i dont know what to say | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeoldontknow · 3 years

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smoked peaches ↣ jhs (M)

↝ A/N: a sequel to Molotov Cocktail | because i truly could not leave these two alone ugh i love them. happy valentines day! i hope you enjoy! ↬ DISCLAIMER: absolutely, under no circumstances should alcohol or cocktails be used in a manner such as this. food play is fun only when its safe, and cocktails dont really have any place in the bedroom. furthermore, essential oils should be used safely! ↝ Pairing: Hoseok x Reader (oc; female) ↝ Genre: established relationship au; pwp; smut; romance; fluff ↝ Summary: Three years into your relationship with Hoseok, you have learned what it means to be truly happy. With him, you are seen, understood, and adored - and not once, even despite all your flaws, has Hoseok ever asked you to change. So when Hoseok starts to become withdrawn and quiet during the brief hours you have with him at night, you assume it’s down to stress at work. You never imagined it would be this, something so much bigger than any obstacle you’ve confronted before or will again. Something that will last forever. ↝ Rating: NC-17 ↝ Warnings: explicit language; explicit sex; dom!jhs; dirty talk; food play (cocktails); unprotected sex; heavy petting; dry humping; blindfolds; biting; marking; oral (f); breast play; use of sex toys; clit biting; clit spanking; creampie; overstimulation; multiple orgasms ↝ Word Count: 14.5K ↬ written for the bon appetit collab with @jamaisjoons @yoonia and @chillingkoo \\ thanks to @jenmyeons for reading parts of this and offering endless encouragement <3

‘God, I’ve missed this.’

Pulling back from your lips, Hoseok whispers his affection with unprecedented conviction, the longing in his voice so tangible your chest tightens in the wake of it.

Unwilling to open your eyes, you remain still, luxuriating in the feeling of his breath as it wanders over your cheeks. The cascade of warmth is a tickle that tugs at the corners of your lips, a smile of pleasure emerging at the feel of his closeness. Languidly, he presses his fingers into the nodes of your spine, seeking out the pressure points that always ignite colours behind your eyes, his touch alone giving birth to little fires beneath your skin. Eager and lonely, you lean up, searching for his lips, his mouth, his tongue; searching for more - so much more.

Hungrily, he returns to you, proving that he had not drifted far - not really. Bumping his nose against yours, he is playful, sinful, a paradoxical combination of both that has your grip on his neck tightening as he nips gently at your bottom lip. He’s smiling, too, a beam of delight against your lips that grows wider with the strength evident in your touch. Feather light, he drops brief, teasing kisses to your lips, not nearly enough for you to feel satisfied, and so you huff in frustration, wiggling to get closer.

Amused by your needy enthusiasm, he chuckles to himself quietly, a rumble in his chest that reminds you of thunder. This laugh is one of your favorites, the sound of a man contented by your presence - by the way your legs are draped over his thighs; by the way you have pressed yourself against his chest; by the way you are utterly, impossibly insatiable, matching his thirst equally, earnest in your desire to be encompassed by his embrace.

Slowly, you open your eyes, wanting to see him, to chastise him for separating from you so soon, but are instead left bereft. Hoseok consumes your vision, his adoring eyes, his wet lipped, unwavering smile the only thing you see - all yours, all for you, as he rubs the tip of his nose against your cheek. City lights pour through the floor to ceiling windows, illuminating the pronounced length of his cheekbone. Even this late at night, the light still seeks him, his skin, nestling beneath his pores and offering him an otherworldly glow. The unnatural shades of the billboard signs, yellow fluorescent lights of the high rise apartment buildings, and the bright neon of the game arcades blend together, ensuring that he radiates with every colour and shape of the life you have built together among the clouds.

Tonight, the billboard along the highway is a rich crimson, the persistent reminder that it is Valentine’s day flooding into the room. When you came home, Hoseok suggested leaving the blinds open, eyes full of mirth as he stated he to let the whole world in, tonight; with his arms around your waist, he said he wanted to show the world how love and romance really looks. Now, enveloped around you, you know he means it.

Tonight, he wants everyone to witness this - the possessive way his tongue explores your mouth, the unwavering grip he maintains around your waist as his hand drifts from your spine to the gaps between your ribs, and back again. Hoseok wants the world to see how years with the same person, the same body, the same routine diminishes nothing, perhaps, only causes the love within your souls to become insistent and ardent. It’s grown deeper these past few months, your yearning for him evolving into the very genetics of your DNA, a piece of your chemistry, eternally.

Hoseok left the blinds open, and still he glows not unlike the rays of sun. Beneath your hands, he is resplendent, undiminished by the artificial radiance of neon. The moon hangs in the center of the sky, not yet at the height of her arch, but she has become washed out by the luminescence of the city. Hoseok is unmarred - late at night and still he outshines the universe, the brightest thing you have ever seen.

Your hand cups his cheek, thumb running over the bone to catch the light that clings to him. It hugs him in ways it does not hug you, a part of him that remains incandescent and unexplained. You’ve never been able to understand it, spent your days kissing and kissing at it in the hopes of sharing the luminescence he radiates. It never works, though he says you glow too, a radiance brought to life because he chose to love you in spite of all your incorrigible flaws.

Walking your hand along his cheek, you tilt your head and wind your fingers into the hair just behind his ears, heart stuttering in its rhythm as he sighs in pleasure. The dimples of his cheeks almost emerge, almost bloom to life, but he keeps them as a secret, choosing instead to rest his forehead against yours in devotion.

‘I’ve missed you,’ you murmur, not wanting to interrupt the peace that has come to occupy the four walls of your living room; the bone deep comfort that has blossomed between your chests.

Separating just slightly, he leans into your touch, craving more and more of your affectionate caress. ‘You’ve been busy with the auction.’

‘Not so busy.’

Shaking your head, your pout feels petulant, youthful in its disagreement. Letting your hand slip from his hair, you wiggle deeper into the hard muscles of his chest, blinking distractedly at him as his own fingers worm their way under your shirt. Gripping the collar of his black shirt, you sigh, a flush heating your cheeks as the simplest of his touches sends electricity down your synapses. To be touched by him, to be in love with him, is to feel and love absolutely everything, your awareness heightened to its peak.

Always, you prefer him this way - hair unkempt and eyes glossy with devotion; prefer the nights when has abandoned the suit and tie of his usual work clothes in favor of his old university shirts and grey sweatpants, discarding the persona of Jung Hoseok to unravel into your Hobi. It happens less and less these days, ever caged by the success and importance of Hopeworld, his chain, his business, as much a fixture at the Fairmont Hotel as the valet parking.

When you met him, he was in a suit. When you fell in love with him, he was in a simple shirt and jeans, a smile tucked into the corner of his cheek that demanded you crave him, and now your yearning for him is relentless.

Sustaining your childish pout, you drag your hand down his chest, tracing the shape of his pecs and ribs as you let the pads of your fingers find his arm, gliding against the vines of his tattoo.

‘Sometimes,’ you mumble absentmindedly, watching the petals in his forearm disappear beneath your touch, ‘I come home and you’re not here. I’ve been busy with the auction, but it feels like I’m always missing you.’

Head tilting back against the couch, Hoseok sighs, lips downturned with regret. Still, his hold on you is unwavering, immovable, only tightening in the aftermath of your lament.

‘I’m not mad,’ you say hurriedly, earnestly, voice thick with sincerity. ‘I just miss you.’

In truth, you are not angry, not even really upset at his long absences. If you’re honest with yourself, you couldn’t be more proud of the business he’s built with his own hands, relying on nothing other than the strength of his determination to succeed. Little distracts him from his purpose, unencumbered by the opinions of anyone other than himself.

The lights of Le Bernardin seemed to dim as your father sat back in his seat, tapping the corner of his mouth with the expensive egyptian cotton napkin. Bitterness rose on your tongue, the flavor of your wine souring as you watched him posture the pretense of politeness for so long you wondered if he had even heard Hoseok’s announcement.

‘I won’t help you,’ he announced, tone empty and expressionless save for the severity of the derision that swam in his eyes.

From where you sat, you could feel the apathy, the admonishment and expectation that Hoseok would fail at opening, managing, and cultivating his own bar before he had even started. Thousands of arguments hung dangerously in the air, hovering above the table with threatening closeness. It was heavy, oppressive with reasoning and judgemental logic that he did not have a degree in business; that a mixologist was not a manager; that corporate holdings and the economic legalities that came with running a business were beyond him. It was not, you knew, that your father didn’t think he was smart enough - it was, you were certain, that he simply deemed Hoseok wasn’t worthy enough.

Your father’s stare remained icy and unforgiving as you gripped Hoseok’s thigh, nails digging into his skin through the thin fabric of his trousers as your tongue prepared to sever your father’s iron will. After years of this sort of combat, you were used to becoming venomous, used to shaping yourself into a creature of malcontent, the spitefulness of your contempt the armor you regularly wore. For so long, you had worn it like a second skin, felt most like yourself under its scathing anguish. For Hoseok, you would become monstrous, ugly; would grow fangs and claws and teeth in the glory of your wrath, but he gripped your thigh in kind reassurance and smiled as though hardly anything had happened at all.

Settling back against your seat, you scowled unforgivingly at your father’s passive expression. He cocked a tempestuous brow at you, a challenge though not necessarily a warning, which you mirrored, always so good at looking exactly like him.

‘It’s ignorant to presume someone would ask help from a person who is not willing to even offer it,’ Hoseok said patiently, amiably, so much better at different tactics of aggression.

You never had it in you to adorn the sickly sweetness of polite averice. You’d never wanted to be misunderstood.

‘Besides,’ he continued, removing his hand from your thigh to cut into his filet mignon. ‘That bar will be mine, not yours. You have a habit of claiming possession over the things you let into your life, and I’d rather burn in hell than watch you claim my name as another wasteland for your empire.’

Head whipping to look at him, your eyes went wide, suddenly so aware of all the ways in which light gives way to shadows, of the way light reveals absolutely everything. You’d grown used to the way rage gave birth to ugliness within you, but he wore his anger like a tantalizing weapon. You were moved by him, arrested into an uncharacteristic silence around your father, but Hoseok continued, magnificent in his slow reveal of his true humanity.

‘The bar will be mine,’ he pressed, glancing up from his plate and undeterred by your father’s scathing glare. ‘The money will be mine. I’m just telling you to be polite, because that’s what good sons do even if their fathers are worthless to them.’

Two years later, and the money is indeed his - the money, and the glory, and all the fame that comes with a chain centered in the lobby of the most expensive hotel conglomerate. Two years later, and he has a chain in his name, a business of his own, a life of his own making, even if it meant that there are countless, painful hours in which he is not, and cannot be, with you.

‘I know.’ His sigh is deep, a long huff of breath through his nose in shame. Staring up at the ceiling, he considers his words carefully. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been...’ For a moment, he drifts, lost in thought as he lowers his gaze to search your face, though for what you cannot be sure. His scrutiny is heated, intense, eyes roaming over your features over and over until you’re certain he could paint your likeness if asked. ‘It’s just been frightening,’ he announces, finally. ‘I’m not worried, really, it’s just the Hotel’s name is wrapped up into it, too.’

Peering at you carefully through his eyelashes, his grip on your waist tightens, and you feel him everywhere he is not. Hoseok roots inside you for answers to questions left unvoiced, reacquainting himself with all your intimate details. You are not certain what he seeks, why his apology is quite so sincere, and so you let your hand return to his cheek, smoothing all the edges out of his features.

Eyes fluttering closed, he holds your palm there, and you find yourself distracted both by the softness of his skin and the way the light illuminates the tattoo adorning his arm. Idly, you wish you could stay like this eternally - together, unencumbered, enraptured. Valentine’s Day has never been worth celebrating, not to you at least, but he is worth celebrating, and so you lean forward, kissing at his jaw to remind him of this sentiment.

‘It’s your first time with an inspection of this size.’ Your suggestion is soft, a soothing cadence you hope is evident in the lilt of your voice. Walking your hand up to his temple once more, your card your fingers through his hair, relishing the thickness of the strands, offering tenderness where your words might not. ‘Your license is on the line. Trust me, no one understands better than I do. You don’t have to apologize.’

Months of this, months of coming home to an empty bed only for Hoseok to climb in later, when the hours night drip into the morning. Government inspections are not new, but now with three bars under his belt, and all the inspections happening at the same time, he’s been distant. Not on purpose - never on purpose, but you feel his absence like a blade whenever the house, the bed, your life is empty of him.

‘Yes I do.’ Falling forward, he buries his face into your neck and breathes in deep, taking the scent of you into his lungs. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you smile at the feeling, blood warmed with rapture. ‘I hate not being home with you, but I promise it will be worth it.’

Hoseok accentuates his words by grazing his teeth against the tendon in your neck, his favorite spot to bruise. Usually, your skin is purpled by him, consistently red and aching with the marks of his teeth and tongue, but lately the visible proof of his attachment to you has faded. You’ve missed the burn of it, the stinging delight that would last for days. Latching his teeth to your skin, you shiver into his hold, pressing your fingers into the muscles of his back. The wet texture of his tongue against your skin has you shivering, a quake that starts in your bones first until even your heart is trembling with it.

‘I know it will,’ you hum, stroking his hair, unashamed of the way arousal pools at your groin.

Since dinner finished, you’ve been here, with him, kissing and kissing to reacquaint yourself with his lips. Your underwear has been damp since the first stroke of his tongue against yours, and you’re certain he’s felt you clenching around nothing, craving and anticipating the feel of him between your thighs.

‘But I hate how this one is making you so anxious and quiet.’ Slowly, you take your time guiding one of your hands to the back of his neck, nails scratching into the soft, thin hair at the base of his hairline. Holding him in place, you revel in the feel of his mouth moving against your skin, in the way his shoulders expand and retract as he breathes as if making way for wings. ‘I miss my sunshine boy.’

Hoseok chuckles against your neck, replacing his tongue with a cascade of warmth exhaled from his nose. ‘I’ll repeat that you’ve been busy, too.’

An impish smirk unfurls in your expression, and gathering the strands of hair at the crown of his head, you tug gently until he is pulled from your neck, blinking at you with an innocence you know can dissolve in an instant. His lips are swollen and wet from kissing your neck, the base of your jaw; all red and pink, smooth skin so enticing and the sight only serves to invigorate the thought that burns behind your teeth.

‘My love,’ you begin, sweely, ‘I’m sure I could regale you with the legalities of museum auctions, but I think we both can agree there is something far, far more worthy of our attention.’

The pads of your fingers trace idle patterns over the tendons in his neck, down to the base of his shoulders, around and into his ribs. Reaching between your bodies, your curious fingers seek the hardness of his erection, the evidence of his intense arousal pressing vigilantly against your thigh. Cupping the semi-hard girth of his cock, you offer a gentle stroke as you twist your hand. Darkness lives inside his groan, equal to the darkness that clouds his eyes, half lidded as he looks at you in warning.

The thin material of his fleece sweatpants does little to conceal the way the movements of your hand send blood and heat directly into his cock. Beneath your palm, it gradually hardens, straining against the cloth to be reunited with the feeling of your bare palm. You’re confident he can feel the heat that emanates from your core, your folds starting to leak with wetness each time he breathes through his parted lips. Each stroke has his exhale filling the silence, raising the hairs along your arms, his hips starting to thrust upwards into your hand.

It’s a dangerous game to play with him, a test of his control and dominance that always ends with you at the mercy of his lust. Just as quickly as it started, he presses one hand to your hip and taps your thigh with the other, an unspoken signal that he wants your thighs straddled on either side of him, your core presses against the tip of his clothed erection, your body against his, an unstoppable force of desire that succumbs to his will, only.

Quickly you adjust, releasing his cock only to replace the pressure of your hand with the pressure of your core, the heat from your folds and the dampness of your legging having you both exhale in unison.

‘Oh, fuck,’ he moans, easing your hips down roughly against the tip of his cock. ‘Come here.’

Once more, he works his hand beneath your shirt, warm palm journeying the length of your spine until it is gathered around his arm and your neck is gripped by the strength of his fingers. Cupping his face, you press your mouths together, grinding your hips downward as you run your tongue over the seam of his lips. Instantly, he opens for you, tugging at your hair in a gentle reminder he wants you to move slowly, to let yourself enjoy the feeling of being consumed by him. Hoseok is unhurried in the way he explores the cavern of your mouth, the tip of his tongue curious as he thrusts the wet muscle in time with the slow grind of his hips.

Your responding whimper echoes deep into his open mouth, and your hands move slowly down to his shoulders where you brace yourself, clinging to the parts of him that exude strength. His physical presence alone is a keen reminder you are whole and not undone at your very seams.

All sense of time disappears as you suck at his tongue, and only when he pulls away to catch his breath do you latch your teeth to his bottom lip, pulling back to you with greed. His lips still taste of the whiskey he had with dinner, whiskey and the flavor that is only him, so unique and rich, your favorite sort of honey.

The tip of his cock moves in a rhythmic motion, over and over, a slow drag against your covered slit. Every third movement, he rocks upward, pressing against your folds hard enough you gasp into his open mouth, only for him to retreat a moment later. A high pitched keening whine spills from your chest, and he laughs into you, pulling his tongue back to relish the way he has complete control of your responses. Digging your nails into his muscles, your brow furrows, doing your best to gather your words, your thoughts, amongst the insistent teasing pleasure.

Falling forward, your forehead rests against his, and with your eyes closed your senses become heightened. You can see it, imagining this very scene as though you are both completely present in your body and apart from it, watching him grind into you as your blood races to your chest, your cheeks, your cunt. The whiskey on his tongue has your mind fogged, and the graze of his cockhead against your slit has your limbs feeling weightless. He’s always been skilled at this, at rendering you needy, silent in the magnitude of your wanting. You thought pleasure was never meant to overwhelm a person like this, an addiction to sound and touch and taste that exceeds all realm of perception.

‘I’m glad we did this,’ he mumbles against your lips, using his thumbs to work bruises into the flesh of your hips.

All you can manage is a mindless nod, the motion sending your nose bumping into his as you press yourself harder against him. Smirking, he angles his face downward, kissing at the spot just below your ear. Electricity saunters down your synapses, and you thug your bottom lip between your teeth, uncertain how much longer you will be able to maintain this teasing game. You, above all else, are an impatient woman, deciding that which you crave most and claiming it for yourself.

Now, you want him. You want him to lay you on this couch and peel your clothes off with his teeth. You want him, his cock, so deep inside your cunt you can taste him on your tongue. You want him, his skin against yours, with no space for air to slip in between.

You have always been impatient, but Hoseok is a master of his self control, always more composed if not patient; always in command of his expression of thirst, and he pulls back slightly as he feels your slow wiggle of restlessness against his thighs.

‘Never thought we’d be a couple that has to make time for something like this,’ he comments, as though you have not soaked the very tip of his cock through his sweatpants, as though he cannot feel it at all.

With each rock of your hips, your underwear slides over your folds. Now coated with the slick substance of your juices, the thick juices spill out from the sides and onto your thighs. Your leggings, too, are drenched, a sensation that would otherwise be uncomfortable were it not for the way Hoseok rolls up into you in time with the movement of his tongue over your neck. Your sense of awareness has scattered, absconded to the parts of your body where only his touch exists. He is all you can focus on, all you want to focus on, the feel of him on and against you deemed the most important of all.

It takes work finding words to muster a reply, and you hate that he is so skilled at maintaining stability in his voice. You are best at sparring matches, at defending your worth and value, a tension you have become expertly accustomed to. From the moment you first kissed him, felt his tongue at the tip of yours, felt his muscles beneath your fingers, you have learned tension of this kind is your great unmaking.

Frustrated you huff through your nose, a noise of annoyance diminished immediately by a moan of ecstasy as the tip of his cockhead presses roughly against your covered clit. Scratching your nails into his skin and hoping the marks will last, you struggle to gather your composure, wanting to play his game as well as he. Yet, when you open your eyes, you are confronted with the impenetrable black of his dilated pupils - his tell - that he is just as ravenous as you. Always, he wears the light as though it was born from him, made by his joy alone, but when he wears the sheer darkness of his appetite he becomes utterly exquisite, a sinister promise of his wish to unravel you.

Swallowing thickly, you tilt your head to the side in mock consideration.

‘I think every couple is at some point,’ you muse, feigning a pensive tone as you grind roughly into his cock. Hoseok bucks upward, whispering quiet expletives as his eyes widen. Your smirk of victory is a tempest, an ignition of gasoline to the fire he keeps beneath his skin, and he holds you in place against him, preventing you from moving. ‘They just don’t talk about it.’

Hoseok hums in consideration as he moves his lips to the center of your throat, right over the place where your voice echoes. As he drags his teeth over the tendons, your head falls back, clenching your thighs around his.

‘I’ve missed you.’

He presses the words into your skin, embedding the rich tenor of his cadence directly into your blood. Your pulse quickens, directly responding to the feel of him replacing the oxygen in your vessels. Your grip on his hair tightens, tugging him upward and hoping to ease him back to your hungry mouth, wanting to kiss him again. But he pulls back, regards you through the length of his eyelashes and shifts his hips, moving the tip of his cock down towards the center of your folds. He lingers there for a moment, and you curse the clothing that separates you with a whimper of annoyance.

His hands move from your hips to the ample flesh of your ass, where he grips your cheeks with vigor and rolls your body forward. ‘I have half a mind to fuck you right on this couch.’

Eyes fluttering closed, you lick at your lips, all swollen and red, sighing in pleasure. ‘Then why don’t you.’

‘Because I have another surprise for you.’

Abruptly you open your eyes, feeling the mood shift as your arousal is put on pause. Lowering your gaze, you eye him conspicuously, pulling back enough you are not longer in the throes of his orbit. With each passing moment, the adrenaline in your veins shifts from the eroticism of your carnal longing to dazed confusion, blinking at him as you catch your breath.

Years with him and not once have either of you felt it necessary to buy gifts on Valentine’s Day. You are not a gifting couple, choosing instead to share all the little things that make up the life you have built: your time, a meal, hours in bed together, or hours alone - somewhere special or nowhere at all; a restaurant or your couch, each a persistent reminder that you have chosen one another. The small simplicities of your life and daily routine are more about your love than a gift of chocolate, a card full of words you would rather hear him say. Your commitment to him extends beyond a social media post, beyond a tagged location and the withering petals of discarded roses.

For him to suggest this, after he has already prepared a meal beside you, after you have stained the wine glasses with your lips, after you have told him, repeatedly and ardently, that you love him is a shock to your system.

‘I…’ Your voice fades, the guilt gripping your throat. A lump forms, not of woeful regret but of fear, the utter horror of ever seeing him disappointed. ‘I didn’t get you anything. I’m sorry...we said we wouldn’t. We aren’t the type?’

‘No, no,’ he shakes his head quickly, removing his hands from your ass to rub at your arms. ‘I don’t want anything. I’ve had the world since you ordered a negroni in the middle of summer.’

Cocking your head back, you laugh loudly, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. ‘I swear, one day you will move past that.’

‘Never.’ The brilliance of his smile would almost overshadow the intensity of his disagreement, but you find it a compliment, a reassurance that your idiosyncrasies are the things that endear him to you the most. ‘Most beautiful person alive to ever order a negroni.’

‘You’re just saying that cause you weren’t alive in the forties,’ you scoff, though you match his smile, always moved to delight by the sight of him.

Hoseok shakes his head. ‘Even then.’

For a long while, you simply stare at one another, luxuriating in this closeness as you remember: the night you met, the orange peel on the rim, Namjoon - who has become one of your closest, dearest friends - ordering the drink with surprise on his cheeks; Hoseok, leaning over the bar, close enough he could smell you, and both of you, drawn to one another’s orbit, lonely moons fated to collide.

‘But no,’ he sighs eventually, the weight of it changing the mood of intimacy you had cultivated. Not eradicating it, not entirely, but something about the way he looks at you has your nerves resting on edge. ‘It's not a gift. Not really. It’s a drink.’

Leaning back, you settle away from his cock and onto his lap, curious and cautious. ‘For the new menu?’

‘No.’ Once more, he shakes his head, slowly, seductively. The movement of his head, the way the hair falls into his eyes as he smiles and smiles dances over your heart, a thunder against your sternum. ‘No this one is just for you.’

‘All these years,’ you smirk, ‘and still you think you can pull me away from my negroni?’

Now, it is his turn to laugh, a hearty sound that has you moving back over his cock, victorious.

‘Baby, trust me, I’ve long since given up that fight.’ Again, he regards you, though this time you catch traces of all the thoughts that race through his head, a glint of affection matched with a glimmer of something hopeful, though you cannot imagine why he finds a drink so serious. ‘This is different. This drink comes with a set of requirements.’

Cocking an eyebrow at him, you tilt your head to the side in question, but he says nothing. Instead, he leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to your lips as he taps his hands on your thighs, a signal he wants you to get up. Swinging your leg over his thigh, you settle on the couch, folding your hands in your halp expectantly, but he does not linger beside you. Rising to a stand, Hoseok grabs both your hands and pulls you up to meet him.

‘What’s going on?’ you ask, glancing around the room, bewildered.

‘So many questions,’ he sing-songs, pressing his hands to your shoulders as he turns your body you are facing forward, away from him, and begins walking you through the living room.

Turning to look over your shoulder, you do your best to regard his expression but he lifts one hand and taps your cheek gently, wordlessly advising you to face forward. His thumbs rubs slow circles into your shoulders as he walks you to your bedroom, where he lowers his hands to your hips and pulls you against him.

Immediately, you recline into the toned muscles of his chest, resting your hands over his as you sigh in delight. Relishing the closeness, you breathe together for a moment, enjoying the silence and the air of romance he so easily rekindles. It’s always been like that with him, so simple, all your passion and all your ardor brough to the surface the moment he lays his hands on you.

It’s different in this room, where the blinds are closed, where the world is cast out. In the living room, your longing had space, room to breathe and crevices to fill. Now, it clings to your skin, cloying in the way it moves through your pores and into your lungs. Every breath you take is filled with his cologne, every exhale is an utterance of your need, a whine at the back of your throat that threatens to disrupt the quiet way you take your time savoring his attention. Still, he does not give you the opportunity to consider the room beyond these feelings, nor does he allow you to turn and face him, to regard the face you long to kiss and kiss and kiss until he is a permanent fixture in your spirit.

Easing your hair over your shoulder, making space and granting himself access to the supple skin that so often goes untouched, he kisses deftly at the back of your neck as he moves a silk blindfold over your eyes, blocking your vision. The silk cools your heated cheeks, and in this darkness the smooth texture feels almost forbidden, clandestine in the way he removes your senses and demands that you trust him, implicitly. Raising your hands to touch it, you slide your fingers over and over along the threads as he ties it securely at the back of your head.

Furrowing your brow, you cannot help the chuckle that blossoms at your sudden realization. ‘Is this one of your ties?’

Burying his nose in the crown of your head, he nods, nestling it into your hair as he breathes in deep. ‘Looks better on you, in my opinion.’

Instantly your mental image of the bedroom dissolves, fading into nothingness until your senses are overwhelmed with all things Hoseok: the rich clove and bergamot of his cologne, the rhythm of his heart as it beats against your back, his lips as he wanders down and down to the shell of your ear. Even still, you see him with your whole spirit, his smile against your skin entering your heart, taking root and filling the nodes of your lungs with visions of his euphoria.

‘I want you to strip,’ he commands, voice low and full of gravel. A growl lingers at the back of his syllables, and your mouth runs dry. ‘Get undressed and stay silent. I want you naked and waiting on the bed for me.’

Against the blindfold your eyes open, and your eyelashes struggle against their confinement, another wave of arousal dripping through your folds at the sound of his voice. You are aware of absolutely everything, all the way down to the fibers of your clothes, senses brought to attention by the implication of his words. Hoseok has adopted the tone he only uses when he means to make you kneel in worship, exerting his dominance as a show of the magnitude of his affection. So rarely does he speak to you with such power and control, your muscles tense in willing obedience.

His voice saunters through your very existence, your nipples erect and sensitive as they press against the cotton of your tee shirt bra. You hadn’t planned on wearing lingerie, haven’t needed to since your first Valentine’s together when he said it didn’t matter what you wore or how you dressed, all he wanted was you naked beneath him and anything else deterring this was viewed, in his eyes, as an obstacle. Had you known he was planning something, you’d have planned, too.

‘Be good for me,’ he whispers, nipping at your earlobe before he departs from the room entirely, your body shivering in his absence.

The seconds that pass feel like an eternity, your heart racing as you gather the strength of your senses, reigniting the muscle memory of your bedroom. All over your body, you sense the energy of things, objects, certain you are near the bed without even feeling it. Diligently, you begin to undress, hands shaking as you reach for the hem of your shirt. Careful not to shift or undo the blindfold, your slow removal of your clothing feels ceremonious, a ritual of preparation for something holy. In the darkness behind your eyes, this room becomes your sanctuary, each removal a prayer of obedience and commitment.

As you ease your leggings down your legs, the strong scent of your arousal reaches your nose, and you part your lips from the intensity. You’ve been on edge from the very moment you felt the first stirrings of Hoseok’s cock within his sweatpants, from the very moment your tongue met his. When he returns to the room, he will smell how terribly wet you have become, how much of a mess you have made of yourself just for him, because of him.

Stepping out of your leggings, you reach behind your back and undo the clasp of your bra, each touch of your own fingers sparking a new world of lust as colours bloom behind your eyes. Your hands tremble, but your heels press into the hardwood of the floor, rooting yourself within the gravity to ensure you do not drift from the force of your desire.

Discarding your bra, the air hits your breasts and you move to cover yourself, only to ball your hands into fists and return your arms to your sides. Hoseok does not like it when you hide, a habit you have learned to unmake beneath the heated intensity of his unwavering, loving gaze. With him there, you have learned not to cover yourself, but when there is only nothing, you wonder now why your first instinct is to hide, why the vulnerability of such exposure has you feeling young, unfamiliar with the significance of such eroticism.

Relying on muscle memory, you move towards the bed and perch carefully on the edge of the mattress. The air in the quiet room is wrought with unprecedented tension, your senses scattered to every surface as your hair stands on end.

Even though it’s unnecessary, even though the silk blindfold is heavy against the bridge of your nose, thick enough to block out all the light, you still keep your eyes closed. The silence of your bedroom is deafening, oppressive in its effort to intensify the eroticism of this darkness. Gnawing your bottom lip, you strain to hear just what he could be doing in the kitchen - what else there is to be done - but you hear nothing. All the quiet seems to accomplish is heightening the ever growing reverberation of his command in your mind, an echo control that haunts even the marrow of your bones.

Like always, Hoseok inspired the full totality of your obedience with just one sentence, stripping his voice of all sunshine, all warmth, rendering you naked down to your nerves; the only one to ever live inside you, so deep. Your neck still burns, right above your pulse, right where he’d kissed his words, the fire of his open mouth removing all your clothes before your shaking hands could undo the rest. The fervent laughter that always nestles in the end of his syllables, in the corner of all his smiles, was absent, and now you are left anticipating him, craving him, hoping that you will be good for him - that you will be the wick he decides to ignite.

Rolling your shoulders back, you raise your breasts and keep your posture straight, poised, hoping that he will be pleased when he sees you. You cannot remember the last time you felt so exposed, so utterly raw in your nakedness. When you came home, the apartment felt too warm, the heat raised to a limit that always makes you feel uncomfortable. Now, you are trembling within it, skin and nerves tender, forced to acknowledge the full length of your body; the supple texture of your sinew, the voluptuous curve to your breasts, the slope of your hips, the dripping folds of your sex.

In this silent loneliness, you are left to contend with the reality of yourself - to recognize all the pieces of you he adores.

Still, the anticipation of his touch, his breath, has your hands fisting in the sheets, and you laugh. He’s changed them, the fabric of the duvet softer, smoother than the thick cotton you often prefer. The texture against your skin raises gooseflesh along your arms, a shiver taking its time to walk up the length of your spine. All of this softness, all these delicate fabrics against your skin, and all they create is a cage of your longing. Too long have you been left wanting him, missing him, and now he means to entrench you in it.

Now, he demands that you experience just how badly, how desperately, he has been wanting you, too.

The bedroom door pushes open, a sound usually so innocuous, so meaningless, causing your walls to clench around nothing. Grimacing, you take in a sharp breath to apologize or comment on the messiness of this reality, but you remember that he told you to remain silent, and so you force your lips to close. The sheets will be stained by the end of the night - of this you are certain. Nothing, you’re sure, will wash away the remnants of your desire.

The further he walks into the room, you are overcome with the intense aroma of peach and cinnamon. Such delicate scents overtake the space, maximized in their power, wafting over and into you, until you’re certain you could taste it on your tongue. Hungrily you salivate, and so too does the wetness between your folds seep leisurely through your slit, as if motivated by the ghost of flavor within your mouth.

Accompanying this scent is the light clinking of glass, and your ears perk up at the first trace of noise. Hoseok remains silent, but you can distinctly make out the silver swizzle stick he uses to mix drinks gliding along the rim of a glass. Recently you’ve heard it in the late hours of morning, before dawn has the opportunity to kiss the sky. He stirs and stirs, your bed empty and your hand resting on the space where his body had been, mattress still warm. Usually, this very sound eases you back to sleep, a comforting night song that kisses your sense when he cannot.

Now, the high pitched rattle is a sting against your nerves, a call to attention and reverence.

But this too does not maintain your attention for long. There are other noises, other clattering sounds of metal, plastic, and something else you cannot quite make out that alert you to an assortment of items - a tray, a selection, and, suddenly, mist. As Hoseok approaches where you sit, a gentle, cool fog passes over your skin, and you reach your hand forward to let it slip between your fingers. It sticks to the all the minute, normally unnoticeable crevices of your skin before dissolving, a whisper of sugar and honey that settles against you as if by magic. Before you, hidden behind a blindfold, a rich meal, a just dessert, has been laid out, while Hoseok views you in kind.

Tendrils of mist add to the moisture and heat in the room, the sweetness raising the temperature against your skin as your arousal swirls expectantly in your belly. The darkness that surrounds you has your skin feeling tender, ripe muscle taught with wanting, and you lean forward, seeking the relief of Hoseok’s lips against your soft, malleable pieces.

Reaching forward through the mist, you seek the tactile solidness of his touch. ‘Hoseok?’

You cannot help the exclamation of his name, an oath of allegiance and questioning of what mystery he has brought into the room, hoping he will say your name to fill the room with his voice.

‘Ah, ah,’ he cautions, and though the commanding nature of his voice still lingers, the sound of something other than your beating heart in your ears is an extraordinary relief. ‘I said to remain silent. Only speak unless I tell you to.’

Pouting, the retraction of your hand is swift, and your fingers furl into the bed sheets as you acquiesce to his wishes.

Hoseok moves the swizzle stick through the glass, once, twice, before he hums pensively. ‘Do you know why I became a bartender?’

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you shake your head, certain that any answer you would give is not the one he is seeking. When you were new together and newly in love, you asked this question as you laid with him in bed, running your finger over his heartbeat. So much of your first start was centered around you, the war you waged with your father, your question of worth for things that chose you instead of you taking it as an act of defiance. You wanted to spend the rest of your days learning about him, learning his thoughts, his war, and his answer was a journey of money and consequence.

Over time, you’ve learned the journey was one creation, of inspiration as much as necessity.

‘Do you have a guess?’

Parting your lips, you focus on finding your voice, the stimulation surrounding the darkness so potent all your words come slowly. ‘You like making things. You like pleasure.’

‘Good,’ he praises, and you preen delightedly, offering him a wide smile full of love and pride. ‘Do you know why I became a mixologist?’

Hoseok places the tray on what you presume is the top of your dresser across from where you sit, but you both feel and hear him move to the side where places something in the nightstand at his side of the bed. You focus your attention on these movements, letting your mind come to several of its own conclusions, all wholly unrelated to his question.

Had he also stripped while he was away from you? Is the amber golden texture of his skin on display, concealed from you by a simple strip of fabric? How does his tattoo shift in this light, the blossom of the bird of paradise just as rich as the fruit that fills the room?

You imagine all of it - every color and texture and shape of his body, certain you have learned every nuance of his being down to the very bone. These thoughts entice you, but so too does the thought of another of his praises, an encouragement that has you hurriedly responding to not keep him waiting any longer.

‘Passion.’

‘Close. Similar.’ Hoseok moves to the tray on the dresser, and you strain to discern the things he touches, unable to come up with anything beyond the obvious drink he had created. ‘It’s like perfumerie,’ he explains, shifting items along the tray and stirring the drink once more. ‘I think everyone, at some point, wants to bottle the thing they find most beautiful. They want to wear it, permanently. They want the smell to wet the tongue, to inspire the possibility of skin on skin, to provoke the curiosity of more. Mixology is like that, but you don’t wear the drink, you taste it. You have to hold it in your mouth, until it becomes a part of you.’

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you wait patiently for the closeness of his body in the ensuing silence and consider his explanation. He’s always been like this, passionate to a point of burning, his drive running deeper than you can ever comprehend. Every time you come close, it has changed, his every moment of creativity sparking a more enduring affection for his craft.

Hoseok walks closer to you, but still chooses to remain just out of reach, far enough you can feel the magnetic chemistry of his closeness and your skin begins to ache. Childishly you raise one hand, reaching for him and hoping to pull him against your skin, but he does not move, only chuckles at your display of indignant neediness. Instead, he releases a slow hum of breath through his nose and taps the swizzle stick against the rim of the glass, delaying your reunion even further.

‘You’re like that,’ he continues, the rich intonation of his voice a thick syrup that molds over your skin. Placing the swizzle stick back on the tray, Hoseok inches ever closer, the pads of his feet against the floors a rhythm that incites a riot of excitement in your heart. With him, he brings more mist, more spice, more peach, all of it waftering onto your chest and mingling with the perspiration that has started to coat your sinew. A moan of thirst worms its way through your chest, a keening, tiny sound of impatient defeat.

Finally, when he is close enough the steady exhale of his breath joins the fog in tracing patterns over your sternum, your jaw, your lips; his presence, an instigation of juices that drip once more through your folds and onto the sheets. You want to say his name, want to talk, want to reach your hands out and cup his cheeks to bring his lips to yours, but with each continued speech, Hoseok sounds more and more serious, and you obediently remain quiet.

‘That is what you are,’ he repeats softly. ‘A whisper that is always on my tongue. A taste I can’t seem to quit.’

He bumps against your legs, and immediately you spread them wide, luring him into your orbit. The act separates your folds, allowing more of your thick juices to drip into the bed and changing the scent that fills the room. The mist is persistent, a tingle of pleasure that walks down your nerves, and now with Hoseok between your thighs, the warmth that radiates from his aura overtakes your senses. He’s everywhere, nowhere, a ghost that haunts your bones and spirit, and you tilt your head back, looking upwards into the nothingness, waiting for his lips.

‘I made this for you, because it is you,’ he murmurs, though the proximity of his voice is a wildfire. ‘I call this drink the Whisper Blend. It’s how you taste to me, how you make me feel. I wanted to bottle you for myself, to keep you with me, always.’

HIs hand comes to cup your chin, guiding you in a direction you imagine is perfectly poised to accept his tongue, his mouth, his soul.

‘I want you to taste yourself.’ All the gravel of his voice, arousal and seductive intent, reaches into the caverns of your heart, gripping you completely. ‘I want you to taste how you make me feel.’

Gripping the edge of the mattress tightly, you lean forward, pressing your chin into his fingers. Your nerves run haywire, electric and scattered, and you are certain that were it not for your bones your spirit would erupt absolutely everywhere to press itself against him. Hoseok takes a slow inhale, long and deep, and lowers his mouth to your lips. On instinct, you part for him, expectant and eager to experience the way he feels when that is all there is - no sight, no sound, just his touch, holding you because he can, and because he wants to.

Still, he does not kiss you - not really. Gently, he exhales, and an abundance of peach fills the cavern of your waiting mouth, the rich flavor invading the crevices until it dissolves leaving only his breath. The cocktail smoke dissipates on your tongue, a sweet residue left behind that has you humming in pleasure. Pulling back, he breathes in again, the smoke shifting around your body as it is pulled into his mouth. When he returns to you, he presses his lips to yours, this time pausing in the contact of this kiss, before he exhales once again.

Unable to help yourself, your hands come to cup his face, holding him there as you inhale, moving your lips in a slow, reverent motion. Again, the smoke dissolves into the ether, leaving just the distinct, sweet flavor of his mouth against yours. His fingers massage slow circles into the bones of your jaw and chin, his own sigh a waterfall down your open throat. When he pulls away, you suddenly feel disdainful of the tie that covers your eyes, wanting to take your time admiring him, the flush at his cheeks that you feel beneath your fingertips, the glimmer of hunger in his eyes.

The third time he returns to your lips after a full inhale of the mist, he comes to you and lets his tongue press languidly against yours amongst the smoke. You hadn’t expected the intrusion, moaning in utter satisfaction at the fulfillment of your desires. Idly, he strokes his tongue over yours as he kisses you, exploring the parts he had coated with sugar and peach. With each motion, your inner walls clench around nothing, folds slick with and sticky against the bed as your parted legs do their best to hold him in place. You’ve become utterly overcome with the intimacy of sharing breath, and sharing yourself, your heart racing to shatter the hard bone of your sternum.

Desperately, your cunt aches for this kind of attention, for the invasion of something solid and thick, stroking at the places that live deep inside of you. Focusing on the emptiness of your core, you moan dejectedly, walking your hands into his hair where you fist handfuls of the strands to deepen the kiss. This, he only allows for a moment, relinquishing his tongue only to bite at your lip before sucking eagerly at it. And all too quickly, he pulls away and guides your chin upward to carefully tilt your head.

‘Drink,’ he commands, pressing the cool glass to your swollen bottom lip.

With your eyes closed, it’s difficult to drink and anticipate the flood of liquid, but Hoseok maintains complete control, sustaining a slow flow of the cocktail into your waiting mouth. On impact with your tongue, colours blossom behind your eyes - rich crimson of cinnamon, pale yellow, purple for the floral of lavender, and clear white for the sharp bite of vodka that lingers after the sweetness fades.

Hoseok has bottled a dessert, a warm summer that bleeds into the first chill of autumn. In a single glass, he has contained an aroma of life itself, a richness full of crisp dreams that refuse to fade over time, zeal and ardor, passion in a glass that overwhelms the difference between life and living. He said this was you, your taste, and you choke slightly on the drink as emotion wells in your chest, the action causing some of the cocktail to spill out from the corners of your lips, down your jaw as it drips onto your chest and breasts.

Immediately, he pulls the glass away, and you catch your breath only for it to be swiftly taken away. Placing open mouthed kisses across your chest, he laps up the stray remnants of the cocktail, using the tip of his tongue to lave your skin clean. Your hands tremble where they hold his head, breath coming short and heavy in your lungs as he moves down, and down to the top of your breasts. He wastes no time in biting delicately at the supple flesh, leaving a mark against your body for only you both to see.

Releasing his hand from your chin, his touch vanishes for just a moment before he swipes two fingers over your nipple, digits drenched with the cocktail. Swirling them over the sensitive, hardened bud, your body reacts instantly, invigorated by the sudden overwhelm of contact. Bucking your hips against the bed, you urge him for more, wanting his mouth where his fingers rest. Sensing your impatience, he drags his tongue down to the swollen bud and flicks it with the tip before rolling it between his teeth.

‘Lay back for me,’ he commands, pulling away from your breast, and this time you smirk. His voice is a rasp of taught strain, the edges of his control beginning to fray. ‘Lay back and spread yourself.’

Without any hesitation, you obey, releasing your grip on his hair to press your palms into the mattress, pushing yourself back and back until the thick cushion of the pillows presses into the base of your spine. Spreading your legs wide, wider than you could before and wide enough you are confident he can see the way your slit glistens with slick, you rest your head against the headboard and lower two fingers to your core. Knitting your brow, the contact with your neglected folds as you gasping in relief, the pads of your fingers gathering all the juices that have gathered, smeared over your thighs, and still leaking from your center. Quickly, they become coated, this likely the wettest you've ever been simply from his endless teasing. Taking two fingers, you rub them over your slit before parting your folds, forming your fingers into a wide ‘V.’ Clenching your inner walls, more juices drip from your core, down your ass and into the sheets, forming a new stain for you both to admire.

As you expected, the sight of your spread cunt has Hoseok growling, and you feel the mattress dip beneath his weight as he joins you on the bed. Somehow, you sense that he crawls to you, a hunter on the prowl, and you imagine how he looks now based on the all the times you have seen him like this before.

With your insides still warmed from the cocktail, your skin begins to flare with heat, demanding the feel of his hands against your for fear of your bones coming undone. You can feel him between your thighs, the ripples of magnetic waves of his closeness sauntering through your muscles. So too does his breath tickle the supple sinew at the inside of your thighs, a cascade that seems to travel along your nerves and directly into your opened core. The texture of your fingers at the swollen flesh of your cunt is a tantalizing sensation, though it does not provide the relief you seek.

This stretch is a display of your wanting, but it is not nearly enough to satisfy the ache that lurks in your belly, your core, all the way to the barrier of your cervix. Any other night, and you would demand he fill you completely, but even now you are uncertain you could gather enough strength to be so demanding.

Impishly, Hoseok takes hold of your knee and bites at the inside of your thigh, so close to where you want him most, yet far enough you cry out in shock and frustration. Hands fisting in the sheets at the sensation of his teeth grazing over your skin, a feeling that travels all over your body, as though his teeth are everywhere all at once, your back arches off the bed, presenting your breasts to the open air. His name builds at the back of your throat, the only word you think you could manage, a short set of syllables full to the brim with your primal yearning.

As if sensing your will to speak, always so aware and in tune with your needs and the responses he pulls from your body, Hoseok smiles against your skin, kissing and kissing.

‘It’s okay.’ Your muscles clench, feeling his voice trickle into the marrow of your bones. He kisses his words into the apex of your thigh before running his nose up to your center, where he rests the tip at your parted folds. ‘Say my name.’

‘Hoseok,’ you exclaim, pressing your spine into the bed to shift your parted lips closer to his mouth.

‘Fuck,’ he curses, releasing your thigh and pulling away. He shifts on the bed, reaching for something he unscrews not far from the bed. ‘My name sounds best coming from you.’

Rubbing his hands together, he returns to his position between your thighs, the blindfold preventing you from watching him. This is your favorite sight: him, between your legs, a hungry beast who regards you with his heart first. He looks good between your legs, even better with his lips covered in your juices, and so you wiggle your hips impatiently, running your fingers over your slit before pressing them inside, taunting him.

‘I told you to be a good girl,’ he threatens darkly, pushing your hand away with his wrist. Settling between your legs, Hoseok finally holds your hips, fingers coated with an oil that sends a shiver down your spine. Through the aroma of peach and cinnamon, mint begins to blossom, clearing the air and sending tingles of excitement over your nerves, a winter on the brink of your bedroom’s autumn.

‘Peppermint oil,’ he explains, rubbing his fingers into your muscles in a slow massage. Yet, there is no relaxation to be found. Lowering himself to your folds, he places a wet, open mouthed kiss at your slit, letting the tip of his tongue press at the seam of your drenched core before retreating. Crying out, you roll your hips forward, bucking up to seek his tongue once more. ‘I want you to tremble in it, the warmth and the chill. Do you know how often you unmake me? I want you to feel it.’

Again, he lowers his lips to your folds, stroking his tongue through your slit and against the sensitive walls of your core. A strangled cry rumbles through your throat, a moan of ecstasy at something thick and solid penetrating your core. Unfurling your hand from the sheets, you reach down and rest your hand at his head, intending to hold him there so you can rock your hips against his mouth, but he retreats immediately, clicking his tongue in derision.

‘Are you trying to take control, baby?’ he sneers, his hold on your hips tightening as he rubs the oil deeply into your skin. ‘I know how much you hate to give it up, but tonight your job is to receive.’ You feel his eyes wander over your wanton form, studying the voluptuous curve of your breast, the part of your lips, the perspiration that has gathered at your neck and beneath your breasts. ‘You can touch me,’ he amends softly, ‘but no pressure. Just touch. I’m the one who dictates how hard and how fast tonight.’

With that, he returns his tongue to your slit, curling it inward to collect the juices that have gathered at your core. Returning your hand to his head, you card your fingers through his hair as your cry of ecstasy fills the room. Unable to keep yourself still, you roll your hips forward, into the stroke of his tongue to urge him deeper, and he growls, the vibration of his voice careening through your joints.

‘Oh, fuck, Hoseok,’ you whimper.

He sets a steady rhythm with his tongue, plunging your folds with a vigor that feels almost brutal. Having no real contact to your cunt for so long, wanting him for so long, and no longer being able to see him, you cannot remember the last time the feel of his tongue inside you was such an intense sensation. Warm and wet, the muscle explores your core, your walls clenching around it as a new wave of juices leaks from your cunt into his waiting mouth. It soaks the flesh of your ass, his lips, the bed. Over and over, he pushes his tongue into your cunt with unfettered ardor, thrusting ever deeper with piercing intensity, doing his best to collect every drop while simultaneously stroking every nerve that comprises your walls.

Tension builds in your muscles, thighs taught with the magnitude of your arousal as you drag one foot over his ribs, over the smooth muscles of his back. In silent praise, Hoseok removes a hand from your hip and walks it up your side to cup your breast. The oil at his fingers chills the swollen nub of your nipple, and you clench once more against his tongue, quivering with fervor. Between the knuckles of two fingers, he clinches your nipple, the slight pain of oversensitivity combatting the unbridled pleasure at your core so harshly you moan out his name, feeling tears beginning to prick at the corner of your eyes.

Pulling his tongue from your folds, he moves it to your clit and begins the same attention, flicking it with his tongue. Shuddering, you fist one hand in your hair as your other clings to his for some semblance of sanity. But your Hoseok is always relentless in the way he delivers pleasure, in the way he chooses to pleasure you, and the remaining hand at your thigh drifts away for just one moment. The pressure does not leave the bed, and so you know he has not gone far, but against the blindfold your eyes widen into darkness at the sudden click of a vibrator.

Brows raising to your hairline, your breath catches. ‘Ho-Hoseok?’

Wordlessly, he simply rolls his tongue over your clit in time with the way his knuckles massage at your nipple. You hear the sound of the vibrator inching closer until, all at once, it is pressed to the barrier of your slit as he sucks harshly on your clit, nipping at it gently. The tremors from the toy ripple up into your thighs, juices spilling out from your slit as your arousal courses through the totality of your existence. You suppose you have always been in this state, have always been trapped in such a volatile state of craving, your spine pressing into the mattress to ground yourself to reality.

Without any warning at all, Hoseok sucks deftly at your clit once again as he presses the head of the vibrator through your slit. Your walls part around the toy, its vibrations cascading even into your bones, and you clench around it, hoping to lure it deep inside of you. Biting your tongue, you keep yourself silent, wanting to say more than his name, more than just a few curses. Pleas for him to fuck you ruthlessly live and smolder to ash against your teeth, an impenetrable barrier of obedience you are unwilling to break.

Palming your breast with the whole of his hand, he massages the oil into your skin, another shiver of frost against the bruising summer of your flesh that has you groaning. As you grind down against the toy, he proceeds to trace figure eights with the tip of his tongue against the hardened bud of your clit, thrusting the toy all the way into your cunt. The thick girth of the toy and the vibrations now filling the whole of your core have you releasing a scream of surprise, back arching off the bed once more as though preparing to sprout wings.

Hoseok fucks the vibrator into your relentlessly, almost ruthless in the pace he maintains in time with the motions of his tongue and the hand at your breast. Your orgasm builds just as mercilessly, a tightening coil at the base of your spine that turns your muscles to steel. Juices spill over from your foils, the damp patch of sheets beneath your waist soaked, and you’re certain he must be soaked as well, the mental image of it inspiring a choked gasp within your lungs.

He knows you like it this way, intense, unforgiving, each thrust bordering on painful to ensure that you will feel the ache deep within for days. Long after he is gone, you want to resonate with him, haunted by the ghost of his seductive prowess, unable to liberate yourself from his clutches. With each inward thrust of the vibrator, your walls clench, hoping to hold it in place as the whisper of your orgasm builds within your muscles. The heat is almost oppressive, your breath a heavy fire in your lungs, tongue slick with the embers of each howl of pleasure you have worked to contain.

The vibrator is not set to a very high level, this toy one of your shared favorites. You have grown familiar with the sound and the shape and the feeling, but somehow no longer seeing the toy or seeing Hoseok as he uses it has every aspect of it feeling new, foreign, the level of this toy infinitely stronger than any other you might own. And, paired with Hoseok’s skilled mouth, you doubt anything could ever compare again.

The curl of your fingers into his hair is a give away, the muscles of your arm sore with the effort of not pressing him harder, deeper against you, and your hand quakes with the effort of remaining the pretense of passivity. Instead, you direct this motion into the roll of your hips, meeting the toy thrust for thrust as you rock against his open mouth, fucking both the toy and his tongue as he suck s your clit. Sensing your impending orgasm, Hoseok growls, the rumble joining the vibrator within your walls.

‘Oh,’ you cry, soft enough you think it might be missed over the sound of his wet sucking and the thrum of the toy. But still this exclamation is a betrayal, and you are swiftly proven incorrect.

Releasing his lips from your clit, he rests his head against your bent thigh and breathes heavily. ‘Are you looking to cum?’

Unable to speak, you nod furiously against the pillow, the swell of your impending climax lurking just at the edge of your perception. Yet, he is dissatisfied with your silence, and abruptly turns the vibrator up to another level. The sudden increase in intensity sends a quake through your thighs, your hand releasing his hair as you slap the bed, groaning in response.

‘Talk to me,’ he urges, gentle yet still maintaining his tone of authority. ‘Use that pretty mouth of yours.’

‘Please, let me cum,’ you cry, caught in a battle of holding yourself back, panting into the open air and unashamed of how depraved you might look. ‘I need to cum.’

‘You know this is all for you, baby.’ Moving off your thigh, you feel his breath return to the wetness of your core, each exhale from his nose cooling the drenched spit and slick at your clit and slit. ‘Make sure to leave some for me though.’

Offering a rough flick of his tongue to your clit, he sucks at the bud and thrusts the vibrator into your cunt, turning up the notch one more time. The blunt head of the toy brushes against your spot, pulling a choked moan from your chest in surprise. Eyes wide, yet empty, you peer at the expanse of black in a daze, mouth opened in a silent scream. Your orgasm comes swiftly, violently, shattering all resolve you had managed to maintain. Rivulets of your juices spill from your cunt, and Hoseok’s lips suck diligently at your clit, occasionally letting his tongue drift downward to join the toy at collecting the traces of your cum.

In the aftermath, you convulse into the bed, and Hoseok pulls the toy from your core. Crawling up the bed, lays his body over you and finally you can feel that he, too, has been naked this whole time. Skin against skin, he holds you against him, rubbing his hands over your ribs as you quake with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Limbs feeling boneless, heavy, you wrap your arms around his back and cling to him, tears drying against your cheeks.

The head of his cock lingers at your entrance, threatening to breath through your sensitive folds. Burying his face in your neck, he breathes against you, tossing the toy to the other side of the bed.

‘I need you inside me,’ you announce, driven to a brink of insanity in the throes of your climax. Forgetting the rule to remain silent, you toss it aside, damning it, needing the girth of his cock bearing down at your cervix.

‘Did I ask you to speak?’ he rasps into the tendons of your neck, where he bites.

‘No,’ you manage, ‘but I’m going to.’

Removing a hand from your side, he burrows his hand between your bodies and slaps at your clit. The sudden pain against your swollen, sensitive nub has you calling out his name. The sensation of your tenderness wanders all the way up into your throat, your lungs reverberating with the harshness of his slap.

‘You want me to fuck you?’ His words come with an impish smile, followed swiftly by a bite to your pulse that has your hips bucking up against his cock.

The head of his cock protrudes deeper through your folds, but he pulls back and once more slaps your clit, a tap to the nub that has you groaning.

‘Please,’ you whimper. ‘I can tell you want it, too.’

Gliding your hands down the expanse of his back, you palm the cheeks of his ass with your full fist, guiding him closer in the hopes of pressing him inside. Hoseok releases an expletive against the beat of your pulse, the flow of your blood rushing to his lips, hoping to be kissed. The feel of his teeth grazing over the thunder of your pulse has your legs widening to ease him deeper, muscles straining at their limit. Kissing down your neck to your breast, he sucks the erect nipple of your opposite breast into his mouth as the engorged head of his cock sinks deeper into your core.

‘Just fuck me already.’

Pushing down on his ass, you force him all the way into your cunt, pressing his head right against your cervix. His concentration snaps, his eyelashes grazing your skin as he squeezes them shut, shuddering against your hips and thighs. Feeling victorious, you smirk into the darkness, clenching your walls around his cock. Moaning your name, he rolls his hips forward in warning. Hoseok’s moan is an avalanche against your skin, an earthquake of violence that rumbles into your lungs.

‘Don’t do that,’ he threatens. ‘I won’t last.’

Taking back control, you clench your walls again and meet the roll of his hips with yours, taking him deeper. ‘That’s the point.’

Bunching the sheets in his fist, Hoseok sets a punishing rhythm, thrusting abruptly against your cervix and ensuring your walls feel the veiny texture of him drag against the sensitive nerves. Unable to speak, you simply breathe together, sharing breath and sharing life, hoping that the smell of him remains on your skin for all eternity. Every thrust has your thighs shaking, the heavy sack of his balls slapping against your ass. The sound of it joins the moans you release with every press of his cock into your spot, your voice loud and unashamed. You don’t care who hears you, don’t care who you wake, you ensure the celebration of your voice rolls off his skin and into his heart with each gasp of his name.

Hoseok moans in harmony with you, garbled and broken, as the vice grip of your walls clench his heavy cock. Pleasure ripples within and through you, spreading all the way from your core to the crown of your head, all your senses heightened. No trace of light penetrates the blindfold, and so your mind wanders to every fibre and sense of your body, aware of every texture of his cock, every press of his fingers into your skin, every burn of oxygen in the vessels of your blood.

The wet sounds of your fucking only serve to reinvigorate the traces of your orgasm. It becomes impossible to focus on anything other than this - the rough pound of his hips against yours and the stretch of your walls around his heavy girth. The brutal pace of his hips sends the bed frame into the wall with each inward thrust, and you relish the pain that comes with his unrelenting force.

‘Fuck, Hoseok,’ you cry out, digging your nails into strong flesh of his ass. You press crescent moons into the supple skin, leaving your mark against the sun.

The perspiration that gathered at your hairline grows into beads of sweat, the exertion of meeting his pace causing your body to melt beneath his warmth. Hoseok pants his gasps into your skin, an added wetness as his saliva trickles from his open mouth and down your neck and chest. The liminal space of this fucking nearly unravels you, so used to the feel of his cock buried inside you while certain you have never experienced the totality of it quite this way. In the darkness, there is only this lust, only this passion, and the very weight of it consumes you from the inside, building your orgasm to new heights.

Hoseok fucks you open, ensuring that no one will ever have you again - as if you would ever let them. Each brush of his cockhead against your cervix is a declaration of possession, a promise of an eternity with his marks against your skin and bones, and behind the blindfold you see your whole life stretch out before him from this moment up until the very last, when your atoms are scattered in their search for his. Reality beyond the border of your body dissolves, your universe beginning and ending where his hips meet yours, and the immensity of the love and lust you harbor for him nestles your impending climax directly at the center of your core.

Thighs shaking, you clench around him again in warning. But as deeply as you know Hoseok, know the nuance and details of his very existence, he knows you too. Releasing his hand from the sheets, he scratches at your ribs before moving it between your joined bodies, using the blunt edge of his knuckle to massage your clit once more. Still raw and tender from your first orgasm, the contact sends a jolt of pain through your nerves, a yelp of shock bleeding into a cry. Your grip tightens on his ass, and your thighs close tightly around his sides, latching him in place.

‘Let go of control,’ he says, pulling away from your neck to kiss at your lips with every word he speaks. ‘You’re close, I can feel it in the way you’re shaking.’

Certain that your reality is crumbling, your hands move from his ass to the middle of his back, clutching him as your whines increase in pitch and frequency. You feel yourself become dizzy, the scent of him, the scent of peach, the scent of mint, the scent of vodka all over your skin and all over him has your mind fogged with little other than the intense stimulation he provides.

‘I’m gonna cum,’ you whisper, surprised by the sound of your own voice.

Your orgasm threatens to unmake your very existence, a silent revolution inside the marrow of your bones, and you fight it back just long enough to obey any of his possible commands. But still, it keeps you burning at the edge, a flame only the stroke of his cock against your cervix could coax into an inferno.

Pressing his knuckle deep into your clit, Hoseok urges you to cum without words, without encouragement or instigation from his authoritative tone, easing his tongue into your mouth. Stroking at the muscle, he swallows the scream of your orgasm as your release undoes your sense of reality. The world behind the blindfold erupts, a kaleidoscope of colour brought to life by the swirl of his hand against your clit and the piercing thrust he delivers to the barrier of your cervix, demanding entry to your womb. You want him there, want him inside you always, and you clench around him tightly as your orgasm overtakes your muscles. Your body is an earthquake caged in his arms.

You, a perfume and a drink, a war and a victory, an earthquake and a hurricane, every season belonging to him alone.

As you come down from your high, Hoseok only increases the pace of his thrusts, somehow gaining strength at the feel of your juices dripping around his cock. The stimulation stings, and he pulls his tongue from your mouth to let you both catch your breath, your whimpers of pain an echo of the intensity of his cock stretching your walls. The bulbous head of his cock is unforgiving, picking up speed as he breathes against your cheeks. Still, you can feel his own limbs begin to shake, and you attempt to soothe his tremors with tender massages of your fingers into the wings of his shoulders.

Grunting with exertion, Hoseok becomes speechless as he chases his high, and the tingling pain that once lived at your core soon gives way to another orgasm within your belly. How starved have you been for him? How long have you wanted him? It does not matter, you think, the removal of distractions and the urge to focus only on him has your body pouring its lust into the feel of his cock at the entrance of your womb. Whining, you cling to him once more, joints taught in preparation for another, sudden orgasm.

The feel of your walls gripping him so tightly causes his hips to stutter, and the incoordination of his impending climax overtakes the power of his movements. With your own orgasm readying in the base of your spine once more, you hold onto him tightly and roll up into his hips yet again, matching him thrust for thrust.

Only three strokes more and you both come undone, the searing heat of Hoseoks’s cum filling your core as his body shudders in your arms.

‘Fuck, shit,’ he moans, burying his face into your neck as he thrusts each spurt of cum into your cunt.

Wetness greets your cheeks, the tears from your eyes flowing freely, a surprise and a shock without any vision for them to blur. Together, you breathe in unison, riding the aftershocks of your orgasms until the walls of your cunt burn with the force of your clenching. He collapses against you, breathing heavily as your hand comes to stroke absentmindedly at his core. Every now and then, your walls clench, his cock presses deeper, his cum dripping from your walls to greet the mess you've made of the sheets.

Time presses on, the world continues to turn, but behind your blindfold the universe is on pause, suspended in only this moment in which you are holding him, he is inside you - softening, but still yours - and there are no gaps between your bones for air to move between. Idly, you suppose this is the paradise many so often speak - an empty mind, a comfort in your limbs that comes only with immense peace, a contentment to your heart that says you are both seen and safe, with no difference to be found between the two.

Eventually, Hoseok removes his hand from your core, easing it up to the blindfold. You smell the traces of your juices on his fingers, and you part your lips, readying to taste yourself as he so often commands you to do. But he bypasses your mouth for the bone of your cheek, where he toys with the edge of the fold. Easing it away from your eyes, he pushes it back to the crown of your head, and you blink rapidly, readjusting to the world. Immediately, you lower your gaze to his face where he rests at your side.

In unison, you smile at one another, everything looking precisely the same, yet wholly, irrevocably, different.

‘Hello,’ he whispers, the intimacy of his quiet greeting causing your chest to swell.

Bringing your hand to his cheek, you trace his brow with your thumb, smiling deliriously. ‘I missed you.’

This time, there is a difference to this missing, and he chuckles quietly at your joke. You luxuriate in the act of admiring him, taking in the depth of his features. Redness lives beneath his cheeks, a glistening sheen to his skin of perspiration; his hair has been mussed several times over by the fore of your hand and never, not once in the time you have known him, has he ever been so beautiful. Glancing down further, you regard his arm where it drapes over your waist, the tattoo that bleeds up his muscles and over into his back.

All night you have pressed your fingers into the bird of paradise painted on his skin, but it was not what you saw or envisioned at all. It crosses your mind that perhaps what you envisioned was his spirit, the very essence of his soul - scatterings colours and energy that are both formless and yours.

Almost too soon, he looks away from you, turning to face to the right at the end table. With your vision obscured by the crown of his head, you cannot see what exactly he reaches for, and so you continue to admire the mess of his hair with a small chuckle. He takes his time gathering the item, grasping it tightly in his hand before turning to face you. Slowly, he eases his softening cock from your core, repositioning himself on the bed to linger at your side, legs sprawled carelessly over yours.

‘I don’t have a speech planned,’ he begins, suddenly sounding terribly disappointed.

Furrowing your brow in worry, you regard him with confusion, cocking your head to the side patiently.

Hoseok raises his eyes to yours, his irises glassy with emotion. ‘We’re not the type, are we?’

Still uncertain what he means, you shrug in reassurance. ‘We’re not the type for a lot of things,’ you suggest, and he nods, seeming distant.

Moving his hand into your view, he reveals a small black box. Breath halting in your lungs, you regard it for a long moment, suddenly aware all over again of the weight that encapsulates the room. Using his thumb, he flicks it open, revealing a rich sapphire ring, dotted on either side with sparkling diamonds.

‘Will you marry me?’ he asks, looking at you with an intensity you’re certain could rival the sun.

He must expect you to be shocked, must expect you to have to gather your words, because your immediate, resounding yes, has him blinking wildly, in the same rapid fashion as when you were finally allowed to see again.

‘Yes,’ you repeat, sliding back against the bed to sit up. ‘Yes, yes.’

You don’t really think there’s anything else to say, not really. If the universe of your love could be contained in three simple letters, you would give them to him over and over again, until only they comprised your language, your alphabet.

Wasting no time, he pulls the ring from the box and slides it over your finger, taking his time to let his fingers stroke over your skin.

‘Mine,’ he mumbles to himself.

The word takes you all the back to the first time you slept with him, to a day when you had been burning with torment, wet from the rain and wet with a passion for a world you wanted to claim. That day, he asked you to be his, and you said yes, an echo of this moment in which you somehow knew it was the only choice to make. Your past self and yourself in this moment are one and the same, time becoming a construct that is meaningless when it comes to him.

‘I told you the first time I was,’ you tease.

‘I know,’ he says, leaning up to kiss deftly your jaw. ‘I just wanted to join you in the war.’

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