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honey's homecoming. 13.

mx jooheon x lilsis reader (adopted)

explicit, smut, mdni | chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

You share one last intimate morning with Jooheon before watching him leave for a world tour.

The morning heat crept in before consciousness did—a thick, humid blanket that settled over the cramped bedroom like a second skin. The fan on the nightstand whirred its mechanical complaint, oscillating left, right, left, right, pushing warm air around without offering any real relief. Dawn light filtered through the thin curtains, pale gold and hazy.

You surfaced from sleep slowly, piece by piece.

The first thing you registered was weight. An arm draped across your waist, heavy and solid. A thigh pressed between yours. Breath stirring the fine hairs at your temple. Sweat-slicked skin adhering to sweat-slicked skin where your bodies touched.

Jooheon's chest rose and fell against your back. His heartbeat thudded steady between your shoulder blades.

The second thing was the heat. Summer mornings in this house were always like this—the old air conditioner wheezing its last breath years ago, leaving only the fan to stir the stifling air. The sheets were twisted around your legs, kicked off sometime in the night. Your nightgown—a thin cotton slip that barely counted as clothing—had ridden up to your waist. His boxers were the only thing between him and nudity.

You didn't move. Didn't want to break the spell.

Because the third thing you registered was the awareness that today was the day.

Jooheon stirred behind you. His arm tightened, dragging you impossibly closer, his face pressing into the curve of your neck. His lips moved against your skin—not a kiss yet, just the shape of one, the suggestion.

"You're awake," he murmured, his voice sleep-rough and low.

"How did you know?"

"Your breathing changed." His palm spread across your stomach. "Got faster."

The heat wasn't just the morning anymore.

Your body responded to him the way it always did—instantly, instinctively. The press of his hips against your backside revealed he was already half-hard, his cock trapped between your bodies. Your thighs squeezed together, a pulse of want fluttering low in your belly.

"We should get up," you whispered, though you made no move to do so.

"Should we?"

"Mom will be in the kitchen soon. We're supposed to help with breakfast."

His mouth found the spot below your ear—the place that made your thoughts scatter like startled birds. "She won't check on us."

"Oppa—"

"Shh." His hand slid lower, fingers skimming the hem of your nightgown. "Just a little longer."

The first touch of his fingers against your inner thigh made you gasp. He traced patterns there—lazy, unhurried spirals that crept higher with each pass. Your legs parted without permission, your body making decisions your mind hadn't caught up to yet.

His cock hardened fully against your lower back. You could feel every inch of him, that thick, curved length that still amazed you every time you saw it. Remembered it. Felt it inside you.

Jooheon shifted, and suddenly you were on your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled above you. The fan oscillated away from the bed, then back, a brief reprieve of moving air before the heat settled again.

You looked up at him.

Sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes. His lips were slightly parted. His chest—sculpted from years of dance and military training—rose and fell with an intensity that had nothing to do with the heat.

"You're so beautiful," he said.

The words weren't practiced. Weren't part of some seduction routine. They fell out of him like a fact, like stating the sky was blue or the fan was loud or today was going to hurt.

Your throat tightened. "I'm a mess. I haven't even brushed my hair."

"Beautiful," he repeated, and kissed you.

The kiss was slow. Deliberate. His lips moved against yours with the patience of someone memorizing a scripture. His tongue traced your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him. The taste of sleep and last night's tea and something underneath that was just him.

His hand found the strap of your nightgown, dragging it down your shoulder. His mouth followed the path of the fabric—kissing your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the soft skin of your upper arm. The nightgown slipped further. Your nipple tightened in the open air before his mouth even reached it.

When his lips closed around the peak, you arched off the mattress with a muffled cry.

He sucked gently, then harder. His tongue flicked. His teeth grazed. His other hand palmed your other breast, thumb circling in tandem with his mouth. The dual sensation sent sparks cascading down your spine, landing in the ache between your legs.

"Jooheon oppa—" His name was a plea. For what, you weren't sure. More. Everything. One last time before the van came.

He released your nipple with a wet pop, his eyes meeting yours. "I need to taste you."

Before you could respond, he was moving down your body. His mouth left a trail of fire down your sternum, your stomach, the jut of your hipbone. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties—plain white cotton, nothing like the lace things you'd worn in Seoul—and dragged them down your legs.

The fan turned toward the bed. The brief rush of air against your exposed pussy made you shiver.

Then his mouth was on you, and the fan didn't matter anymore.

Jooheon ate you out like a man starving. His tongue flattened against your folds, licking a broad stripe from entrance to clit. He circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, then sucked it between his lips. Two fingers pressed inside you—a stretch that was familiar now but still made your breath catch—and curled upward.

Your hands fisted in the sheets. "Oh god—"

He didn't stop. His tongue worked your clit while his fingers pumped steadily, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur at the edges. The obscene wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy filled the small bedroom, competing with the whir of the fan and your high, breathless moans.

His free hand pressed down on your hip, pinning you to the mattress when you tried to buck against his face.

"Stay still," he commanded, the words vibrating against your folds.

A whimper escaped your throat.

He sucked harder. Fingered deeper. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter, pleasure building like pressure behind a dam.

Then he stopped.

"No—" you gasped. "Don't stop, please—"

But he was already moving, shifting up your body, his cock nudging against your entrance. The head pressed against your slick opening, and you both moaned at the contact. He was so thick. Even now, even after everything, the size of him made you feel impossibly full just from the head alone.

"I want to feel you," he said, his forehead dropping to yours. "I want to be inside you when you come."

"Then do it."

A single thrust.

He buried himself to the hilt in one smooth motion, and your back arched off the mattress. The stretch was exquisite—that brief moment of resistance before your body yielded, opened, welcomed him. He filled you completely. Every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat echoing through his shaft.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're still so—"

"Tight," you finished for him, a laugh hitching in your throat. "You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

He pulled back slowly, then thrust forward. The drag of him against your inner walls made you gasp. The friction was perfect—the wet slide of your arousal coating him, the way your pussy gripped and fluttered around his thickness.

His rhythm started slow. Deliberate. Each thrust was a word, a sentence, a paragraph in the conversation your bodies were having. I'm going to miss this. I'm going to miss you. I don't want to leave.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. His pubic bone ground against your clit with every stroke, and the added stimulation made your moans pitch higher.

"Harder," you begged. "Please, oppa—harder."

Something broke in him.

His control shattered, and he fucked you in earnest—deep, driving thrusts that made the headboard creak and the mattress squeak. The sounds of sex filled the room: skin against skin, wet suction, his grunts and your cries. Sweat dripped from his chest onto yours. The fan oscillated uselessly, doing nothing to cool either of you.

Your climax built like a storm. Pressure gathering. Muscles tensing. The world narrowing to the single point of his body moving inside yours.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You opened your eyes. Met his gaze.

"Come for me." His voice was rough, raw, scraped clean of everything but want. "I want to feel you."

You fell apart.

The orgasm crashed through you—pulsing, clenching, your pussy milking his cock with rhythmic contractions that made him groan. Your nails raked down his back. Your moan was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you through it, his tongue pushing past your lips in time with his thrusts.

He drove deep one last time and held there, buried to the hilt, his whole body tensing. The first pulse of his release was hot and thick, painting your inner walls. He groaned your name—not the formal version, but the intimate, shortened syllable that was reserved just for the two of you.

Pulse after pulse. Hot and thick and his.

You clung to him as he emptied himself inside you, your legs locked around his waist, your arms around his neck. Neither of you moved. Neither of you wanted to break the connection.

When the last pulse faded, he sagged against you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His breath was ragged against your neck. His cock still twitched inside you, softening but not withdrawing.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too."

He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The corner of your mouth. "I don't want to leave."

The words hung in the humid air, heavy and painful.

"I know." Your fingers traced the sweat-damp curve of his spine. "But you have to. And I'll be here when you come back."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He lifted his head, meeting your eyes. His were glossy—not with tears, not quite, but close. The vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache. This was Jooheon stripped of the idol, of the performer, of the careful image. Just a man, scared of losing what he'd found.

The fan oscillated toward the bed. The breeze brushed your overheated skin.

Down the hall, a cabinet door closed. Footsteps—soft, slippered—moving in the kitchen. The clink of a pot. The hiss of the stove.

His mother was awake.

Jooheon pressed his forehead to yours. "We should get up."

"Yeah."

Neither of you moved.

His body was still flush with yours, his weight a comfort you didn't want to lose. His release was still warm inside you, a physical reminder of the intimacy you'd shared. The sheets were a disaster. Your nightgown was twisted around your ribs. Your discarded panties lay crumpled on the floor.

He pulled out slowly, and you both winced at the loss. A thin trickle of his seed followed, cooling on your thigh.

Jooheon grabbed wet wipes from the nightstand and cleaned you gently—tender swipes that felt more intimate than the sex had been. Then he cleaned himself. Then he collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling.

The morning light had shifted from pale gold to bright yellow. Dust motes floated in the beam that cut through the gap in the curtains. The fan hummed. The kitchen sounds continued—water running, the chop of a knife against a cutting board, his mother humming a trot song under her breath.

"I used to stare at this ceiling when I was a teenager," Jooheon said quietly. "Before I debuted. Before any of this." His arm tightened around you. "I'd lie here and dream about what it would be like. The stage. The fans. The music. I never imagined this."

"Never imagined what?"

"You." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Here. With me. Like this."

Your eyes burned. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. "You're going to make me cry."

"No crying. Not yet."

"Then stop saying things like that."

A soft laugh rumbled through his chest. "Can't help it."

The cabinet closed again. His mother's voice called out something indistinct—probably asking if either of you was awake, probably wondering why the bedroom door was still shut.

"We really should get up," you said.

"I know."

Another moment passed. Then another.

Finally, Jooheon sighed and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The morning light traced the contours of his back—the muscle, the sweat, the pink lines your nails had left on his shoulder blades. You reached out and touched one of the marks, and he glanced back at you.

"Evidence," you said.

"Good." He caught your hand, brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss to your palm. "I want to take them with me."

Breakfast was a quiet affair, though not in the way mornings usually were quiet.

The kitchen table was small—a relic from Jooheon's grandmother, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and plates and spilled soup. His mother had outdone herself. Tofu stew. Grilled fish. Kimchi. Pickled vegetables. Steamed rice. More side dishes than three people could reasonably eat.

"You need to eat," she said for the fourth time, pushing the fish toward Jooheon. "Who knows what they feed you on those tours? Airplane food. Hotel food. Nothing like home cooking."

"I eat fine, Eomma."

"You've lost weight. I can tell." She clicked her tongue, already rising to fetch another container from the refrigerator. "I packed some side dishes for you. They'll last a few days if you keep them cold. And your manager needs to make sure you're eating properly. I should call him."

"Please don't call my manager."

You kept your eyes on your rice bowl, pressing your lips together to suppress a smile. The domesticity of it all—the mother fussing, the son protesting, the girl sitting quietly at the table like she'd been there forever—felt normal. Felt like any other family breakfast.

Except your stomach was in knots.

Except Jooheon's knee was pressed against yours under the table.

Except every shared glance felt loaded, weighted, heavy with everything you couldn't say in front of his mother.

"Next time you come home," his mother said, settling back into her chair with a satisfied huff, "you should bring a girlfriend."

Jooheon choked on his soup.

You froze, your chopsticks hovering halfway to your mouth.

"Don't give me that look," she continued, oblivious. "You're past marrying age, Jooheon-ah. Your father was already married at your age. I had you by thirty. If you don't start looking soon, all the good girls will be taken."

"Eomma—"

"I'm serious. There are plenty of nice girls in the neighborhood. The Park family's daughter just finished her studies. Very pretty. Very polite." She nodded firmly, as if the matter were already settled. "Next time, bring someone home. I want grandchildren before I'm too old to spoil them."

Jooheon's knee pressed harder against yours. His face was carefully neutral, but his ears had gone pink—the tell you'd learned to recognize.

"I'll think about it," he managed.

His mother beamed, satisfied, and turned her attention to your nearly-empty bowl. "You're not eating either. Here, more rice."

The thought twisted in your stomach like something alive. Bring someone home. She didn't know. She couldn't know. And even if she did—even if she somehow suspected the truth of what existed between you and her son—there was no world in which she would accept it.

You were the neighbor girl. The orphan they'd taken in out of kindness. His little sister in everything but blood.

You pushed the rice around your bowl, appetite gone.

Jooheon's hand found yours under the table. Squeezed. Held on.

he suitcases sprawled open on Jooheon's bedroom floor like open mouths, waiting to be fed.

Two massive black hardshells. A carry-on. A backpack for essentials. The wardrobe of an idol—stage outfits, casual wear, accessories, toiletries—all needing to be sorted and folded and packed with military precision.

"It's like a three-dimensional puzzle," you said, holding up two nearly identical black jackets. "I can't tell which one is which."

"The one on the left is for performances. The right is for interviews." Jooheon took them both from your hands and laid them in the suitcase with practiced efficiency. "You get used to it."

You folded a sweater—soft cashmere, the color of cream—and placed it beside the jackets. "How long did it take? To get used to it?"

"Years." He picked up a stack of jeans, rolled them tightly, tucked them into the gaps between the jackets. "After my first tour, I came home and didn't unpack for two weeks. Just lived out of the suitcase. It felt more familiar than my own room."

The confession landed somewhere in your chest, soft and sad. You thought of him in hotel rooms and airport lounges, surrounded by people but somehow alone. Living out of suitcases. Singing his heart out to faceless crowds.

Your hand closed around a shirt in the dresser drawer—a simple black tee, worn soft from countless washes. You lifted it without thinking, brought it to your face. Cedar. Vanilla. Him.

You looked up. Jooheon was watching you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Keep it," he said.

"What?"

"The shirt. Keep it." He crossed the room, his hands settling on your waist. "It looks better on you anyway."

You clutched the fabric like a lifeline. "I'll wear it to bed."

"I know you will."

You turned in his arms, pressing your face to his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear, a rhythm you wanted to memorize. Your hands fisted in the back of his shirt.

"I have something for you too," you whispered.

"Oh?"

You pulled back and reached into the drawer where you kept your sleepwear. Your fingers found the familiar lace—baby pink, delicate, the panties you'd worn to bed last night. They were still faintly warm, still carried the scent of your skin.

You held them out.

Jooheon stared at them. Then at you. His expression flickered through surprise, understanding, something deeper and hungrier.

"Put them in my coat pocket," he said, his voice rough.

You crossed to the closet where his travel coat hung—a long black wool thing he'd need for the cold European leg of the tour. Your fingers slipped the lace into the inside pocket. Hidden. A secret token only you would know about.

When you turned back, Jooheon was right there.

His hands cupped your face. His kiss was fierce and desperate—nothing like the slow, gentle kisses from the morning. This was a kiss that said I'm scared too. I don't want to go. I'll miss you every second.

You kissed him back just as hard.

The van arrived at eleven.

You saw it through the living room window—sleek, black, tinted windows. It idled at the gate with the patient menace of something official, something belonging to a world you weren't part of.

His manager texted: Here. Take your time.

Jooheon's mother bustled around the entryway, pressing containers of food into his hands, adjusting his collar, telling him to call when he landed. Her chatter filled the space where the silence would otherwise have been deafening.

"The side dishes are in the blue bag," she was saying. "Eat them within three days. And there's rice cakes in the red container. Share with the members."

"I will, Eomma."

"And don't forget to—" Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She glanced at the screen, her eyebrows rising. "Ah, it's Mrs. Park. She's probably calling about the garden." She looked between you and Jooheon, hesitating. "I should take this. Just a moment."

She stepped toward the kitchen, phone already pressed to her ear.

The moment she was gone, Jooheon pulled you into the alcove by the front door—half-hidden behind the coat rack, out of sight of the kitchen and the windows.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly you couldn't breathe.

"I'll call you," he said against your hair. "Every night."

"Even if it's just two minutes."

"Even if it's just two seconds." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His were wet. "Wait for me."

"You know I will."

His mouth crashed into yours.

The kiss was desperate. Breathless. It tasted of the morning's bittersweet reality and the tears neither of you were letting fall. You clung to him, trying to memorize the feel of his lips, the press of his body, the way he breathed your name against your mouth like a prayer.

His mother's voice drifted from the kitchen. Still on the phone. Still distracted.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too. I love you. I—"

Another kiss. Deeper. Fiercer. A kiss that was trying to say everything there wasn't time to say.

Then his mother's footsteps, returning.

They broke apart.

Jooheon grabbed his bags. His mother appeared, sliding her phone back into her pocket. "Mrs. Park wants to know if the tomatoes need more sun," she said, shaking her head. "As if I'm an expert. Now—are you sure you have everything?"

"Yes, Eomma."

"Passport? Phone charger? The side dishes?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes." He bent to kiss her cheek. "I'll be back before you know it."

She hugged him tightly, her face pressed to his shoulder. "Be safe. Eat well. Don't work too hard."

"I won't."

Then he straightened. His eyes found yours.

The look lasted only a second—but it held everything. Every morning. Every night. Every whispered promise and shared secret and breathless confession.

Then he turned and walked out the door.

You stood on the porch, his mother beside you, and watched the van pull away.

It rolled down the dusty road slowly at first, then faster. The tinted windows swallowed him whole, gave nothing back. You watched until the black shape became a dot against the green hills. You watched until the dot disappeared around the bend. You watched until there was nothing left to watch.

"Well," his mother said with a sigh, "the house will feel empty now."

You couldn't speak.

She patted your arm, a gentle, motherly gesture. "I'll be in the garden if you need me."

Her footsteps receded down the porch steps, toward the tomato plants and the wide-brimmed hat she wore when she gardened. You stayed where you were, staring at the empty road.

The summer heat pressed down. Cicadas screamed in the trees. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

Then you turned and walked back inside.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that amplifies every small sound—the creak of floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant voice of his mother singing to her tomatoes.

You stopped in the doorway of Jooheon's bedroom.

The suitcases were gone. The floor was bare except for a few stray socks that had been left behind. The bed was rumpled, the sheets still twisted from the morning. The fan still oscillated on the nightstand, doing nothing but pushing the heavy air in circles.

You crossed to the bed and lay down on his side.

The pillow still smelled like him. Cedar. Vanilla. The faint tang of his sweat from the morning. You pressed your face into it, breathing deeply, trying to trap the scent in your lungs.

The bed was vast and cold and entirely too empty.

Your hand found the black tee shirt—the one he'd told you to keep. You pulled it against your chest, curling around it like a child with a stuffed animal.

The tears came, finally. Quiet ones. The kind that slipped down your cheeks without sound, without sobbing. You let them fall.

Three months.

Maybe four.

The fan turned toward the bed. The breeze brushed your damp cheeks.

You closed your eyes and focused on the lingering scent of cedar and vanilla, and the faint, fading warmth where his body had been.