#luna stone series

[aspenlovesmedia]

The teacher cast of Luna’s story are great I love them so much. They are all chaotic in their own way and it’s so funny.

Like you have Warren who’s the closest thing Luna has to a dad and he acts like it, then you have Bell who is just a lovely woman with a brown bear familiar which also helps her with her mobility (she’s an ambulatory wheelchair user) and then there’s Reid who is a 22 year old emo guy with a magpie familiar who takes his job way too seriously.

Reid’s my favourite. He’s dedicated to his aesthetic but is also just a very tired nerd.

[hpseeker99]

Hermione: And that's the plan! Hermione: Now let's see who was paying attention. *Kahoot music starts*

[arodykeism]

time to make your choice only you can be the one

[srchiiz]

my cover redraw for a collab we did over on twitter for dcst's 7th anniversary!!

[crescentlyautumn]

Ok, I know the show just started, but if I may:

Astrophotographer/photographer Sun

Astronomer Ongsa

Astronaut Aylin

Musician Luna

[360degreesasthecrowflies]

(Perhaps controversial) theories on Harry Potter first drafts/story structure

I've been reading some more old Harry Potter meta (critique) (damn I miss those LiveJournal esque communities) and after some of the theories I've read I'm now 90% sure that Deathly Hallows was actually the third, or maybe even second book that Joanne started writing.

I love deconstruction and I am a writer, so this kind of thing interests me on a personal level as a high-profile reference that a lot of people might be familiar with, even as generally I have strong critiques for Joanne both as a person, and as what I consider to be something of an impostor in the fantasy genre, as a writer who both openly (at the start of her career) disavowed fantasy classics as beneath her, claimed not to be writing fantasy, and in my opinion, heavily plagiarised works of other authors within the genre and then played ignorant when called out on it by people who by that point had less power and industry clout than she did.

This is going to be critical of JKR, so for those not interested in that, maybe don't read on below the cut. It's not my intention to make anyone feel negative about something that's special or sacred to them.

Some members of the LJ community noted that Deathly Hallows (DH) has many, many recurring references and callbacks to the first book, Philosopher's Stone (PS), with certain characters even seeming to regress to those versions of them in terms of their behaviors, motivations, and what they centrally held as important.

After considering it again I've also come to the conclusion that that's one aspect that throws so many readers off DH as a conclusion to the series, a series that has 'grown up with' the reader and consciously shifted from children's lit to YA; and from a series of fantasy holiday movies helmed by Chris Columbus to a fantasy adventure series with gruesome monsters and wands becoming essentially the ranged weapon variant of lightsabers or the conduit for MCU-esque superhero abilities... that in terms of the writing, the morals, and the overarching themes, actually DH goes backward in that regard to the Roald Dahl-inspired simple morality of the first book where violence was cartoonish, monsters were existential rather than grounded, and Harry and friends were essentially young children trying their best to solve a mystery; rather than the adults the world has contextually by now established them to be.

Joanne has boasted that she had written the Epilogue very early on. What if she had in fact written out a lot of DH very early on?

She knew the books were going to cover (at least) seven school years. I think she decided after the first one, she would write (most of) the end of the series, and then if she needed to, she could write more than 5 other books in between.

DH takes place when Harry isn't in school. But nothing about the story means it has to take place when Harry should be in school.

Thematic and character-based parallels-wise, it might have actually made a lot of sense for Harry to be the same age that his parents were when they passed away, in Deathly Hallows, to make the walk through to the forest with his parents' ghosts, back the same age as they were when he first saw them in the Mirror of Erised more of an exact parallel tearjerker.

And a lot of the criticisms that DH faces - "why didn't we see inside Hogwarts during Snape's regime, and what happened to Neville, Luna and Ginny and the rest of the kids in Harry's year?" - would be nixed if this story was never meant to take place in Harry's final school year.

I suspect that what happened at some point during the height of her fame and blowup is that Joanne realised that a) she was so successful already she wouldn't have to write as many books as she had originally planned; especially because b) movies were now also in the works or being released, and the actors would only be believable as teenagers for a certain duration, but this led to c) now she had a smaller total possible number of books in which to fit all of her vague ideas of where the story would end up going and what the big setpieces were planned to be. (Hence the lengths started to balloon)

I might end up writing a part 2 to this because (ironically) I don't want to make this post so long, but as a starting point I would theorize her original outline may have gone something like the following:

Book 1, Harry Potter and the Philsopher's Stone. Establishes our characters and the main setpieces; Harry Potter, Ron-and-Hermione (who essentially function as a two-headed sidekick machine), Snape, Dumbledore, Voldemort, James-and-Lily-Potter

X number of books, as-yet undefined, at least one per school year, but potentially many more, like most contemporaries to her went in to their careers expecting to write, that expand on the young characters' relationships in small ways, with Draco Malfoy, his foil friends to HRH, and his family, as minor antagonists to drag out the series as long as possible - and never intended as more than that, while Dumbledore and Snape bubble away in the background

Harry's final year of school, in which Dumbledore is killed by Snape in front of Harry at the climax of the year, is buried in the school grounds, and Snape ascends to the Headmaster role

Only then at some point, Voldemort is resurrected and takes pride of place as the main villain, pushing Snape down into the secondary villain/antihero role

The final book in which Harry returns to Hogwarts a la Lord of the Rings/The Empire Strikes back, too late to have a confrontation with Snape (a classic tragic beat) and instead has his showdown with Voldemort, finishing his parents' legacy and completing what they themselves could not do.

I genuinely believe that all of the following were late additions to the story that ended up taking on a life of their own with the fandom, that Joanne never planned for, never really anticipated, and - because we know that she is both stubborn to change in general, and sees herself as a visionary above steer or critique - refused to meaningfully update or edit around in the final version of the last book:

Sirius Black existing at all

Remus Lupin existing at all

Peter Pettigrew existing at all

Fudge, Umbridge, and the Ministry-vs-Dumbledore/Harry sideplot - which, knowing that Joanne is a woman of faith, reeks of a 'skeptical nonbelievers vs true Christians of faith' plot

Luna

Everything about the Triwizard Tournament

Everything about the Yule Ball

Everything about the World Cup (I would go as far as proposing these were originally planned as three episodic books that she ended up blending together)

Spotlight Death Eaters like Barty Crouch and Bellatrix Lestrange

The Founders, the Basilisk, and the Sword of Gryffindor

The Horcruxes

Anything about magical creatures, aside from as episodic flavor to provide a one-off background character

International characters like Fleur, Krum and Madame Maxime

Most fight scenes, including everything with the Dept of Mysteries

Grimmauld Place and Kreacher

And perhaps controversially, most of the racist/blood war elements of the conflict in the books. Because, in DH, apart from flavor description of what the Death Eaters etc. are doing...

The conflict described seems, as it did in PS, to be primarily a personal one, with Voldemort's vendetta being against Harry specifically, and as a proxy, Dumbledore's followers, and people who believed in him and his ideals.

And maybe that's why Harry, the character, never seems to end up caring that much about the foundational principles of why they are fighting the war, and who it is actually there to protect, besides his personal connection with Voldemort as his personal nemesis...

Because Joanne never originally wrote it that way. Voldemort dies, and "all was well."

[the-muppet-joker]

could you elaborate on your choices for the 4 horsemen for the ponies? i’m deeply curious about your wisdom and insight

Very well.

Famine = Luna

Both are black horses

When Nightmare Moon takes over, there is no sun. Crops cannot grow under these conditions. Her reign is a reign of famine and no harvest.

Additionally, in the episode Cutie Re-Mark, it is shown that under Nightmare Moon's domain, Timberwolves roam free. While they are not directly tied to famine, they have symbolism regarding Harvest as they are known to howl at the first zap apple and attack those who try to harvest them if they are nearby, hindering people's ability to gather fruit.

War = Cadance

Naturally, a pony red with the blood of those slain in war is generally not marketable to little girls, who are unfamiliar with bloodlust and afraid of violence. They settled for a close second: pink.

She is the princess of love. Are you familiar with the phrase "all is fair in love and war?" Wars are acts of passion and bloodshed. Passion? Blood? Both symbolically related to the Heart. And what is her cutie mark as well as the sacred object that gives power to her kingdom? The Crystal Heart.

The Crystal Kingdom, Cadance's kingdom, is frequently under threat of was throughout the series. Queen Crysalis and the Changelings. Sombra. Again, in the episode Cutie Re-Mark, we see a timeline im which Sombra had won. And what is the state of Equestria? A mirror fucking image of how other countries in real life are affected by war. We literally have soldiers Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash and we see Apple Jack working tirelessly to ship out apple mush to feed soldiers for the war effort. This parallel is so clear and frankly I could go on.

Conquest = Celestia

Yes I know the image says strife. I wanted the pictures to be in a consistant style and they used the word strife but it says conquest in the Bible. Anyways, they are both white horses.

I mean. Do I need to spell it out? Celestia is an imperialist. She spreads her and her nation's influence and ideology as far as she is able. Cadance is installed as the leader of the Crystal Empire under her direction. They have conflict with the changelings, so they promote a leader more sympathetic to their nation. The school of friendship? Teaching other species the way to act and behave? Are non-ponies unfamiliar with friendship? Propoganda. And she is the Princess of the Sun. THE SUN. NEVER. SETS. ON. EQUESTRIA'S. EMPIRE. Sound familiar?

Do not make an enemy of Celestia or you will be punished and then brainwashed into submission. Luna? The moon. Discord? Stone. Sombra? Tirek? The list goes on. Again, I feel this is a clear parallel that needs little explanation.

Death = Twilight Sparkle

Indeed this is the most subtle connection. After all, she is not even close to the right color. She is purple! No relation to death whatsoever........ right? WRONG. In the Catholic faith, the calandar is divided into different seasons with associated colors. Purple is the color of death and mourning; priests will exclusively wear purple robes for mass during Lent to symbolize Christ's suffering and death on the cross.

Twilight has a very important role as she and her friends are the bearers of the elements of harmony, with Twilight in the lead. The power of this clearly escalates throughout the series, as the mane six progress from turning Discord to stone to completely destroying Sombra after he is initially resurrected. We watch them become a force that could take away anyone's life force, Twilight especially. And let's not forget the form the elements later take. The tree of harmony. Reminiscent of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, from which humanity committed its first sin and thus were kicked out of Eden, gaining the ability to die.

Twilight will outlive all of her friends. As an allicorn, she is immortal. We see in the last episode that she is in her prime while all of her friends are elderly. How can one be a Princess of Friendship if she sees all her friends to the ends of their lives like a benevolent Reaper? After so many years of standing at the deathbeds of loved ones, she will feel detatched from others. A Princess of Death.

And yes Flurryheart is the fifth Princess but she is a clear allagory for the Antichrist so I did not include her

[hoseoksluna]

RASPBERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!hobi x berries!oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk and luna)

genre: smut, angst

word count: 10.5k

summary: a step towards breaking the curse of your life—nothing could be sweeter than that, could it?

pinterest board: raspberries / taglist: join

warnings: anal sex:), blowjob, a bit of an argument?:), bathtub sex, ass eating, pussy licking, this whole chapter is a warning itself, oc and hobi are just horny, anger, crying, daddy issues, breeding kink, praise kink, spitting:), their emotions are all over the place, brief mention of suicide.

note: okay, this chapter might have salvaged this entire series. i wrote entirely through my feelings and the plot took a whole different direction. like i had something planned, but the characters do what they want. :) SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER. THE CHAP WAS GETTING LONG. and i want the last (next) chapter to be juicy! please, send me your thoughts via my inboooox. i'll be waiting. do we trust jk or not? skfhskfhs. enjoy, my loves!

Perhaps, you should’ve seen it coming—the fact that Jungkook wouldn’t pick up. The rosily gold sunlight warms your fire of anger as you try and try again, the number beside his name on your screen rising and rising until another digit joins it. Something about it feels like a childish payback and you don’t really know why you like it so much. Why you like making him feel the way he made you feel when he spammed your phone after you made the worst mistake of your life by accidentally sending him the video of you professing that your intimate parts belong to Hobi. 

Perhaps, it's as simple as that—it’s childish. And you find yourself to be in a safe realm for your inner child to come out and live. Come out and take revenge. 

Another layer of warmth is pressed against your bare back, heavier, more homely. You swivel your head to bump into Hobi’s jaw, to catch the furrow of his brows as they serve as a shadow from the morning sun, along with the antique structure of his body. His trembling hands hook onto your shoulders, squeezing once before they drift down your arms. Inching closer, he wraps them around you in a suffocating hold. And it isn’t until he closes his lips down onto your temple and steals your phone, flinging it away, that you realize he did it in order to stifle the fire. 

“That’s enough,” he whispers and it graces you with the notion that it should be saved for another time, the picture of his tremor coming forth and the question of why. It kills you, slowly, the liveliness of his emotions, portrayed so gently by his hands. Why are they shaking? 

They snuffed out the fire, but the residue of the painting, colorless and bland, remains. It lines your skin—you can even see it in the streaks of the sunlight. The curves, the message. What was he punishing you for? It’s a question that now unfolds within the strange calmness descending down your body. Was he punishing you for having a man? For returning to your salvation that is in a lung burner? For going against him? Or for raising your fists—feeding him the poisonous negativity of your emotions? 

The need to reach for your phone and talk to Jungkook seizes you again and you fight against Hobi’s hold, but he says no. Sternly, seriously. Tightens his hold. Doesn’t let go. 

“Let it be,” he adds, rubbing your arm with the hand that lays across your chest. But you can’t, you can’t—

“Hobi, I can’t—”

Your sentence is silenced by the sudden kneading of his hands upon your knotted shoulders. Relief evaporates every need, every black fume of your doused fire. His hands bear strength now as his thumb focuses on the tightness of your muscles and you droop, you crumble. And what you didn’t expect—Hobi droops and crumbles with you. 

The violence of his heart against your back, it becomes yours when he pulls you into the shadows of the wavering structure of his body. Its stones ricochet off of your decaying figure, dropping onto the floor with a loud, thunderous thud. You feel the saddened line of his mouth against your cheek, into which he sinks, quietly as a mouse, his whimper. He doesn’t cry and he doesn’t yell, his infelicity, bound to yours, radiates the entire room in gloom. Clouds swim past the sun and linger, the rosy glow snuffed out—just like your fire. 

The wedding of your joy has been put off. The groom has been left at the altar, and it’s all your fault. 

Why is everything so temporary? 

Why are you unable to be stable? To stay submissive amidst the ups and downs of your life? To stay calm, unaffected? 

You’re so weary of it. Weary of yourself, weary of your life, of the curse. 

You turn around and embrace him. Feel like it’s the only right thing you can do at this very moment. Hobi welcomes you in, lets you sign and recuperate in the kingdom of his arms. Rubs your back, gathers the ends of your hair in his hands as if it were a stream of water he longed to refresh himself with. 

It’s so different, to be given love when you don’t ask for it. Something opens within you, a circle of mildness that cracks its mouth wide to consume the edges of the curse until only its axis, its middle core remains. Lightness drives your hands to embrace him tighter, only for Hobi to follow the movement—lungs in sync while your heart tries to mimic his rapid movement. 

It’s like a wordless eulogy. Goodbye to the old life, to the old pain, so the new can settle. Hobi can sense it, too. Supports it when he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the crown of your head, wets his mouth, prepares himself to speak. 

But then your phone starts ringing. 

Your heart lurches forward, but you dwell in motionlessness. You don’t care anymore. Hold the serenity, the lightness in higher regard. 

“Let it ring,” Hobi whispers, tracing circles on your back, the same pattern that has opened within you. 

You nod against his clavicle. “I will.” 

His hands descend to your waist and clenches it for a while, a sensation of groundedness washing over you, cleansing you. You kiss his collarbone. Then, a message dings. 

“How about I run you a bath?” Hobi asks in your ear, nuzzling his nose in your hair, muffling out the sound of another Jungkook’s intrusion. The idea resembles a paradise to you and you beg for it with a singular, pretty word. 

Scooping you up in his arms, he sets you down in front of your bathtub, your nipples brushing against his chest with the descent, awakening the dried pool of your arousal deep in your core. A fresh spring of water fills it until it brims over and so you don’t waste a drop, you slam your mouth onto his, kissing him. He hums, lowly, into your mouth, not foreseeing something like this, and the sound splashes in the pool, drenching you whole, showering your orchard in the life it needs. 

Slipping your tongue inside, he lets you taste him for a mere moment, before he clasps your mouth in his hand and stares you down. “Hold it.” 

Hold what? Your incessant stream of horniness for him? 

Reaching over, he fills up the bath with warm water with one hand, its mist rising up your body, spreading little dots of anticipation on your skin, erasing the lines, the curves and the message of the painting you never saw, but envisioned. And before he can straighten, you pull him back up. He smiles down at you, kissing you, tenderly, mouths smacking within the briefness and the pool within you heats up. 

Except for the orgasm he gave you in the middle of the night, right before dawn, neither you or him got the release you needed when you were connected. Pity ripples in your water and you grasp his manhood in your hand, semi-hard. How did he get excited this quickly? You coo, but only for yourself, drifting your hand down his poor, blue balls, squeezing them, coaxing a pained sigh out of him. 

“Does it hurt?” you ask, softly, flicking your gaze up into his. They must be hurting, considering the amount of arousal that swirled inside without an ounce of alleviation. 

He doesn’t respond, but that’s an answer for you. Light flows from his eyes as seriousness draws his features tight, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. You kiss his chest, gripping him a little before you let go, threading your fingers through your hair, parting them into three sections and, blindly, instinctively, you plait them into a braid, securing the end with a silk, thin scrunchie. Pink, like his imaginary wings. 

“Come join me.” 

Hobi shakes his head, though. Holds you steady as you swing your leg over the lip of the bathtub, sinking into the warm, misty water. At the sight of you kneeling, he lets out another pained sigh, prolonged this time and you feel so bad for him that you don’t think twice before you take him into your mouth. 

“Pup, fuck,” he moans, grabbing the crown of your head as his knees shake. All of his emotions are expressed through the tremors, you note, and it drives you to open your mouth wider, swallowing him deeper. “Oh, yeah, that’s so good.” 

Your walls clench and you mewl around him, dragging your tongue flat on the underside of him as you draw back, swirling the muscle around the tip of him as you grip him. You use your saliva to stroke him, making him cage in his bottom lip between his teeth again. Eyes rolled back, his reddened lip springs back, and he gazes down at you, fingers trailing down until they meet your loose plait, acknowledging themselves with the newness. 

“I love your hair like this. You’re so pretty,” he comments, voice so terribly strained, and you hum, pleased to hear such a compliment. You hollow out your cheeks on his tip, sucking him, slowly, and he repeats those words you love so much, your noises of pleasure rising in pitch. “You really do love it when I say that, don’t you? God, I adore you. All of who you are.” 

You withdraw, completely, without losing your grip on him, panting. Can feel your eyes send waves of love towards him as you bore them, piercingly, into his. He groans, divulging to you that he received the message, and you could burst, you could fly—turn this water into fire as his godliness from his precum sweetens your throat once you swallow, the aftertaste of him transforming you into an unknown being of holiness. You’re not God, you’re not an angel, either. You’re something else, entirely. A figment of his creation on the cusp of awakening and living. A moving picture of stability, submission and feline softness. Something he adores. Something he’ll soon love. 

And it pleasures you, intensely. 

“Do you adore me, pup?” Hobi asks as he wraps his hand around your braid. One time, two times, three times—until your hair is pulled so tight that he inclines your chin up to him, waiting for your answer. And he doesn’t have to voice it out—the dark side of his desire, the bad things he wants to do to you. You perceive them clouding his pearlescent eyes, making them brighter. 

You wish the moon would turn its face towards you, so it could see the change that is occurring.  So it could see the way you’ll use its magnetism to blanket yourself with Hobi’s darkness. 

Now you’re able to. Now you’re prepared. 

“I adore you, Daddy,” you breathe out, stroking him faster, your chest mimicking the rhythm. “And I want to show you just how much. You said you wanted to make me forget. Let me do that for you.” 

His moan transmutes into a vulgarity, a tender shade of pink scattering along his cheeks and you could eat them. Your heart thumps, colorfully, your longing to help him forget the taste of the bane of your life growing and growing like a thick bush of raspberries. He deserves it—needs it, considering the infelicity of his that he poured over you when he held you, his lack of words shared with you. He deserves the fucking world and you’re willing to go above and beyond to give it to him. To give it to your boyfriend. Your husband. 

“How? Tell me how you’re gonna do it.” 

You draw your face to his cock, but he pulls you back by your braid, coaxing a dark mewl out of you. A drum begins to beat in your clit—the start of his song, incited by his darkness. 

“Did I not tell you to use your words?” Hobi scolds, so awfully sternly, and you flutter all over, the peaks of your nipples stiffening, the drum picking up its rhythm. Your eyes widen as that darkness of his overwhelms you and you want more of it. 

“Help me say it,” you say, your heart not letting you lie to him as the words, ‘I don’t know how to say it’ were on the tip of your tongue. 

Hobi smirks, tightening his grip on your braid. Pain shoots up your scalp and even though you hiss, you like it. He inches forward, his lips a mere centimeter away. The radiation of his pleasure hits you, drifting down to your core. You almost reach your hand down to it, so the ache disappears, but you yearn to focus on him, wholly. 

“If you want to suck on this cock and if you want me to praise you, then you’re gonna have to give me those pretty words that I know you’re capable of saying,” he murmurs, clicking his tongue at the halt of your hand around him and you resume, pressing play on the movie of his guttural moans—and you moan along with him, enjoying the sound. 

Is that a hint of his pent-up anger? You believe, wholeheartedly, that it’s somewhere hiding in him, that he’s keeping inside, adamant on not letting it out in your presence. You want to unlock that cage and beckon it out, meet it, learn its name and its desires. And you’ll do it—just so Hobi feels better. 

You can handle it. 

And to do it, you linger, intentionally, in your quietness, ceasing your movement on his cock. In fact, you withdraw altogether. Arch your spine when you sit back, your breasts bouncing a little. And he lets you, unbelief slackening his hold on your braid, mouth parted. Perhaps, he’s thinking you don’t want to go along with the foreplay, so he’s taking a step back, but what he doesn’t know is that what you’re doing is as much of a means of it as it is one of healing. 

There’s no way he isn’t angry at your ex-boyfriend for punishing you silently for whatever he thinks you did. There’s no way there isn’t the same fire in him that burned in you at the sight of him marking you with the palm of his hand. He saw the painting, you didn’t. There is simply no way he doesn’t want to explode. 

Hobi does lots of things for you. Stifling his emotions until they lash out in the form of his tremor is one of them. And you crave, with your whole being, to do the same for him. Let him feel like he let you feel. Make him come, vividly, like he made you come. 

Adore him like he adores you. 

“I’m such a bad girl, aren’t I?” you purr, lifting your fingers to your breasts and swirling them around your hardened nubs. His eyes flick to them and enlarge. You spread your legs and let him see all of you, bolts of pleasure swaying your body like the water lapping at your stomach. “Withholding my words on purpose when you’re so hard, when you need me. Hm, don’t I deserve to be punished? Don’t I deserve to be punished so hard that I willingly give you my words?” 

Hobi pants and his nostrils flare, chest heaving and slightly shuddering in tandem with the drum in your clit. Sweat coats the antique structure of his body, darkening it as if rain fell upon it, staining it for a little while. You want to stain it with his ivory arousal—make a magnificent sculpture out of him to remember this important moment. 

His anger will change everything. His anger will be a step to breaking the curse—to settling the process of the bane, Jungkook’s intrusion. You may have decided to do this alone, but it was wrong of you. He should be the one to make order like the father he is while you stand behind him, clutching the material of his pants. 

You will get him there. 

“I want you to spank me.” 

He doesn’t let a second pass. Doesn’t blink. “I can’t.” 

Your heart cracks, but you will strength of the raspberries into it. “Yes, you can. You can make me red and you can show him. You can show him who’s the boss. Who owns me. Who has his handprint on me. It’s you and it’s always going to be you. You have every right to do what I know you want to do, Hoseok.” 

He raises his brows, mouth agape. Clenches his fists. “You want me to spank you and send a picture of it to him?” 

You nod, dipping your hands into water. 

“Why would I stoop to his level?” he asks, scoffing, and your throat dries, struck with shock. You didn’t anticipate this kind of answer from him and you don’t know what to say, his fatherliness and dominance enveloping you in a milky blue aura of smallness. What does he want to do, then?

Hobi steps closer. Doesn’t bend at the waist. Doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t get on his knees. He lets you look up at him in your smallness. Lets you feel his control, the manliness of his stature and energy and you gulp. Turned on and intrigued at the same time. 

“I’m not a boy, pup,” he says and you wish he would touch you, touch your pebbled nipples, soothingly, feeling yourself needing it as he reprimands you. “I don’t need to play games. I’m too old for this shit. This is what pubescent boys do when they feel threatened, when they feel jealous. If I were to play his game for you, I’d only encourage him. I wouldn’t be stopping it, I’d be kicking the ball over to him. Do you really think I want to do that?” 

You let out a breath. Your muscles tense, ready to scream out the question that has been boiling in you all this time. 

“What do you want to do?” 

He sucks in a breath, baring his teeth. There it is—there is that anger, the whole resplendent, monumental rawness of it. 

“What do I want to do?” he asks as if he couldn’t believe you’re asking him that question, as if he couldn’t believe you’re allowing him to have a part in it. It thrills you—and as it thrills you, it moves forward your transformation. 

“Yes, tell me what you want to do. Tell me how you want to settle this.” You stand your ground, inviting him in, inviting him into your life, to have a say in it, to have a fatherly hand in it; letting the sunlight make it right, make it alive, real and serious. 

“Is that what you want? For me to step in?” he whispers, that disbelief still ringing—and you pout, touched by it. 

“Yes, Hobi,” you hush out, leaning over and grabbing his hands. He lets you hold them for a second before he untwines your hold and cradles your face, kneeling by the bathtub. 

The light in his eyes is too overwhelming and you melt into it, your breath hitching in your throat as you surrender. He presses his lips in a firm line, his thumbs brushing away your flyaways, and you lean into his touch, head tilted to the side. 

As he tastes the newness of the conjunction to your life and his, you ask again. “What do you want to do?” 

He sighs and takes in heavy breaths right after, seething, pressing his forehead against yours. And as you and him close your eyes simultaneously, he finally answers. “I want to break his fucking face.” 

Dots of gooseflesh chill your skin and you don’t stop yourself from humming out your pleasure of hearing that. “Yes, Hoseok.” 

You feel his gaze on you as he continues—and it might as well have been him who opened your eyes. “I want to break his hands for creating that degrading, shitty painting of you. And I want to break it. Destroy it. So it never sees the light of the day again.” 

You choke out a moan, your whole body set on fire—a different one, this time. A blue fire, milky blue like your aura of smallness. “Yes, Daddy.” 

Hobi groans, kissing you, nastily. Tongues and clashing of teeth, hunger and anger gratified as he pours it out into your mouth. Lets you taste it, swallow it. The same fire, but brighter, bigger, scorching hot, so alluring. 

You don’t have to fan the flames of his will. He’s already decided. 

“Once I’m done with you, you’re gonna send him a text,” he shares his plan with you between hard kisses; you can only whimper in your neediness in response. “You’re gonna tell him that you’re coming over to his place to talk, to look at the painting.” A sigh, a suction of lips, a moan. “Alone.” A swirl of tongues until the details of his plan spiral in the same dance in your brain. “I’ll come with you. And I’ll settle this once and for all.” 

He withdraws, letting you breathe. Your body tingles, your lips, especially, every nerve ending crying out in need, whimpering at the way he studies your form—eyes lifting and falling over your swells, curves and marks. And something about the way he ogles you like that makes you feral. 

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asks, that urgency flashing again in the light of his eyes, and you nod—a thousand times. “Repeat it back to me.” 

The drum in your clit becomes unbearable and you can hear its song in your brain. All thoughts fade to nothingness, memories, triggers, pains. All of it evanesces, but one thing remains.

His plan.  

“I’m gonna text him that I’m coming over to his place alone to talk and you’re gonna come with me and settle this like the Daddy you are,” you stream out, panting, focusing on the sudden numbness of your lips as his kiss still engulfs them as a new memory. 

Hobi grins, pleased, and it propels you so fucking quickly to lean over and lick up the underside of his now fully hard length. Even though you can’t see it, you know the grin breaks as he deeply moans, your tongue circling his sensitive, red tip. You begin to suck it, bobbing your head up and down in a short, curt motions, and he fists your braid in one hand while the other digs into your hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as you give him what he befittingly deserves. 

“Good girl. My good fucking girl. Oh, yeah. Like that, pup. Fuck, it feels so good. Just like that,” he praises and your whole body clenches and doesn’t let up, your nectar dripping into the water. “I’m gonna fix everything and then I’m gonna make you a Mommy, arasseo?” 

You growl around him, taking after him, his words intoxicating you enough to withdraw, yearning to have him inside you. But not in the place, where he engraved his enigma, the breaking of the curse. You burn to have him stretch out the hole, where no one has ever been—the one you teased him about on your first date. 

He blinks at you, hearing your sound, and his grin grows all over again, massaging the back of your scalp as if you were a puppy. You reciprocate it, devilish with your own plan. Feral, feline, and incessantly horny for him. 

The water reaches your belly button and you turn off the tap without breaking the contact. Then, you tug his hand, inviting him into the bathtub. 

“Let’s pretend,” you say, knowing beforehand that he’ll get the message, the meaning of your vague words, and Hobi curses, pleasing you, brushing his hair out of his forehead, exposing the undercut that makes you even wetter. 

Such a beautiful Father. 

You tug him again. Create space for him in your tiny bathtub and he loosens your breath when he gets in and manhandles you—pushing you flush to his body and over his lap, his hands coming over your bum, kneading it, his slender fingers sneaking to the little hole that craves him. The sunlit water sloshes and it’s so intimate—the way it ripples around your body and his, stilling as he looks deeply into your eyes, the two of his digits circling around that virgin part of you. 

He’s going to consume the little purity you have left and there’s nothing you want more at this moment. 

“You want me here?” he murmurs, growling as he feels you open for him there when he prods it, and you drip, drip, drip onto his thighs. 

You kiss him, chastely, in his fashion, willingly giving over your purity. “And from the back.” 

He chuckles, flashing his white teeth, and you want them all over your body. The effulgence of his blush, too. 

“Lie back. I’ll get you ready for it.” 

Preparation, such an important word in your relationship. 

You do as he says, giddy, leaning against the rounded wall of the bathtub. Yelp as he raises your hips above the surface of the water and right onto his mouth, delving onto your pussy without a second spared, licking over the entirety of her, mouth open, letting you see everything. 

“Fuck,” he moans, smacking his mouth, and your legs hanging in the air begin to tremble. “I can feel you throb for me. You wanna be Mommy so bad, don’t you?” 

You can’t stop it, the scream of agreement that emits out of your mouth; that goes on once he swirls his tongue around that drumming pulse, learning its song—because as soon as he does, he sucks it, possessing it. Your orgasm crests and his hands never shake, never waver, holding you up as if in Greek celebration. 

You can feel the stone burst forth from your legs, completing, little by little, your transformation. He’s creating a sculpture out of you. Not of Virgin Mary, not of Mary Magdalene, either. A sculpture, authentic, of you. And on the cusp of your orgasm, he takes his tongue to your other, tiny hole, fucking you there with a verve as if he sensed the work of his hands that resume the godly abuse on your clit after he tells you to place your feet on the rim of the tub. 

And when you come, you’re white, smooth, magnificent and whole. 

You’re you, in the simplest of words. 

Mind spinning, swimming in the delight of groundedness, authenticity and love, all your body asks for is to be taken. You go to turn around, but Hobi stops you with a hand on your waist. 

“I want to look at you when I fill you up,” he croaks out, shades of pinks adorning him. As he is the God of everything, you think at heart he must be the God of all pink flowers with the way they blossom underneath his skin. You believe the same flowers will sprout out of your stone as soon as you’re stuffed full and feignedly bred. “I want to see the look on your face when you feel our kids inside you.”

Our kids. You close your eyes at the wave of a profound emotion sprinkling over you and you feel like crying, feel like sobbing, begging him for it, wanting your old life to be finally ended, killed, destroyed, wanting to cling to him with your whole being and newness, to his godliness, his flowers, his masculine fatherliness. You want to live in him, and the notion, the craving is so intense in you that you exhale it out with every breath, with every pleading word you give him. 

“Please, breed me. Please, please, please.” 

He sucks in that breath, eyes large and dazzling, filled with so much tenderness and adoration. Pulls you flush to his body again, raising you just a little bit as he lines himself up at your little hole. Spits on his fingers while boring that gaze into yours, so terribly up close, his knuckles brushing against the flesh of your bum as he spreads that lubrication over his tip. Does it again, rubs it over your hole. And a perverse obsession with it overpowers you, seizes you in its grasp, and you crave it. 

You gaze your lips along his, sharing a breath that is perfumed with the scent of roses. “Spit in my mouth.” 

Those eyes of his narrow in dark, dark pleasure and he nods in a promise. Driving your fingers up his undercut, you let your body follow his guidance as he sinks you down on him, stealing your mouth in a deep, long kiss that showers your figure in those familiar tingles. Discomfort parts them while you stretch around his tip, though, and he doesn’t stop kissing you, even when you mewl. In fact, he steps into that realm of the painful sensation by thumbing your clit, by toying with your tongue, and whimpering into your mouth when you convulse around him. Gets rid of anything that prevents you from accommodating him. 

Your thighs burn at the slowness of your descent, but once he’s nestled, at home, and you feel so full that you could come from it alone, Hobi breaks the kiss; and using the height difference, he spits into your waiting mouth, growling. Even his saliva is filled with powerful godliness and when you swallow and show him, the same power becomes yours. 

And he smiles. It seems as though he can see it on you and his mouth widens in a lopsided grin. You clench around him. 

“You’re such a good pup,” he praises and you do it again, coaxing a growl out of him. He still remains motionless, waiting for you to get used to him, and your love for him grows owing to that. “That was your reward.” A sigh, a grin. “Now I’m gonna fuck you hard.” 

You latch onto his neck, trembling like him. “Yes, please, Daddy.” 

It’s not just your life and his that joined. It’s your soul and his that becomes one singular face of joy when he begins to pound you. He whispers to you to keep holding onto him like that as he drives in and out of your little hole with such rapidness and hardness that you lose your own knowledge of your name. All you know is his. 

Hobi. Hoseok. Daddy.

And you whisper it, you say it, you scream it. All while the water sloshes around you; all while you stretch and tighten around him and his praises for you are strained, choked out, giving you all of his strength while remaining full of it as if he never gave you an ounce of it. 

His eyes never leave you, never stray away from your emotions, your pleasure, the twists of your features, the opening and closing of your mouth. And you look right back, your feline energy dousing him in sweat and ardor, the force that furrows his brows, that tightens his lips in a firm line and loosens it in pleasure as he bares his all. 

And suddenly, you’re up in the air and your wet back soaks your bed sheets. Hobi rummages in your Nike box under your bed and you feel yourself stretched open, a gaping hole for him. You gasp when you drift your finger along it and you already miss him there. 

Hobi chuckles at your disbelief, your most favorite toy in his hand. A pink egg—a clit sucker and a vibrator at the same time, though the vibrations never did much for you. It’s the pressure, sucking waves that kept you company in your singleness before Jungkook and after, save for the waves of the sea. 

“You never thought you could stretch like that, huh?” 

The ‘huh’ pinches you, but you shake that feeling away, understanding Hobi’s dislike when you asked him to spank you. A momentary sensation before your horniness washes it away at the soft sound of the toy coming to life. 

“Do you have lube somewhere?” Hobi asks, but you can’t speak. You point to the bedside table and he’s quick to slide it open, fishing out your raspberry and strawberry scented lube. 

What a coincidence. 

And you laugh when he squirts it on you from a distance, its coldness refreshing like a lick of ice cream to your heated body. And Hobi laughs along, smearing it all over you, especially over your still gaping, red hole, fingering you there with two fingers, fleetingly, just to tease you, just to pull those sounds out of you that get his head back in the game. 

Then he’s inside, back home. You can’t keep your eyes open and Hobi can’t swallow down his noises, growling and humming as loud as his body asks, ramming into you until all you can hear is his pleasure and the music of skin slapping on skin. 

And when you least expect it, he places the pulsing toy on your swollen clit. 

Your muscles strain, tense and taut, your throat dead silent as you can’t speak, can’t compose any sort of song of the delight that paralyzes your body. You scratch your nails down his back in effort to declare to him the beauty of his artwork and Hobi whimpers, pounding you into the mattress while keeping the toy steady, your breasts bouncing up and down, gleaming in the sunlight, pebbled, aroused, begging for his tongue when he looks down at them, his blush deepening. 

“Look at me,” he commands, stopping, so you can focus, and you begin to inhale quick, staccato breaths as your orgasm nears, the pressure in your tummy coiling and coiling, threatening to rip. You open your eyes, just in time to catch his endeared coo—because he can see how close you are. His lungs mimic the same rhythm, abdominal muscles prominent and defined as he, again, gives you his all. “There, baby?” he asks, speaking of the placement of the toy, and you’re only able to nod. “Ready to become a Mommy? Daddy is right there with you, pup. You squeeze around me so well, you’re doing such a good job. We’re gonna come together, yeah? You want to come with Daddy?” Another nod—because you’re trying your hardest to stall your orgasm as he jackhammers your little hole. You thank him in your heart, like the God he is, that he’s keeping the toy steady because if he were to move it… you’d come on the spot. “Say ‘yes, Daddy’ or I’m not letting you come.” 

You hiccup, shuddering so awfully pitifully while your cat-like aura of power strengthens, giving you all that you need to say it. And your eyes narrow in that sultriness, mouth pouts and you dig your claws deeper into his back, making him fuck your ass harder in payback that feels more than fucking delicious. 

“Yes, Daddy. Fuck, fuck. Give it to me, please. Make me a Mommy, please, fuck. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—”

And it’s a litany without end as Hobi moves the toy side to side and sweeps you off your feet, bringing you over the threshold of your shared home with you as his bride in his arms. You come, violently, its electric sparks shocking Hobi and he pumps you full of his cum, never stopping his hard motions, even as he twitches, growls—praising you, groaning the two words you like—and shudders just like you. He fucks you through your feigned impregnation, throwing the toy away when you squeak in overstimulation in the middle of your delirium, and he kisses you as if he hadn’t done so in a thousand years, sucking your lips so hard that they must bruise, his mound hitting your clit and stimulating it further. The warmth, the wetness—tears line your eyes and the same ones wet his eyelashes as he presses his elbows on either side of your head, panting against you, his nose brushing yours. He stares down at you, a look full of shadowed, yet pure love, the realization that you’ve done it, at last, but differently, bathing his face in light that blinds you—and blinds your tears, drying them as you smile up at him, running your fingers through his hair, through his undercut. 

“I got a big load for you, pup,” he croaks out, fucking you, slowly. “I can’t fucking stop coming. You feel so good. I’m weak for you, fuck.” 

You sob, finding your voice, made tender by his cock. “Give it to me, Hobi. I want it all. All your kids.” 

He moans and proves it to you how weak he is by emanating such a pathetic sound that forces you, most saccharinely, to clench around him all over again, milking him out of every drop you stirred but never drank. 

And for it, Hobi marks you in the middle of your breasts. A big, red hickey, redolent of your raspberries. You hold him to your chest, like the Mommy he made you into, as he sucks onto your skin, nibbling, licking, the noises akin to blowing those raspberries while he makes sure the bruise lingers for as long as possible. Then, he travels to the peak of your left nipple, trailing his tongue flat over the curve on his way up, and you’re wet, bespeckled with his children that trickle out of you as another wave of sopping arousal comes over you, because he begins to make love to that stiffened pebble. You cry out, tug his ruined hair, try to tell him you can’t anymore and Hobi hears you, takes care of you. 

Drags his teeth along your nub. Flicks his eyes up to you as he sucks. “Milkie, please, Mommy.” 

You burst into a roaring laughter, your shoulders shaking, arousal erased, and Hobi chuckles, lifting himself onto his hands and kissing your forehead. He moves you to your side of the bed, your skin dry and scented by him, soothed by his natural scent and the residue of his patchouli fragrance. And you revel in it, as he leaves you for a moment to fetch some wet wipes, with which he, mirthlessly, cleans you off his stickiness. His aversion to it makes an indentation in his face as his brows curl downward, features solemn and terribly serious. 

Such an abrupt, speedy change of energy. Laughter dies out and fades into nothingness that spreads across your private atmosphere shared with him. Your mouth emulates the form of his dourness, cheerlessness blotching your now clean skin with invisible, downcast glitter that scarcely shines in the sunlight—and even that lessens, a cloud expanding over it, dimming it. 

You touch his face and he looks up. 

“Just a little more time and it’ll be here,” you say, seeping that hope, that promise into his pores by swiping your thumb along his warm cheek. “And then my belly will be big and full. And you’ll be Daddy Hobi.” 

He smiles, sadly, eyes glistening, and he kisses your nose, folding into your chest. You caress him, his hair, his back—discover plump, thick marks of your fingernails and you lighten your touch, barely grazing his skin with the tips of your fingers. When he resurfaces, another, different dents embellish his face—the fresh memory of the way he’s accepted hope on your bosom and you kiss him, sealing it. Kiss that downturned smile. That red nose, those brisk cheeks. And his eyelids, wetted by his eyelashes. 

“How do you like your coffee in the morning?” Hobi asks, turning over a new leaf, moving past. 

You brush his hair back, enjoying the silky feel of his strands slipping through your fingers. “With you.” 

He blushes, profusely, and you’re struck by the impression that he’s falling for you. There’s no fight this time, no war, only housewarming, submission and stability. You grip his hair, thank him with the silent gesture that also expresses how much it means to you because you, too, have fallen for him. With your heart, with your soul—with your entire being that has undergone so many transformations. 

Now you’re climbing a mountain with him and on its peak, your children, your home, your future await you. You’re almost there. You’ve become who you were meant to become and Hobi has received the promise of his deepest longing. 

One more thing, one more lift of the knee and you’re there, hand in hand with him—your husband, your God. 

He kisses you one last time, tells you to rest while he makes you coffee and breakfast. Hands you your phone. Helps you think of a short message that you immediately, without a thought spared, send. And while you lightly slumber, you dream of the promise, of the hope. Dream of your swollen belly, the ethereal picture revealing you looking at yourself in a floor-length mirror as Hobi stands behind you, assuaging you of the weight of your child by holding it with both of his hands, his imaginary wings, fully rosy, carrying half of it, folded over his knuckles, your fingers sunk between his and the feathers, silky, soft like his hair. It melts into another scene, in which you both hold the child, hip to hip, gazing at the mountain you climbed together once upon a time and the child, bearing a heavenly, delectable concoction of your and his features, cannot pull away their eyes from the peak. Their hair blows in the wind, rippling like their Father’s wings, and you and Hobi break their hypnotion by kissing each of their cheek. 

Hobi wakes you up with the same kiss—as if he was kissing you and not his child. And something about it heals you, gravely. 

You tell him about it over coffee and breakfast and he weeps. And while you weep with him, your tears fall for another, secret reason. For the period that you slept, Hobi baked vanilla pastries with raspberries and you would tell him about it, too, but you’d sit at the table all day. He has a curse to break and you don’t wish to prolong the time, not when you sense that it’s burdening him. 

Because his shirt is blood-splattered, he takes you to his house. And what you’ve never expected to happen—you meet his roommate. 

A munchkin cat with the littlest legs you’ve ever seen. Black and white coat blankets her chunky body and you sink onto your knees, extending your fingers to her tiny pink snout, just like her Daddy’s, and you die as the fur baby sniffs you and doesn’t run away in fear. It keeps smelling you in curiosity and you think it’s due to the fact she can recognize Hobi’s scent all over you. You’re so absorbed by the furry animal that you don’t even care to look around the vastness of its home and, like your child, you get broken out of the spell when Hobi chuckles. 

“Pet her. She likes you,” he says and you hear the familiar clanging of keys being set on the table, the leather of his wallet sliding along the wood and the thud of his phone as he empties out his pockets. 

Giddiness seizes you. 

You stroke down the baby’s fur on its head, cooing at its softness, at the way the wisps whirl in the air the more you pet it. And you squeal when she leans in into your touch as Hobi did not that long ago. Now you know who he gets it from. 

You take it into your arms, scratching its neck. It purrs and your heart springs, eager to embrace it. 

“Is it a boy or a girl?” you ask, enthralled by it, nuzzling your face into her fur. 

Hobi pets your head and you feel as small as the baby. You look up at him, knowing you radiate, visibly, the energy. He smiles down at you, shines down his love and joy clutches you so hard that you can’t breathe. 

“A girl,” he says, his smile widening, and before you can ask about her name, he already tells you. “Her name is Luna.” 

Luna. She’s your new best friend, your little baby, and you begin to entertain the idea of bringing her along to your misfit visit to your ex-boyfriend’s apartment because you can’t let go of her. Not when she purrs most homely, most happily. Not when she likes you so much that she’s not afraid of you. 

You haven’t grown up with animals, so when the opportunity comes and you get into contact with them, it’s difficult for you to unattach yourself from them.

Luna is yours now. 

Hobi pivots on his feet and you’re quick to scurry onto yours, following him into his bedroom. As you carry her, you take a moment to look around his living room. The color beige lines every detail of its spaciousness. From the walls, to the pigmentation of the stones that decorate the side, where a huge flatscreen hangs up, to the smooth floors that glow in the light. Beige, whites and grays, with the tiniest hints of browns, greens and yellows. Small plants and bigger palms sit in the corners, by the windows, and they give the room those colors—as well as his collection, which comes as the biggest surprise of all, of his modern art. You can see a rainbow of Bearbricks everywhere you look, especially in the brown kingdom of his bedroom. 

Those pretty one-eyed fuckers stare at you there. Along with their KAWS brothers. And they’re colossal. 

Hobi’s back faces you as he rummages in his closet. You kiss Luna on her empty head before you set her on the bed, walking over to Hobi amidst the dimmed light. His curtains are pulled in tight and you think about how he must’ve been getting ready for bed when he called you last night, only to sleep in your light-filled bed. You wrap your arms around him, too hasty with your need to give him your affection—you smear your foundation on his blue shirt, staining it further. And you kiss his back, planting a red lipstick mark right in the middle. It’s going in the laundry bin, anyway. 

Hobi reaches his hands back, fingers tapping along the open back of your white top, drumming there and you smile, finding it cute. 

“You really like those figurines,” you murmur, propping your chin on his spine, drumming your fingers on his abdomen in similar fashion. 

He laughs, softly, as if embarrassed, and you dig your claws, faintly, into his skin. No embarrassment for him—you’re not letting that in within him. 

“Don’t you fear they watch you while you sleep?” 

Now he laughs through his nose, swiveling his head halfway. “They’re my dream catchers.” 

You hum, endearingly, in high pitch, liking the sound of that. Wonder if he knows that he’s such a poet. “Everything you say is so poetic.” 

He massages your waist, deepening your hum. “Something tells me that’s your doing.” You punctuate the sound with a vulgar word and he squeezes the place he holds. No laughter, only alluring, affectionate seriousness. You sigh, blissfully. “I actually have a book of poetry here.” 

Your brows rise. “What?” 

Hobi clasps your hand, dragging you to his small library that is organized with his dream catchers. He pulls out a thick book with a white cover and hands it to you. 

Birthday letters by Ted Hughes. The husband of Sylvia Plath, the reason behind her suicide. The female poet who loved E. E. Cummings, the female poet, whom you loved, too, in your lonely girlhood. Who always inspired your longing to die as the curse over your life went on. 

It’s surreal to be holding a link to her when you’re standing at the end of the chapter of this curse. 

You didn’t die. 

You didn’t die. 

“I stole it from my school library,” Hobi explains with that lopsided smile of his, so fond, so full of old memories that you’re learning at this moment. Time stands still and you strain your ears, wanting to hear every syllable of it. “Everytime I would go hide there, mess around or just study, I’d always see this book. It would always be right in front of me. I thought, and I still do, that it has some kind of meaning. That it somehow needs to be in my life. So I took it. And it’s been here for more than a decade. I’ve never even read it.” 

You pout, touched by the symbolism, by the fact he never opened it. “Never?” 

Hobi shakes his head, shortly. “Never.” 

You look down at it, caress its cover. “Maybe it’s a dream catcher, too.” 

His mouth ends curl. “Open it. Read me something.” 

His fingers begin to undo the buttons of his shirt and you sense the magnetism of the symbolism attached to the book closing over you. You watch the work of his hands as you slip your digit into the middle of the book. Page one hundred and forty two. Portraits, the title of the unknown poem. But you don’t read it until he bares his chest and sits down on the edge of the bed. 

You stand between his outstretched legs. He rubs the back of your knees, waiting.

You skim your eyes over the page and break, prematurely. 

Licking your lips, you begin. 

“What happened to Howard’s portrait of you? / I wanted that painting.” 

You lose a breath, your throat constricting, and you gaze down at Hobi to see him lost in a thought that you can’t discern. 

Can he perceive the link? Does he realize who Howard is as you bring that poem into reality with your recitation? 

You continue, biting your lip, momentarily.

“Spirits helped Howard, ‘Sometimes / When I’m panting, I hear a voice, a / woman’s, / calling Howard, Howard — faint, / far-off, / fading.” 

Your phone dings in the front pocket of your ivory mini skirt—Howard has texted you back. The book droops out of your grasp as you fish out the device, your screen enveloping the room in a small twirl of brightness. 

Jungkook: my door is always open for you 

You pocket it back, the light snuffed out. The book quivers and you steady it with your other hand. “Jungkook texted me back.” 

Hobi is deathly still, in an uncanny way. “What did he say?” 

You lick your lips, but it’s not enough moisture. “That his door is always open for me.” 

He props an elbow on his knee, his teeth nibbling on a fleck of skin upon his thumb. “Keep reading.” 

Your breath shakes. You risk the question swathing your heart, needing to know whether you’re on the same page before you can go on. “Can you see the correlation?” 

He blinks, rapidly, as if awoken. “To what? You mean to the painting of you that I’m about to break?” 

You nod, relieved that he sees it, but the heaviness loiters. Slightly, you fear the next lines. “Jungkook is Howard.” 

His eyes stray, his being crestfallen, his mouth biting into his cuticle. He doesn’t say anything and you’re not sure if you should read on, but he taps the back of your knee that he still holds, propelling you to do so. 

In fact, he tugs on it, guiding you to sit on his thigh—like you did in your favorite reading armchair when you cleaned his wound. You flutter a kiss on the healing bruise that has the colors of his home and with a wet thumb, Hobi angles the book so he can read along with you, staining the page with his humanity, imprinting his presence, the gravity of the moment into it. 

It took a decade for the time to be right. Enough for him to read this. 

With you. 

You push away the panic regarding him not reacting to your affection, figuring the importance of this moment is held in higher regard. Clearing your throat, you continue. 

“He got carried away / When he started feeding his colors / into your image,” you stop, the words affecting your vocal cords with emotions. Hobi is the only one who knows what colors Jungkook used in the painting. How can a random page in a random book describe the flavor of the bane of the curse upon your life? How is it possible? You take a moment to regain your composure, willing smoothness into your voice. Hobi rubs your thigh with his hand, thumb tracing patterns, a help in need. “He glowed / At his crucible, on its tripod. / How many sessions? / Yaddo fall. Woodstoves. Rain, / Rain, rain in the conifers.” The rain that fell upon Hobi when you exited the museum after you talked to Jungkook. The rain that brought you closer to him as he shrouded you and himself in your trenchcoat. The memory is sweet, another help in need. 

“Tribal / conflict / Of crows and their echoes. You deepened. / Molten, luminous, looking at us / From that window of Howard’s vision of you.” 

Your scream in the middle of the night after that morning at the museum; the physical violence that followed after. The painting that was created in the same hours. 

“Yourself lifted out of yourself / in a flaming of oils, your lips exact.” 

The flaming of your reddened bum within Jungkook’s made-up world of the painting; the punishment that you broke out of his clutches and became your own person. 

You suddenly understand it, the painting. 

You feel sick. 

The poem is a maze, but Hobi looks as though he has the sixth sense that enables him to navigate through it. You’re burdened by your emotions, dragging your feet as you follow him, looking at him. He burns his sight into the scattered words, not breathing, not blinking, his thumb stuck in his mouth. He’s connecting the dots, the wheels turning in his brain. 

Luna crawls onto the other side of his lap, the third help in need. 

You take a deep breath. 

“Suddenly — ‘What’s that? Who’s that?’ / out of the gloomy neglected chamber behind you / Somebody had emerged, hunched, gloating at you, / Just behind your shoulder — a cowled / Humanoid of raggy shadows. Who?” 

The squeaks of breaks behind you, Jungkook stepping out of his car and joining the demon of shame looming at you, waiting for you to end your phone call with Hobi. 

“Howard was surprised. He smiled at it. / “If I see it there, I paint it. I like it / When things like that happen. He just came.’ / Came from where? Mystery smudge extra, / Stalking the glaze wetness / Of your new-fired idol brilliance. / I saw it with horrible premonition. / You were alone there, pregnant, and unprotected.” 

You snap the book shut, the lump in your throat so enormous in size that it alone begs you not to read on. Your chin quivers, but no tears come out, mind barren as the words alone, pregnant and unprotected echo within there. On an ungodly, immoral loop. 

Hobi takes the book from you and flings it into a corner of his room, hitting a lonesome gray figurine that topples over. Your eyes witness the movement, but you don’t grasp it. Numbness seizes you, the paralyzation of bizarreness that causes bile to push through the lump in your throat. 

You gag. 

“Where’s your bathroom?” 

Hobi is quick on his feet, but you don’t make it. The vomit spills through the cup of your palm over your mouth, staining your white top. Hobi carries you to his toilet, stained just the same. Holds your hair as you retch your guts out—the letters of the poem, the realization of its meaning, the symbolism, the raspberry pastries. Presses his lips against the nape of your neck, holding you together. 

Wipes your chin with toilet paper. Puts his plastic cup with cold water to your mouth to wash it clean with. 

Rips the three pages of the poem out of the spine of the book in taciturn fury, its ending never to be known.  

You watch him do it, with the same speechlessness, and you’re not sorry for the prosaic lawlessness—it strengthens you and it relieves you. Watch the tremor of his hands, after, as he constringes the poisonous papers in his fists. The book abandoned back in the corner with the figurine, vanquished. 

He paces the room, fleetingly, stopping in front of you. Gets on both of his knees. Grips your hands, with the crumpled papers. Kisses them. Over and over. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers onto them. The noise of the papers is like the shaking of leaves and you want to leave. You want this wretched thing settled. The smell of your puke hits your nostrils and it’s what prevents you from folding into him in the way he did this morning. 

“Nothing to be sorry for, baby. It’s fate,” you reassure, tearing the papers from his hold and throwing them away from his sight. Yours, too. It’s not his fault that the curse sneaked into something intimate he desired to share with you. But your heart aches that it did it before he knew you all those years ago, planted in its mind false beauty, only to cause ruination. You need it gone. “Help me take this off. Let’s go.” 

He sighs and the sadness of the sound deepens your ache, though all you can do is accept it and fight. The will is enough—if the conscious will is there, things will change, things will move forward and all will settle into place. 

Tomorrow will look different. 

Hobi dressed you in his clothing. A white linen shirt, to match your skirt. One would say it’s oversized, the way the fabric puffs and slides off your shoulder, not an item of masculine affection. You left your bra hanging by its strap on the handle of his closet. Left the buttons undone. Left the bruise between your breasts unconcealed, proudly, for every eye to see. He tied it in the middle, a tiny sliver of your midriff exposing tanned skin, because the hem would only bunch up the waistband of your skirt as it reached way down below. It could’ve been a dress alone, meant for loungewear, but you weren’t going to do much lounging. 

Hobi dressed you for war. 

He himself matched you. A white polo, beige pants, a vivid green beanie to hide the sweat coating his tousled hair. A king, ready to march. 

The king is dead, long live the king. 

You know the ending. You trust Hobi, you believe in him. So did Luna when he grabbed his keys, phone and wallet. She meowed so much encouragement that it curled a smile on yours and Hobi’s face. You nuzzled her, considering saying goodbye to her harder than facing Jungkook, the dead king, but her purring made it better. It was a promise that she would be here with another set of fluff balls of encouragement once you come back from the war. 

You thought the ride to Jungkook’s apartment would be silent, but no. Hobi put on his The Weeknd playlist, the dark, ambient songs from The Trilogy album saturating the shifting atmosphere. Placed his hand on your thigh while he drove. Things seemed normal as they did before shit hit the fan. Your body submitted to that impression and so you pretended it was so. Relived, quietly, in your mind the way you rubbed your clothed pussy on that very seat, steering him into insanity, which he controlled so well. 

A coping mechanism, that lustfulness. As you know it. But oddly, it didn’t turn you on. No, it composed you—tranquilized your emotions, so they wouldn’t be burdensome in the battle. 

“What are you thinking about?” Hobi asked, knowing he was five minutes away from Jungkook’s apartment. He didn’t live far away from him. 

Bizarreness.

He probably noticed your lack of visible reaction to your favorite singer. 

“I’m having flashbacks.” 

A beat of pause. “About?”

“About the way I drove you insane when I stuck my hand in my panties.” 

He hummed, softly, the noise barely audible. “You got so wet just from me praising you.” 

You sighed, delighted. “I did.” 

“I’ll never forget the fact that I ate you out first before I kissed you.” 

You smiled, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. “It comforts me,” you admitted, baring your private soul. “Sex. Lust. It’s not always dirty to me and it doesn’t always make me horny. It makes me feel safe.” 

He thought about your words, thumb searching for yours, waggling. You closed your palm over the back of his hand on the shift stick, hooking your thumb over his. 

“How did that painting make you feel?” 

You didn’t feel much. Just one singular emotion. “Furious.” 

“Why?” 

“It makes me angry that he thinks he still has a right to control my life. That he took what I consider to be safe and made it unsafe.”

He ruined the act of spanking for Hobi, which ultimately ruined it for you. It scarred him enough that he wasn’t able to do it to you when you asked him. And for that, you’ll never be able to forgive Jungkook.  

Hobi clenched his jaw. “When we get inside, I want you to think twice before you look at that painting. You’ve gone through a lot these past twenty-four hours. Put your well-being first, okay?” 

Your veins pump warmth into your heavy heart due to his care and you kiss his knuckles, leaning your cheek into them. “Okay.” 

“Good. I’ll break it anyways.”

The deal rings in the hallway as you walk towards his door, Hobi two steps behind you, obfuscating his presence. You rack your knuckles on the wood, your stomach rolling, your blood curdling into bits of frozen cranberries, and your lungs lack air. You don’t know if you can do this, if you can be posturing stoicness when the threat is right in front of you. You wish Luna were here with you, her fluffy wisps a reminder of her encouragement. You can’t even find her on the material of your skirt, for she’s as much clothed in white as you. 

The door opens, revealing a distressed, wrinkly Jungkook with the stars in his eyes tear-stained. The lines of his sleep shoot across his bare chest, down to his abdomen that he sucks in at the sight of you. And you don’t hate him for the way his eyes skip to the bruise in the middle of your breasts—because it were your eyes first that skimmed that low on him first. 

Shame stops your blood flow, which restores your forgotten memory of how further aroused your body became when you saw his excited manhood in the picture he sent you. It floods back at full speed, in tandem with the bile in your throat. 

“I didn’t expect you to come over so soon,” he says, confusion rasping his tone, and his wide eyes narrow once they whisk to a taller head behind you. He doesn’t say anything to acknowledge his presence, despite the fact you expected that much from him. A rude remark, the closing of doors. Anything but him opening the door wider and turning around, wordlessly inviting you in. 

And Hobi. 

The bile lowers. You exchange a worried look with him, but he runs a hand down the length of your hair upon your back. 

Bloodthirst flashes in his eyes. 

And you’re no longer sure if his plan is the right one to unravel. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ part one | READ part two | READ part three | READ part four

[sengenism]

It definitely went downhill after the American arc.

After reading the Treasure island arc (the best imo) to see how rushed and weird the American arc is was underwhelming.

Sure, I think the opening was cool and interesting, with new characters and a new villain but then came to the point where the KoS separated and it went downhill.

New characters get introduced so quickly and we don't get to know much about them except their talents (with the exception of Sai, he's cool and well written).

Like Joel, my man has some sick designs and what we know about them is close to nothing, only that he's so into his work that he can't talk to women and has respect for Kaseki.

Then there's Chelsea, a character that came out of nowhere just with the purpose of guiding Senku n' co because she's a teen prodigy. The story might try and give it a reason why she wasn't in the evil Disneyland but let's be real, her addition to the team is just unreal, you're telling me that a scientist like Dr. Xeno wouldn't send one of the many soldiers to check if anyone from that party broke free on its own periodically? And if he did that the supposed super soldiers wouldn't notice that one statue is gone and there's more stone fragments on the ground? For someone who's supposed to be the elites this sure doesn't feel like one. (The sign they left is a joke, one can never be so sure that a natural event or a wild animal torn down the sign)

Well characters aside, the story was still fine, a bit rushed sure but I'm telling you, after the 7 years arc (I sorta wished there would have been more chapters for this) the story just became bad, like I wasn't reading Dr. Stone anymore.

I started this series because of how informative the anime/manga was, but after that arc, well no more of those lengthy science breakdowns but just "let's go to ___ so we can find ___ to do ___" and I mean I get it, you can only write so much about science before dragging it out on too much, but you really gotta do it in just two-ish chapters?!

It took 200-ish chapters to reach America, and it was supposed to be the half point of the story, but no, it was the arc that started the ending and I hate it and I hate this story lost its charm so quickly.

The only thing that came out after America Arc was Sai and that's only because they gave him a backstory! A personality! And struggles and regrets that he managed to go over thanks to Gen! And all of that didn't make him feel like a rushed character...

Ugh I have so much to say especially with how Hyoga and Moz's redemption felt non existent, Carlos and Max purposes other than be Luna's simp and whatever the hell is wrong with Ginro and all his wasted potential. (My man dodges every development arc like I dodge the red flags in Stan) (I'm pretty sure he had at least 4 chances to have a character development but threw it in the trash for how sleazy he is) (still love him though)

- 🧅

THIS EXACTLYYYY I AGREE WITH ALL UR POINTS, ONION-CHAN!!! Oh this will be a long reply, I'm so sorry lol

Dr. Stone manga spoilers of course!

Honestly, Dr. Stone became so unbearable to me after the American arc because I love it so much that it actually hurts to see how far it has fallen. I even dropped the manga and only continued it when it was finished after seeing how much screentime Gen got in that last chapter.

I really love your points about the characters and I want to get into that a bit too!

[Chelsea]

She's the first to be introduced out of the new characters and also the turning point of me realising just how rushed and unthoughtful Dr. Stone has become. Just like you mentioned, she's a character that conveniently appeared from nowhere with incredibly flimsy reasoning.

Don't get me wrong, Dr. Stone has always had the tendency to pull out new characters with whatever niche talent was required at the moment. It's a bit like Danganronpa, where you kind of accept whatever crazy thing that happens because you have to set your mind to operate on its terms to enjoy it. It's part of its charm, in a weird way. But then there's a limit to all of this and with the character Chelsea, Dr. Stone had thoroughly passed mine.

There's a reason that Chelsea differs from all the other characters. Say for instance, Tsukasa was depetrified at a convenient time when Senku and Taiju needed someone strong enough to fight off a lion. But Tsukasa was shown in the very first chapter when Taiju noticed and recognised him as the Ultimate Strongest Primate High Schooler. So it wasn't a case of him suddenly appearing right at the moment they needed him, it was somewhat foreshadowed. The same goes for Ryusui and the other modern KOS members. Tsukasa had Minami around to search and find these talented people, or he knew them beforehand like Gen. So while it's Dr. Stone logic, there is some logic to it. Unlike Chelsea who is a clear asspull.

And oh don't get me started on Chelsea somehow getting lost from a simple North vs. South. It actually drives me insane ( ╯°□°)╯ ┻━━┻ Not only is she supposed to be a prodigy, but she's also a modern timer? I get that it'll be hard for her to create glasses when she can't see clearly, but if you're telling me a primitive girl like Suika can figure out the pinhole effect and wear a watermelon with small holes because it helps her eyesight, how can someone like Chelsea, who is a renowned scientist not think of something similar?

The character itself is... well, I don't mind her, or more like, I don't care much for her because she barely feels like a character and leans more to being a prop. I really wished I could find it in myself to care (and maybe I will when the anime is out?), but currently to me, she's just there to be a personified GPS, share geography facts and occasionally say blunt things to speedrun any relationship drama/development because the manga is near its ending.

And again... why is it near its ending????????

[Joel]

Ah, it's like they just keep introducing these characters with no care put into it! An improvement from Chelsea since he didn't exactly come out from nowhere, but there's barely any information about him. Like ok, workaholic guy who acts like a jerk with men but a simp to women and only respects Kaseki because Kaseki is good at his work. His unique relationship with Kaseki slightly saves his character from being a total prop, but like, he's still another new character that's just there to me. A wasted potential, because it would've been fun if he brought a bit of steampunk aesthetic into the manga, being a watchmaker and all. I do like his character design though, so there's that.

[Sai]

I'm glad that Sai, as the last KOS member, had some flair to his introduction. Clearly sensei gave some more thought to his character, with the Nanami background which took at least a few chapters to fully get into. It wasn't so immediate or non-existent like the other two new characters. But what I do find regretful is that there didn't seem to be any foreshadowing to his existence despite being Ryusui's brother (unless I missed it. Ok well, there was that random fact dropped about how Ryusui was good at playing video games because he had a professional gamer tutor. It could be that he wanted to impress Sai, I guess, but I'm not sure whether to count that as foreshadowing or nah.) Well, at least his character wasn't pulled out of nowhere.

Sai, is also someone with opinions of his own which makes him feel like a character. He didn't just exist to readily accept KOS into his heart and start doing mathematics and programming for their sake. He had some resistance which gave some friction to the quick-paced end the manga was heading to. He was given some time to develop and become a character, which the other two unfortunately weren't. There's also the sick design he has got going on (though I really think some melanin would make it even better...)

So I like Sai, he's good and I felt the Dr. Stone charm coming back to life with his introduction. But it didn't help much when the plot was going downhill anyways with... whatever that last arc was.... which brings me back to this topic: HELLO WHY IS IT ENDING?????

When we were promised a World Tour, I'll be honest, I expected some full-fledged arcs in different countries besides America but nope! I can barely even remember the other countries they visited. So there's India to depetrify Sai, but did they even do anything there besides that? There's Indonesia where they made onigiri and... and I honestly can't remember! Maybe it's a skill issue on my part, IDK but I feel like all the other countries were made so irrelevant and it's really sad. It would've been so cool to dive into different cultures in the world and the social aspects that come with it.

And you're so right, American arc was "the arc that started the ending" which is still so weird to me. This was supposed to be the FIRST STOP to their global world tour. But instead, it felt like their only true stop to me. And all that wasted potential genuinely pains me. I can't help but feel like sensei just wanted the whole thing to be done with at that point. The rocket making was too quick.

But I think the reason for Suika's 7 years being executed within 3 chapters is because sensei was worried about the manga's continuity. He mentioned in an interview that he had planned for Gen to be the one who goes through those 7 years alone because Gen a) is popular hence able to keep the readers engaged and b) has his heart on the right side and so is able to survive getting shot by Stanley. The only reason he didn't go through with it is because he didn't like the idea of Gen being so much older than the rest of the cast by the end of the manga. I still grieve for this 7 years older Gen, though... But Suika was a good choice too.

Anyways, I could really go on forever but this post is too long lmao. Thanks for reading this far <3

Tldr: I'm so frustrated at all the wasted potential. I wish they took their time. But I love Dr. Stone.

[aspenlovesmedia]

Hello y’all! I’m Aspen (he/they)! I’m an autistic writer and a huge nerd.

This is a blog where I talk about whatever hyperfixation I have, other than Grimm or DC since I have seperate side blogs for those. I do have quite a few fics, so if you’re interested, my AO3 name is GoatinaCoat.

I also talk about some of my original stories on here too, as eventually I’ll finish something and publish.

If you go to my main blog, you can find links to my other side blogs.

Link to my main blog

See what fandoms I’m in, fics I’ve written and the names of my original stories below the cut. Check out the tags on this post to see what I’ve posted about different things. Unfortunately autism and potential ADHD means my focus is garbage so if I suddenly switch fandoms that is why.

Fandoms I’m in (this list will likely expand as I remember what other things I love):

The Magnus Archives

The Magnus Protocol

Tintin

Skulduggery Pleasant

Star Wars

Star Trek

Digimon

Pokemon

My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic

The Life Series (I am also into Hermitcraft but I’m not really on the fandom side of it)

Fanfics (btw none of my unfinished fics are cancelled or anything, I just can’t control my hyperfixations so don’t touch them for a while before going back to them):

Chess Night-Star Trek (McSpirk fluff fic)

Cold man, warm heart-DC (Victor Fries/Nora Fries fluff)

Was it all worth it?-Star Wars oc fic

To be normal is my dream, but it is impossible for me- DC (Tim Drake being autistic fic)

The Cracks in Harmony-My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic (Post epilgue au, first part of the Elements of Peace series)

Ideals and Truth-Pokemon ocs (first part of the Legendary Ties series)

New World, Old Shadows-Grimm future fic (first part of the Grimm: New Blood series, more details on my Grimm sideblog)

Bats of Gotham: Terror-Batman canon rewrite (first part of both the Bats of Gotham series and the Hopes and Dreams au, a DC universe rewrite. More details are on my DC sideblog)

Taking Flight-Superman canon rewrite (first part of the Mundane Impossibility series, second part of the Hopes and Dreams au)

The Hidden Jaws-Tintin angst fic (first part of This reporter can’t catch a break series)

The day started out bad, yet it still got worse-Tintin angst fic (second part of This reporter can’t catch a break)

The New Head Archivist-The Magnus Archives Archivist Sasha au (first part of the Shifted Gaze au)

When it all fell-Life series superhero au (first part of the Watcher’s Chosen series)

My original stories:

The Luna Stone Series-Fantasy

The Unknown-Horror

Portals of Covalia-High fantasy

Unnamed superhero story

I do have another original story called Onto the Horizon, which also has its own sideblog. It’s a political sci fi story.

[falsealicorn]

in the universe Cakepop is from, this is basically the beginning of the series, Cakepop is my "failed pinkie clone" oc who is also in this au as a B plot sorta

Discord in this universe is named Benevolence, they go by Nel, they're a representation of the calm that can be found even in chaos, although originally just it's embodiment, they found a level of self reflection and understanding the main universe discord lacked

Luna is Selene, Celestia is Solaria and has a Daymare Flame arc

Nel and Selene work together to keep the balance because Solaria became an uncaring and power seeking leader after founding Equestria

Selene found Nel encased in stone in Solaria's garden and overheard her plans to harness their chaos magic for herself

after searching, Selene found the elements of disharmony, the gems embuid with the magic used to petrify Nel

after nearly petrifying herself due to the instability of the magic in the gems, Selene freed Nel and together they petrified Solaria and put her in the center of the sun so nopony would accidentally free her

Nel and Selene figured out a way to keep the elements from falling into the wrong hands again, creating a tree of harmony to hold the elements and reverse their nature into a more stable magic

Nel feels indebted to Selene for freeing them, so they took on the role of rising the sun when it stopped rising on it's own, and Selene took on the role of rising the moon

Selene asked for Nel to be in charge of Equestria as well since it had already been founded with ponies relying on them, and Nel accepted the responsibility

do not ship them!!

that's all the lore I have for now okay byeeee

[dragon-flies-72]

Dr Stone Manga Spoilers

I'm sobbing im actually sobbing

I just caught up to manga chapter 193 so just after the petrification beam struck the world again.

I just want to say it's amazing. Everyone slowly dying was planned so well, the scene with Tsukasa, Gen crying over Taiju, Ryusui getting shot down, Chelsea and Luna leaving, Joels last words, Senku and Xenos last conversation, Stans last moments, the cuts to everyone in ishigami village and treasure island. Everything and I mean everything is written so well. I would argue that I'm not an easy person to make cry but damn, those last chapters got me emotional.

I never thought I would come to Hyoga as much as I do but his death really is what kicked it off, Gen crying over Taiju, Chelsea crying over why they left it all sent me over the edge. The grief is so beautifully depicted and the faith they all place on eachother is so gorgeous, Ive just fallen so much more in love with this silly little series.

I've been meaning to read the manga but college sucks and so this wait has been so gruelling but 100% worth it. It really brought out each of the characters to me in a way I feel like I've never seen before, I knew some Spoilers prior but damn this might be my favourite part of the whole show.

[thebibutterflyao3]

“Discreet”

@pandalilymicrofics - 692 words

Series Beginning

part fifteen - part sixteen - part seventeen

Pandora came alive at the chime of her mobile and momentarily panicked when she didn’t recognise the bedroom she was in. She sat up and clutched the unfamiliar green coverlet to her chest, heart pounding in her chest. Then, she saw her. Auburn hair pooled around the peacefully sleeping face and a few strands fluttered with her every breath. Every so often, she snored softly. Lily.

Last night’s revelry replayed in her mind like an old movie, fuzzy around the edges. Lily with her innumerable kisses, insatiable fingers, and laughter. Oh, how she laughed! The sounds were as lovely in her memory as they had been spilling from her lips. Lily’s breathy chuckle, full-throated belly laugh, and wry huff of amusement.

For the first time in far too long, Pandora was tempted to close her eyes and go back to sleep. She didn't have the luxury of a lie in anymore. Luna was up with the sun, and if left to her own devices, was likely to forage for snacks rather than make herself a proper breakfast.

Shaking off a twinge of envy, Pandora slipped out of bed and found her phone amid the pile of clothes on the floor. As she expected, a text from Molly awaited her.

Molly: Luna is out of sorts. I think she wants to go home.

Pandora: I’m on my way. Thanks.

For all of thirty seconds, Pandora considered waking Lily up. There wasn’t time for a cosy tête à tête like she’d imagined and it felt wrong to wake Lily just to deny her a proper goodbye. She dressed quickly and searched the hallway for her purse. Then, she swiped a notepad from the kitchen counter and perched on the edge of the bed to leave a discreet note and her phone number.

Lily,

Had to leave early, but I’d like to see you again. Call me. xx

Pandora

She lifted a little clay bowl on Lily’s nightstand to tuck the note beneath it, hesitating when her fingertips slid into a pile of smooth, pink stones. Pandora picked one of the stones up and studied it with a frown. Why did Lily have a bowl of rose quartz next to her bed? Only rose quartz, at that. Even mystics tended to mix their crystals.

It was an odd choice, to be honest. Lily didn’t strike Pandora as a mystic and the crystals didn’t particularly suit her bedroom aesthetic either, which reminded her that Lily was an interior decorator. Why does she have these?

Lily rolled toward her, mumbling, “You’re not leaving, are you?”

Pandora smiled apologetically. “Afraid so. Duty calls.”

“Psychiatrists are always on call, hmm? You’re not fleeing then?” Lily sat up to rest her chin on Pandora’s shoulder.

“Not intentionally. I’ve left you my number.” Pandora gestured at the nightstand. “Under this.”

“Ah. You found my mystery stones.”

Pandora waited a beat, expecting an explanation to follow. When it didn’t, she prodded Lily’s cheek until her dimples appeared. “Mystery stones?”

“Mm-hmm, I keep finding them. In my pockets, my purse, even under my pillow once,” Lily said, clearly bemused. “I think I have a faerie.”

Unlikely, yet somehow more believable?

“I see. Well, I have to go,” Pandora said, easing away from the bed.

Lily sighed sleepily, then flopped back onto her bed. “Alright then, see you later.”

Pandora was surprised by Lily’s immediate acceptance of her vague answer. There were no questions or pleas for her to stay. While she hadn’t expected Lily to fall out over her leaving, apathy wasn’t it either. Perhaps, Lily was used to this sort of thing. “Right. Bye.”

With an incoherent mumble from the mound of sheets and pillows behind her, Pandora left. She nearly took her note with her, assuming she’d overestimated their connection last night. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d thought sex meant more than it did. Or maybe, Lily’s still half-asleep and I’m over analysing things again.

As she stepped out into the cold February morning, Pandora chose to believe that Lily would call her when she was coherent again. This wasn’t the end. It felt far more like a beginning.

[nijigasakilove]

Another great backstory episode! These have been some of my faves of the series. Last week we saw Senku and Xeno’s pre stone world story, this episode we got to see how different their nation building and scientific development processes were. Senku prioritised restoring and improving life for people, Xeno prioritised controlling it. They even both have childhood meathead friends who aren't great at science, but will do anything to support their smart best friend lol.

They played the one guy proposing and saving the ring as a joke, but it quite literally ended up saving months and months of work by instantly giving Xeno access to platinum thus a consistent supply of nitric acid and other supplies! No wonder he's got a castle and all this other advanced stuff, he got to shave off months of development time.

Luna is so real for being conflicted about ratting out Taiju/Senku to Stan for the killshot. Best girl. Worst double agent lol.

OH SHIT. The end of the episode was some of the most tense action we've ever had in Dr. Stone. Xeno figuring out who the real leader was and Stan having a clear line of sight on the deck.. whew. Cinema. That was some incredibly quick thinking by Senku to get the starch to solidfy and use it as body armor, but holy shit if Stan's shot did that much damage even with that, imagine if he had nothing to slow it down. It's cool that they showed the impact of shrapnel as well, it's not just the initial bullet you have to worry about!

Banger episode.

[queenpiranhadon]

- Love Like You, Rebecca Sugar

I...write for pretty much anything! You can check my fandoms list through the main navigation on my intro post!

Here are the ones I'm most comfortable writing for though:

ᴀɴɪᴍᴇ ➜

› My Hero Academia / Boku No Hero Academia

› Jujutsu Kaisen

› Spy x Family

› Demon Slayer

ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱ ➜

› Harry Potter

› Riordanverse (check my fandoms list to which series I've read)

› The Inheritance Games

› Keeper of the Lost Cities

› The Hunger Games

ᴛᴠ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ + ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇꜱ ➜

› MCU

› Avatar the Last Airbender & Legend of Korra

› Lego Ninjago

ᴠɪᴅᴇᴏ ɢᴀᴍᴇꜱ ➜

› Stardew Valley

› Genshin Impact

ᡣ𐭩 = romantic pairing; ✩ = platonic pairing, ✿ = x another character (usually canon ship)

ᴀɴɪᴍᴇ ➜

› ⎸ Bakugou Katsuki ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Kirishima Ejirou ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Takami Keigo / Hawks ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Todoroki Touya / Dabi ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Aizawa Shouta ✩ ⎸ Hitoshi Shinsou ✩ ⎸ Todoroki Shouto ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Midoriya Izuku ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Eri ✩ ⎸ Ashido Mina ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Jirou Kyoka ✩ ⎸ Asui Tsuyu ✩ ⎸ Yaoyorozu Momo ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Usagiyama Rumi ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Gojo Satoru ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Sukuna Ryomen ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Itadori Yuji ✩ ⎸ Fushiguro Megumi ✩ ⎸ Nanami Kento ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Geto Suguru ᡣ𐭩 ⎸

› ⎸Kugisaki Nobara ✩ ⎸ Maki Zen'in ✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Anya Forger ✩ ⎸ Yor Forger ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Loid Forger ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Kamado Tanjirou ✩ ⎸ Hashibira Inosuke ✩ ⎸ Agatsuma Zenitsu ✩ ⎸ Tomika Giyu ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Uzui Tengen ᡣ𐭩 ⎸

› ⎸ Kamado Nezuko ✩ ⎸ Kanroji Mitsuri ✩ ⎸

ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱ ➜

› ⎸ Sirius Black ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Fred Weasley ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Remus Lupin ✩✿ ⎸ James Potter ✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Hermione Granger ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Luna Lovegood ✩ ⎸ Ginny Weasley ✩ ⎸ Nymphadora Tonks ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Percy Jackson ✩✿ ⎸ Grover Underwood ✩ ⎸ Nico DiAngelo ✩✿ ⎸ Will Solace ✩✿ ⎸ Jason Grace ✩ ⎸ Leo Valdez ✩ ⎸ Luke Castellan ✩ ⎸ Frank Zhang ✩✿ ⎸ Carter Kane ✩✿ ⎸ Walt Stone ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Annabeth Chase ✩✿ ⎸ Piper McLean ✩ ⎸ Thalia Grace ✩ ⎸ Hazel Levesque ✩✿ ⎸ Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano ✩ ⎸ Sadie Kane ✩✿ ⎸ Zia Rashid ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Jameson Hawthorne ✩✿ ⎸ Grayson Hawthorne ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Nash Hawthorne ✩✿ ⎸ Xander Hawthorne ✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Avery Kylie Grambs ✩✿ ⎸ Libby Grambs ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Keefe Sencen ✩✿ ⎸ Fitz Vacker ✩ ⎸ Dex Dizznee ✩✿ ⎸ Tam Song ✩✿ ⎸ Kesler Dizznee ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Sophie Foster ✩✿ ⎸ Biana Vacker ✩✿ ⎸ Marella Redek ✩✿ ⎸ Linh Song ✩✿ ⎸ Juline Dizznee ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Finnick Odair ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Peeta Mellark ✩✿ ⎸ Haymitch Abernathy ✩ ⎸ Coriolanus Snow ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Katniss Everdeen ✩✿ ⎸ Rue Barnette ✩ ⎸ Cressida ✩ ⎸ Lucy Gray Baird ✩✿ ⎸ Johanna Mason ✩ ⎸

ᴛᴠ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ + ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇꜱ ➜

› ⎸ Bucky Barnes ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Stephen Strange ✩ ⎸ Tony Stark ᡣ𐭩✩✿ ⎸ Peter Parker ᡣ𐭩✩✿ ⎸ Steve Rogers ✩✿ ⎸ T'Challa ✩ ⎸ Peter Quill ✩ ⎸ Thor ✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Natasha Romanoff ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Yelena Belova ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Kate Bishop ✩ ⎸ MJ ✩✿ ⎸ Pepper Potts ✩✿ ⎸ Shuri ✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Aang ✩✿ ⎸ Zuko ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Sokka ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Iroh ✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Katara ✩✿ ⎸ Toph ✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Cole Brookstone ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Kai Smith ᡣ𐭩✩✿ ⎸ Zane Julien ᡣ𐭩✩✿ ⎸ Lloyd Garmadon ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Jay Walker ✩✿ ⎸

› ⎸ Nya Smith ✩✿ ⎸ Skylar Chen ✩✿ ⎸ Pixal Borg ✩✿ ⎸

ᴠɪᴅᴇᴏ ɢᴀᴍᴇꜱ ➜

› ⎸ Sebastian ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Sam ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Alex ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Krobus ✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Haley ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Leah ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Sandy ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Maru ✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Diluc Ragnvindr ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Zhongli ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸ Kaeya Alberich ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Tartaglia ᡣ𐭩✩ ⎸

› ⎸ Beidou ᡣ𐭩 ⎸ Klee ✩ ⎸

You are totally fine to request for any of the characters in the fandoms listed, but these are the ones I'm the most comfortable with :)

ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ➜

› ⎸ x reader ⎸ fem, gn, male readers ⎸ gore/blood ⎸ AU's ⎸ family relationships - ex. Dad Aizawa, brother Megumi ⎸ character x character ⎸ friend relationships (you and Haymitch are best friends) ⎸ character x character family relationships (Weasley twin shenanigans) ⎸ poc readers ⎸

ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ➜

› ⎸ smut ⎸ racism in a positive way ⎸ homophobia in a positive way ⎸ incest + stepcest ⎸ sexism in a positive way ⎸ slander to any religion or culture in a positive way ⎸

ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ➜

› If I don't answer a request- I promise I don't hate you I'm super slow I'm sorry 😭

› I will not write any requests I am uncomfortable with.

› Happy requesting ~

[itsgirlcraft]

@dracl-dragon

TWA character listtttt is doneeee :p

More or less lmao

Series' Abbreviations: MCT - Minecraft Trapped, TSS - The Steve Saga, RQ - Rainbow Quest, SSO - Steve Saga Origins, TR - Twisted Rainbow, SL - Steve Legends, AR - Alux Rising, MCTF - Minecraft The Flash, AC - Assassin's Creed.

Minor Series: FNAF - Five Nights At Freddy's, DC - Daycare, BSS - Blue Steve Saga, SLB - Steve Labs, MCL - Minecraft Lore, HnS - Hide N Seek, AMU - AmongUs, PD - Parody (one-off episodes), NC - non canon (for implied lore and mixed lores), TL - Timeloops.

[AC, MCTF, FNAF, and DC are less prominent in my memory, but will be used/rewatched and then added in detail. Also BSS is just here for my sake, idk if it will be officially included.]

* - important plot things

Main group:

Galaxy Trapped!Sabre (MCT, TSS, NC), NPC!Ivy, Half Demon!Francis (MCT), Chicken!Purple (SSO), Rainbow Pickaxe 1, Brain-fried!Purple, Overseer (TSS).

Currently Known Squads:

Stone!Shabre (TSS), Centaur!Sabre (DC), M, Shabre (TR).

Fake Blue (TSS), Broken Assistant (TR).

Sabre!Orange/Orabre, Rainbow!Sabre/Sabow, Gerald Steve (RQ, TL).

Gerald, Rainbow Pickaxe 2 (RQ, TL), Crystal!Dark, Crystal!Orange, Crystal!Light (RQ, NC).

Sabre, Assistant Steve, Rainbow Pickaxe 3 (SLB, PD).

Likely Squads:

Assistant, Time, Orange Leader, Sabre (RQ), Galaxy, Alex, Rainbow, Sabre (TSS, HnS, PD).

Rainbow (RQ), Sabre, Galaxy, Alex, Guardian, Lucas (TSS, AMU, PD).

Illusion* (TSS), Ep 1 Old Ladies (AR), Zombie!Mark (AR, NC, shoutout to Indigo for the idea!).

Early series Sabre (TSS), Victor (MCT), Steve Labs, True Human!Sabre* (MCT, NC).

Sheep, French (TSS), Mooshroom, Assassin, Sleep fight, Flash Rainbows (RQ, TL).

Dark, Shadow, Light/Ultra, Rainbow, Reality, Galaxy Sword Sabres (TSS).

Hypnos (RQ/SL, TR, SSO/TSS), Prof. Reds (RQ/SL, TR, SSO).

Benji, Mute Witch (MCT), Messenger Dog (TSS), Luna the dog, the Peppers Family (AR).

By Series:

(MCL) Rainbow, Sabre.

(DC) Director, Thomas, the kids, Ryan, Shark.

(SSO) Ian the Guardian, Skeleton king, Sage.

(PD, RQ) Director/Gst!Sabre, Editor/O!Lucas, Orange!Time, Winnie the Pooh-bre, Red/Orange writers, Indigo costumer, Orange set builders, Violet dresser, glasses!Elemental [grnScrn lava], Gerald's assistant [human], Blue coordinator, crisis!Light, outcast!Nightmare/Infinity/Alex/Origin/Guardian.

(TSS) Fake Sabres, Black hole!Rainbow, Rainbow Tree Of Life, Great Librarian, Black hole!Nightmare, Redeemed!Nightmare, God, Diamond, Gold, Emerald, Plague, Reality*, Faceless, Fax!Light, Alex, Void creature, Sun Zombie, Elemental's Shadow, Mixed!Red/Green/Blue, Positive/Negative, Time/Elemental, Y!King ghost, Rainbow Powers [early series' 5 colors].

(TR) pre series!Sabre, Cursed!Sabre, Rainbow/Hypnbow, TFC, The Great One, Elite, Yellows.

(AR) pre series!Alux/Petro/James/Mark, magicked!Alux, post ritual!Petro, Azarel, James, Wisp.

(SL) Seer, Colle/Parrot, Deserts, Giants, Alex, Red Elites, Diamonds, Judge, Genesis/Dream, Dread, Galaxy/Ruin Beast.

(RQ) Time/Elemental, Oranges, Violets, Violet sheep, Great Librarian/Library Gates, Funny/Happy Orange, Ep 1 Red.