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hoseoksluna · 7 months ago

Text

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.

“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.

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

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aspenlovesmedia · 5 months ago

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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.

#writeblr #tintin #skulduggery pleasant #luna stone series #the unknown #the magnus archives #portals of covalia #the magnus protocol #digimon

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buckets-and-trees · 4 months ago

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Chosen, Part 2: Lunch

Characters/Pairings: eventual Bucky x curvy Millennial Female!Reader, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers Word Count: 3.2k Summary: Your day transitions from the morning tour of the interior of the Winged Heritage Foundation's estate to the grounds, followed by lunch with Natasha and Steve. You get to openly ask more questions, but the experience revealing and concealing information in turns.

SERIES Content Warnings: SOFT!DARK STORY, cult themes, explicit smut, dubious consent and enthusiastic consent, veiled truths, gaslighting

CHAPTER Content Warnings: none

Notes: No real notes here... we're still slow-burning the plot in this part.

Previous: Arrival

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You emerge from the elevator back into the ornate splendor of the mansion's main floor, and you find yourself blinking at the abrupt transition. The juxtaposition between the futuristic underground facilities and the classical elegance above ground is jarring, to say the least.

Natasha leads you down another corridor, this one adorned with intricate tapestries depicting mythological scenes. You catch glimpses of winged creatures, celestial bodies, and figures that seem to dance between worlds.

"These tapestries are some of our most prized possessions," Natasha explains, noticing your interest. "They're said to contain hidden messages and prophecies, though their true meaning has been lost to time."

You nod, captivated by the intricate designs.

As you follow Natasha down the corridor, your eyes are drawn to one tapestry in particular. It depicts a winged figure surrounded by swirling cosmic patterns, with what appears to be a full moon prominently featured. The figure’s face is obscured, but the shrouded beauty is alluring. Studying it sends a shiver down your spine, though you can't quite put your finger on why.

"That one always catches people's attention," Natasha says, noticing your gaze. "It's said to represent our founder, though of course, that's just speculation."

You're about to ask for more details when Natasha smoothly changes the subject, guiding you towards a set of French doors that open onto a stunning terrace.

Outside, the warm sunlight caresses your skin, and a gentle breeze carries the sweet scent of blooming flowers. The gardens below are a masterpiece of landscape design, with winding paths, vibrant flowerbeds, and perfectly trimmed hedges creating intricate patterns.

"This is where we hold our outdoor events," Natasha explains, gesturing to the expansive space. "It's particularly beautiful under the moonlight."

You can't help but notice how she emphasizes the word 'moonlight', her green eyes flashing with something you can't quite decipher. Before you can dwell on it, she's moving on, leading you down a set of stone steps into the garden itself, the sweet fragrance of roses and jasmine enveloping you. The path winds through the manicured hedges and flowerbeds, and Natasha guides you past a bubbling fountain adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures.

"Our gardens are more than just aesthetically pleasing," Natasha explains as you walk. "Many of the plants here have been cultivated for their unique properties. Some are quite rare, others are thought to be extinct in the wild."

You pause beside a bed of flowers you've never seen before - their petals are an iridescent blue that seem to shimmer and change hue as you move.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Natasha says, noticing your fascination. "These are known as Luna's Tears. They only bloom during the time of the full moon."

You lean in closer, marveling at the otherworldly beauty of the Luna's Tears. Their iridescent petals seem to pulse with an inner light, drawing you in. For a moment, you feel almost dizzy, as if the flowers are pulling you into their shimmering depths.

Natasha's hand on your shoulder breaks the spell. "Careful," she says softly. "They can be a bit overwhelming for some people."

You straighten up, blinking rapidly to clear your head. "They're amazing," you murmur. "I've never seen anything like them."

"They're just one of many unique specimens we cultivate here," Natasha says, guiding you away from the flower bed. "Our botanical research is quite extensive."

You can't help but notice a pattern emerging. The moon seems to be a recurring motif - in the tapestries and artwork, in Natasha's comments, and now these flowers. You wonder if there's some significance to it that you're missing.

"The full moon must be a special time here," you remark casually, hoping to probe for more information.

Natasha's eyes gleam with something that might be approval. "It is," she says. "The lunar cycle plays a significant role in many of our endeavors."

She doesn't elaborate further, instead guiding you deeper into the gardens. You pass by herb gardens filled with plants you recognize and many you don't, each section meticulously labeled and cared for.

As you round a corner, you come face to face with the entrance to a massive hedge maze. Its guarded by the statues of two wolves, their stone eyes seeming to follow you as you approach.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Natasha says, a hint of pride in her voice. "The maze is one of our most beloved features. It's said that those who reach the center will find enlightenment."

“And is the saying true?”

She arches an eyebrow at you. “Maybe you’ll have the chance to find out.”

It’s just the kind of coy answer you’ve come to expect now.

You peer into the maze, trying to gauge its size. The hedges tower over you, their dense foliage creating an impenetrable green wall. "How big is it?" you ask, unable to hide your curiosity.

Natasha's lips curl into a mysterious smile. "Bigger than it looks from the outside. Some say it changes, growing and shifting when no one's watching. But that's just a story, of course."

Standing there, contemplating the maze, a strange sensation washes over you. For a brief moment, you could swear you hear faint whispers coming from within the leafy walls, beckoning you to enter. You shake your head, attributing it to your imagination running wild after all the wonders you've seen today.

Natasha gently touches your elbow, drawing your attention away from the maze. "Perhaps we'll have time for you to explore it later," she says with a knowing smile. "For now, we should head back. It's nearly time for lunch."

As you follow her back towards the mansion, you can't shake the feeling that someone is watching you, but looking around, you don’t see anyone.

After the trek back to the mansion, the two of you ascend the steps back to the terrace, where you're greeted by yet another impressive sight that almost takes your breath away.

An elegant table has been set for three. Crystal glasses catch the light, and there’s a centerpiece of stunning white hydrangeas. Silver cutlery is arranged with military precision, flanking fine china plates adorned with delicate, hand-painted floral designs.

Steve Rogers stands beside the table, his imposing figure softened by the warm smile that lights up his face as you approach.

"Welcome back," he says, his voice warm and rich. "Did you enjoy our grounds?”

"They’re absolutely stunning," you confess easily, still a bit awestruck by everything you've seen. "I've never experienced anything quite like it."

Steve's smile broadens. "We're quite proud of our little kingdom here. Please, have a seat." He pulls out a chair for you, ever the gentleman.

As you settle into your spot, a waiter seemingly materializes out of thin air, pouring water into your crystal glass with precision. The cool liquid is a welcome relief after your walk through the gardens. In the moment, it tastes better than any glass of water you feel like you’ve had in your life, but you know that’s unrealistic, only an exaggeration of your mind and your thirst.

Natasha takes her seat across from you, while Steve sits at the head of the table. There's a moment of comfortable silence as you all arrange your napkins and take in the breathtaking view of the gardens stretching out before you.

"So," Steve begins, his blue eyes twinkling with interest, "what do you think of the Foundation so far? I hope Natasha hasn't overwhelmed you with too much information."

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, acutely aware of their attention on you. "It's been enthralling," you say, trying to find the right words. You have been shown so much, and yet you also feel as if you still don’t know why the Winged Heritage Foundation exists or what it does. "The facilities are unlike anything I've ever seen. The blend of historical preservation and cutting-edge technology is fascinating. I feel like I've only scratched the surface of what goes on here."

Steve nods approvingly. "That's exactly what we strive for here. A perfect balance between honoring the past and pushing the boundaries of the future."

As he speaks, the waiter returns, this time bearing a tray of appetizers. The dishes are works of art in themselves - delicate arrangements of colorful vegetables, artisanal cheeses, and what appears to be some kind of smoked meat.

"Please, enjoy," Natasha says, gesturing to the food. "Our chef takes great pride in using ingredients from our own gardens."

You sample the appetizers, savoring the explosion of flavors on your tongue. The vegetables are impossibly fresh, the cheese rich and complex, and the smoked meat has a depth of flavor you've never experienced before. As you eat, Steve and Natasha engage you in light conversation, asking about more about your background and interests. But as you get to the end of the appetizer course, Steve brings it back around to business.

"So, what drew you to apply to the Winged Heritage Foundation initially?" Steve asks, his tone casual but his gaze intent.

You take a sip of water, considering your answer. "To be honest, I didn’t know much before I applied - the little I knew was the Foundation's emerging reputation for excellence and I was looking for a next step with an organization that I could take pride in being a part of. The more I learn, the more fascinated I become by the scope and depth of your work here."

Natasha nods approvingly. "What aspects have you found most intriguing so far?"

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to voice the questions that have been eating away at you.

"Well," you begin, choosing your words carefully, "I've been amazed by everything I've seen today. But I have to admit, I'm still a bit unclear on the Foundation's core mission. There seems to be such a wide range of activities happening here. What exactly is the mission of the Winged Heritage Foundation?"

Steve and Natasha exchange a look, a silent communication passing between them. Steve leans forward slightly, his expression serious but not unkind.

"That's an excellent question," he says. "And I appreciate your honesty. The truth is, the full scope of our work is… complex. We operate on many levels, some of which aren't immediately apparent."

Natasha picks up where he left off. "Think of us as guardians," she says, her green eyes intense. "We preserve history, yes, but we believe that to truly understand and preserve our heritage, we need to approach it from many angles."

Steve picks up the thread smoothly. "Our founder had a vision of an organization that could bridge the gap between the past and the future. We study history not just to preserve it, but to learn from it and apply those lessons to the problems at hand.”

You nod slowly, taking in their words. "So, the research I saw downstairs, the artifacts, the gardens - they're all part of this larger mission?"

"Exactly," Steve says with an approving smile. "We use cutting-edge tools to analyze artifacts and historical data in ways that weren't possible before. But it goes beyond that. Some of our research involves… let's say, rediscovering lost knowledge. Everything here serves a purpose."

As he speaks, the waiter returns with the main course - a beautifully presented plate of what appears to be roasted game hen with seasonal vegetables. The aroma is mouthwatering.

Natasha forward in, her voice lowering slightly. "Throughout history, there have been technologies, practices, and knowledge that have been lost or hidden. We seek to uncover these secrets and understand how they might benefit us today.”

You feel a thrill of excitement at her words. The idea of uncovering lost knowledge is intriguing, but you can't shake the feeling they’re withholding something.

"That sounds fascinating," you say carefully. "But I get the sense that there's more to it than that. The level of secrecy I've observed today seems to go beyond just historical research."

Steve and Natasha exchange another look, this one lasting a beat longer. You notice Steve's jaw tighten slightly before he responds.

"You're very perceptive," he says, his voice measured. "And you're right, there is more. But understand, the nature of our work requires discretion. Not everyone is ready for the truths we uncover."

"What we do here goes beyond conventional understanding,” Natasha adds. “The knowledge we seek, the artifacts we protect - they have the potential to reshape the world as we know it. That kind of power needs to be guarded carefully."

You feel a shiver run down your spine at her words. The implications of what Natasha is saying are both thrilling and slightly terrifying. You're about to ask for more details when Steve clears his throat.

"Perhaps we've said too much," he says, his tone gentle but firm. "Let's enjoy our meal, shall we? There will be time for more in-depth discussions later, if you're the right fit for us."

You nod, understanding the subtle warning to back off for now. As you turn your attention to the exquisite meal before you, you can't help but feel a mix of excitement and apprehension. What kind of organization have you stumbled into? And more importantly, what role do they envision for you in all of this?

The conversation shifts to lighter topics as you eat. Steve regales you with amusing anecdotes about life at the estate, while Natasha occasionally chimes in with a wry comment or clarification. You find yourself relaxing despite the lingering questions in your mind, drawn in by Steve's charisma and Natasha's subtle charm.

As the waiter clears away the main course dishes, Natasha leans back in her chair, fixing you with an appraising look. "You've handled yourself well today," she says. "Many candidates find the uniqueness of our organization overwhelming."

The waiter appears once again, this time bearing a tray of desserts that look too beautiful to eat. Delicate pastries, fresh berries, and what appears to be some sort of shimmering, iridescent pudding are arranged artfully on the plate. The interruption gives you room to consider Natasha’s observation without needing to immediately respond.

You take a moment to savor a bite of the exquisite dessert. The flavors dance on your tongue - sweet, tart, and something else you can't quite place. It's delicious, and there's an underlying complexity that leaves you wanting more.

"Thank you," you start, meeting Natasha's gaze. "I have to admit, it's been a lot to take in. But I find myself more intrigued than overwhelmed, even though there's clearly so much more to learn about the Foundation."

Steve nods approvingly. "That's a good sign. We need people who can adapt quickly and maintain their composure in the face of the unexpected."

As he speaks, you notice a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The air seems to thicken slightly, and you feel a strange tingling at the base of your skull. It feels like someone is studying you again, but with the feeling coming from behind, you don’t dare to turn and look in front of Steve and Natasha.

“After lunch, you have a series of meetings with a variety of members from our organization,” Natalie shifts the focus of the conversation. “And while I don’t want to encroach on our last bit of relaxed time here, I do want to ask if you’ve had a chance to thoroughly review the elements of our proposed compensation package.”

“Oh, yes, I-”

Steve cuts in. “She’s asking because we would like you to have a pretty clear idea of whether or not you see yourself accepting a position with the Foundation after your afternoon meetings.”

You open your mouth, but close it again, unsure of how to respond.

“We’re aware that it’s an unconventional ask, but we have a unique timeline we are hoping to facilitate today. If you accept a position with us, we are hoping to extend your stay with us through this evening. There’s an event tonight where you would see so much of the Foundation’s true purpose up close and personal.”

You take a deep breath, considering your response carefully. The compensation package had been incredibly generous - almost too good to be true. And while you still have many questions about the exact nature of the Foundation's work, you can't deny the allure of being part of something so mysterious and potentially world-changing.

"I appreciate your directness," you say, meeting both Steve and Natasha's gazes. "The compensation package is certainly attractive. And everything I've seen today has been fascinating. I'm very much interested in learning more and potentially accepting a position, but..."

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to be honest. "I still feel like there's so much I don't know about what I'd actually be doing here. It's hard to commit without a clearer understanding of the role I would play."

Steve nods, a look of understanding crossing his face. "That's fair. And I admire your caution. It speaks well of your judgment. But take the afternoon, really utilize the meetings, and we’ll see where you land after that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be on my way to my next meeting.” Steve stands, offering a warm smile. "It's been a pleasure dining with you. I look forward to hearing how the rest of your day unfolds."

As he leaves, you're left alone with Natasha. The air seems to crackle with unspoken tension.

Natasha leans forward, resting her folded arms on the table, her voice low and intimate. "I know it feels like we're asking a lot of you. But trust me when I say that what we do here is important. World-changing, even. And we believe you could play a crucial role in that."

Her green eyes lock with yours, and for a moment, you feel as if she's looking right into your soul. There's an intensity to her gaze that both unnerves and exhilarates you.

"The afternoon meetings should help you really get a bearing on our culture," she continues. "But I want you to know that I've been impressed with you today. Your curiosity, your adaptability, your willingness to question - these are all qualities we value highly here. You are just the kind of person we are looking for to fill the position."

Your chest couldn’t help but swell at her words - the esteem she expressed for you going to your head, shooting you into the stratosphere. You knew she was playing her cards in courting you as a candidate, and yet you also knew that she didn’t say anything she didn’t mean. The thought that you had won her over, that she favored you for this position? It felt damn good to have that satisfaction surging through your blood.

“Thank you,” you finally say, a beat later. You take a deep breath and try to tamp down the adrenaline from this moment. Another sip of water helps bring you back to reality.

"Well," Natasha says, her voice silky smooth, "shall we move on to your afternoon meetings?"

You nod, rising from your seat, and follow Natasha back into the mansion.

NEXT PART: CONSIDERATION

I KNOW!

BUT THEY CAN'T TELL YOU MORE YET, OKAY?!

What do you think is going on here? What's in the maze? What are they researching? Why the horticulture? Is someone watching you - and who is it?

What's in that compensation package?

...

Will you get more info in the next installment?

Maybe.

Even if you don't, I can tell you that the pace starts to pick up more and you will be introduced to some interesting new characters.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #bucky barnes x reader #curvy reader #female reader #aspen wrote something #chosen au

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falsealicorn · 5 months ago

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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

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magicalgirlypop · 2 years ago

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magic witch school franchises to support instead of h*rry p*tter

so with the hbo h*rry p*tter reboot being announced, here's some magic school/witch shows to give your attention to instead of giving the queen terf your time and money

little witch academia

atsuko "akko" kagari attended a show by the witch shiny chariot when she was a child and being enamoured with her magic, decides she wants to be a witch herself. she enrolls at the magic school, luna nova. things are hard for her at first being the only student from a non magic lineage while everyone else are witches. and she does badly at school. however she grows throughout the show, both in her magic and in character.

the first half is mostly lighthearted and focuses on akko and her friends' shenanigans. the second half introduces an antagonist and is where the story starts picking up. there are some really emotional beats it hits. but of course akko triumphs through it all and picks herself back up - with some help from her friends of course.

mahoutsukai precure

the thirteenth entry in the ongoing precure franchise. it follows a young girl named mirai asahina who spots a girl flying on a broom. on following the broom, she meets riko, a witch who's from the magic world and has come to her world (called the non magic world) in search of the linkle stone emerald. but when they're attacked by a minion of the big bad, they're able to transform into legendary witches known as precure.

this is more of a magical girl show and it doesn't completely focus on the magic school..there's also episodes that take place in the non magic world. but if there's one thing that's worth watching the show for, its the tight friendship between the main charcaters. they really feel like a found family. also the ending is one of the most emotional endings in the entire franchise.

this show is part of the ongoing magical girl franchise, precure. however you don't need to have watched the previous seasons to understand this season as all the precure seasons (excluding futari wa precure max heart and yes precure 5 gogo which ars sequels to previous seasons) are standalone stories

also a sequel for mahoutsukai is coming out in 2024 which will focus on the main characters as adults

witch hat atelier

coco has loved magic ever since the day a mysterious witch at a festival sold her a picture book about its wonders. however, witches are born with magic, not taught, so coco is forced to give up that dream. one day, she sees a witch named qifrey work his magic by drawing glyphs. coco decides to try it out and discovers she can do magic by just drawing glyphs. however, when she accidentally turns her mother into stone. so qifrey takes her up as his apprentice so that she could learn magic, and hopefully reverse the spell on her mother.

coco is swept up into a world of magic snd everything she knows before is called into question. she also meets three other witches, tetia, richeh, and agott, who are also qifrey's apprentices.

one thing i adore about this series is its art. it is beautiful and gives off the magical fairy tale feel. all the characters are also really fleshed out. richeh's arc especially stuck with me as someone who has major beef with the education system in my country. it also addresses topics like ableism and systemic violence. there's also poc rep and lgbt rep (both canon and implied slow burn)

i will say if you're planning to go into this manga, trigger warning for chapter 49 because it discusses sexual assault (in a respectful way of course). if you're triggered by it you can skip that chapter and you won't really miss out on the plot.

also an anime adaptation has been announced and is currently in production.

ojamajo doremi

this is technically not a magic school franchise but it is a witch franchise so i'm gonna go ahead and recommend it anyways.

doremi harukaze, the self proclaimed "unluckiest pretty girl in the world", dreams of becoming a witch. one day, she stumbles across a mysterious shop run by a strange old woman. taking a cue from what she's read in her stories, doremi recognizes the old woman as a witch. this turns her into a witch frog, as witches who are recognized by humans become witch frogs. with this doremi has to become a witch apprentice and learn magic in order to reverse the spell. she's later joined by some of her friends.

this is a kids show but its very fun to watch. it addresses some heavy topics in a way that's understandable for kids while still mantaining its lighthearted atmosphere. it also gets really emotional at times, especially towards the end of each season.

i will say that episode 12 of ojamajo doremi naisho has a character die of cancer (its never outright called cancer but its heavily implied). so if that stuff upsets you, you can skip that episode and you won't really miss anything in the grand scheme of things.

so these are some of my favourites. feel free to add more.

#little witch academia #precure #mahoutsukai precure #witch hat atelier #ojamajo doremi #anti harry potter #anti jkr #rebecca talks

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theneondreaming · 2 years ago

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Manifest | Netflix

Manifest (TV series)

Netflix

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hypnostheory · 1 year ago

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A guide to Hyp’s Writing

Okay so I have enough fics now that I feel like I can make a little guide here. So here we go:

“Hyp, I want something sweet”

something good and right and real - After the election, Henry explores Alex’s childhood room. He finds trinkets of a young Alex that intrigue him, including a crown that gives him some ideas.

and that’s the way i loved you - Alex accidentally fell hopelessly in love with his roommate and fuck buddy Henry. He tries to plan the perfect confession, but when have any of Alex’s plots worked perfectly?

heartbeats under coats - Alex, a DC lawyer on his way back from a work trip, is stranded in New York after a freak blizzard grounds all flights. He gets the last available hotel room on the island, but a freak error means the room is double booked. Unwilling to leave the other stranded, both men agree to share the room and wait out the blizzard together.

“I want something with action and intrigue”

trouble’s gonna follow where i go - Henry thought it was silly to hire an American to be his personal guard. He didn’t care that the man had an excellent service record, the highest level of security clearance in the American government short of the president, or a black belt in six forms of martial arts. A foiled assassination attempt changes that opinion, but Henry’s gratitude is not a passive thing – Alex’s going to have to work for it.

wanting me dead has really brought you two together - Rebel smuggler Alex is caught by his nemesis, Alderaan Senator Jeffery Richards. His prompt assassination is put on hold when Richard’s bounty hunter reels in a bigger fish; Senator Henry Fox of Naboo. Turns out, Alex has more than one rival on board the ship, but he’s going to need to work with Henry if they don’t want to get killed.

move fast (and keep quiet) - Alex is a spy tasked with securing a case of diamonds being auctioned off by black market smugglers. Henry is a rival spy who happens to be tasked with receiving the same case of stones. When Henry wins the auction, Alex has to retrieve his target, no matter the cost.

“I just want something really smutty!”

you handle it beautifully - Alex, discovering Henry is having a hard time getting out of his head enough to enjoy sex, has a clear solution: recreational drug use! While on the road to self-discovery and self-actualization, Henry surprises Alex more than once.

the only thing on my mind series - Piercer!Alex teaches Henry about the inner workings of BDSM in mid-90s New York.

secret moments in a crowded room - After getting a concerned call from the man's PPO, Henry makes an effort to ensure his body double Angus is getting properly socialized. Alex is hesitant to spend time with the Henry-shaped clone, but he quickly finds himself getting charmed by the man. Angus gracefully slides from strange phenomenon to friend.

“I just want a quick one shot”

like it’s patrón - Henry meets Alexander at a gun range, but it’s not the first time they’ve met. Alex calls in a raincheck.

where every wish comes true - Alex gets locked out his apartment on Christmas Eve. He's forced to take refuge in his neighbor and occasional fuck buddy Henry's apartment, and together the two get into the Christmas spirit with the help of a festive costume and a silk ribbon.

here the whole time - Married and bonded, Henry and Alex decide it's about time to get off suppressants and start enjoying their bond fully.

“I’m here for the angst”

you were more than just a short time - David the Beagle passes. Alex is there for Henry through his grief, and through the start of moving on.

look at this godforsaken mess that you made me - Rafael Luna gets through the election by the skin of his teeth. The other two Bastardos notice.

where others gave you scars series - Henry, after living in America, realizes some of the things he’s been living with aren’t normal. Alex teaches him that his pain isn’t in his head, despite what his family thinks.

#firstprince #red white and royal blue #henry fox mountchristen windsor #alex claremont diaz #hyp writes

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thetaxicabber · 18 days ago

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Chapter 17 art for Voyagers of Time and Shadow!

This amazing art by @giselsann-opencommissions I'm so excited to continue getting art for this series! If you've read it let me know which scenes you'd like to see! :)

Here's an excerpt from this chapter!

He leads them into another room, this one bigger and dimly lit. Evie slips past them to stand by his side. She needs to try and stay in the front by him. A little brush of air has gooseflesh prickling across the back of her neck. Her heart leaps into her throat at what lies ahead. It’s an amphitheater and in the center is a large stone archway. An archway like she has not seen since her last trials. The center of this one is covered in a black curtain that flutters as if moving with the breeze that shouldn't be down here.

“Who’s there?” Harry calls out suddenly.

She sees a familiar silver sparkle ahead and surges past Harry to approach, forgetting nearly everything about why she came here. The magic guides her steps, flickering along her feet. It’s warm and familiar, like something she’d lost returning to her. Ancient magic she herself has not wielded is something she has not seen since the repository battle. It flows around her like water in a stream, bubbling up across the floor. Evie admires the crescendo at which it moves. This is the type of magic that speaks to her soul. She can feel it like a presence. This place is something connected to her magic, to her.

“Careful,” Hermione whispers but Evie hardly hears her. She’s set on getting to that magic. Whispers begin to echo through the room, tickling her ears. They’re too light to make out, like a whisper on the wind.

“Evie! Harry! Let’s go,” Hermione’s voice cracks through the room like a whip.

“What are you saying?” Harry murmurs.  

“Nobody’s talking, Harry!”

“Someone’s whispering behind there…is that you Ron?”

“I’m here Mate.” Ron sounds shaky.

“Can’t anyone else hear it?” Harry demands.

“I can hear them too,” Luna whispers. “There are people in there!”

“What do you mean, in there?" Hermione repeats in disbelief. "It’s an archway! Harry stop it! Come on!”

Evie raises her wand and all her friends voices go silent as she pulls on the ancient magic. Sparkles erupt from her wand and the whispers get a little louder. She wants to use it, to pull what is old back into the world. Only she has the power to do this. This place could have been meant for her.

Sebastian is by her side in an instant, hands raised up as if in hesitation. “Eves…what are you doing?”   

“It’s ancient magic,” she tells him excitedly. How does he not recognize the amazing hue of it? She’s shown him before. He's the only one here that understands her connection to it. He watched her in Isidora's secret places, unlocking what she left for her. This could be the same thing. Secrets of old for Evie to find has basically been her whole life. He of all people knows of her desire to use her magic. “I think I can unlock this archway like the others…”

“No!” Sebastian’s voice is firm and his hand closes over her wand arm, forcing it back to her side. Evie blinks at him, angry that he lowered her arm with force. He's never done that before. He's never questioned her abilities like this either. “Evie no. Whatever this is…it’s not for you. We’re here to help Harry.”

The archway is calling to her and something inside her wants to answer. Sebastian has to all but drag her back outside of the room. He keeps a firm hold on her. Harry, Luna, and Neville look disoriented as Evie shakes herself out of stupor. Whatever that was she needs to look into once this is all done. But it’s not for regular witches and wizards. That is for her and her alone. She will need to get back there to find out more.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts oc #slytherin mc #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #dumbledore's army #order of the phoenix book #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hp fanfic #Hp era

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tinietaehyun · 1 year ago

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Forsaken [IV]

[Sorcerer!Taehyun x Royal!Reader] [Series] [Chapter Four]

Pairing: Sorcerer!Taehyun x Royal!Reader [Ft. Beomgyu]

Genres: royal!au, fantasy, romance, supernatural, action, enemies to lovers.

Contains: Profanity, much dialogue, bickering, suggestive mention, mentions of death, poison.

Links: Forsaken Masterlist || Masterlist

Summary: With you on the run from the knights of Luna; you’re filled with panic. What on earth were you both going to do? You’re surprised that Taehyun even thought to come back for you!

With the way he grasps your hand leading you through the bustling streets fearlessly; you start to feel your heart pounding. Maybe that was just the adrenaline? Yes, perhaps.

You’d only just gotten into Luna and now the both of you were being chased as if you were two criminals. You’d be sure to have a word with Prince Choi about the welcome reception!

Trembling and flailing you try to shake off the grip of the knights. You snarl, “You scumbags!” The knight grunts, “Just cooperate, your highness! You wouldn’t know of the money at stake here!”

Before you can reply; the two knights are flung off; their armour clattering atrociously with the stone walls as they slam into it. You crouch covering your head afraid. What the hell?

You peer up cautiously seeing Taehyun - his left arm outstretched with his intricate wand pointed ahead. The breeze blows across his noir cloak; a fierce expression on his visage. A dark aura emanates off him after the shockwave he released. He sprints towards you with his dark irises locked onto your own. He saved you? He heard your pathetic cries for help?

Instantaneously, he grabs your wrist hoisting you up, as he crudely mutters, “The fuck went wrong? Did your obnoxious self offend them?” Offended, you snap, “Of course not!” Before Taehyun can snarkily retort; one of the knights gets up stumbling forward and drawing his sword, with the other knight following behind.

Without thinking, Taehyun peers through the stone arch into the market streets of Luna; bustling and brimming with people. He mutters, “Good enough.” With that, he drags you behind him as you both take off into a sprint into the Kingdom of Luna.

Your mind scrambles with panic. What in the absolute hell was he doing? Is he insane? Why was going into the kingdom? He maneuvers you through the crowds of people on the market street. “Sorry, sorry! Apologies-“ tumble out of your mouth as you bump into and push past people who either glare or cuss at you. Taehyun scoffs shoving a man to the side, “Move it!” Oh goodness…

The both of you continue sprinting down the street drawing attention from passer-bys. You peer back at Taehyun - the way his grip on your wrist was tight, firm. His expression radiates one of determination and sheer will. His blonde locks bounce and sprawl themselves over his forehead messily as you both run. His lips part with breaths tumbling out raggedly.

You feel as though the world around you slows down. All you can focus on is Taehyun. His fierce gaze scanning around rapidly; his furrowed brows. He looked…heroic. A knight in shining armour, a Prince Charming (or not so charming, perhaps) to save the day. Something out of the numerous tales you’ve read in your books.

A thought appears in your mind. Why was he doing this for you? He was not obligated to do this; for all he cared, he could have let you get caught. Why did he run all the way back to save you? A smile twitches on your lips - perhaps he’s not as cold as he comes off.

“Don’t drag on- come on, run!” He snaps, breaking you out of your outer-body experience. You glare, “You’re the one who ran in here! Instead of out!” He scoffs, “As if I had adequate time to think and plan ahead-“ Your lungs burn and your legs ache incredibly. You didn’t know how much longer you could run for. “Where are we going?” You yell.

“No fucking clue, sweetheart,” you hear him breathlessly laugh; you realise he is feeling thrilled, exhilarated even. He was…enjoying this.

What on earth? Then again, he has been isolated for such a long time, living a life of much monotony. Albeit, he wasn’t alone, but you knew what it felt like to live a repetitive life. You preferred it to this, though, that’s for sure.

His pearly smile was gorgeous, making your own lips turn upwards. Taehyun peers over his shoulder with a smirk, “Excited to be wrongfully painted as criminals?”

The smile flies off your face and you yelp, “Absolutely not!” An exhilarated cackle leaves his lips. He was not used to such liveliness, it felt new, it felt good. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to get you both out of this- ah, he’ll figure something out.

A clanking of metal resounds and you both peer behind you seeing more knights have begun chasing you, making for quite the spectacle. Taehyun’s fingertips glow with power as he sends large golden orbs flinging them behind you to slow them down; you watch on in awe. Wait- now was not the time!

You screech seeing a new set of knights appearing from the nearby road resulting in Taehyun swerving sharply to the next left. You almost stumble and trip over the cobblestone of the road. You snarl, “Careful!” Ignoring your anger, he continues pushing forward as his eyes scan left to right trying to find somewhere to hide.

He catches sight of a small nook between a book shop and apothecary. Immediately, he swings you forward with all his might and shoves you into the tiny space. You gasp, panting for breath and you snap, “What the-“

His hand slams onto your mouth, shutting you up sufficiently. Your shoulders slouch and your gaze morphs into a glare. “Keep your pretty mouth shut if you don’t want to be caught, got that?” Taehyun hums lowly; his lips just itching to form a smirk.

He slots himself further into the nook pressing himself against you; chest to chest and legs entangled awkwardly. His satchel pokes into your hip; how dreadfully awkward.

Heat flushes your face and warmth encompasses your body from the proximity. You’ve not been this close to a man- except Huening Kai. You’ve hugged him of course- not, not whatever this is! How preposterous! Your heart rate soars upon seeing his face up close.

Taehyun writhes against you uncomfortably, squeezing deeper into the crevice with you. “Move your arm,” he orders. You comply as he presses his hand to the wall beside your head to support himself in his awkward position against you. His face was a mere few inches from your own.

You take note of the beads of sweat that trickle down his temples; the shaky exhalations and his part lips. Taehyun’s chic and handsome features capture your gaze. His ragged breath mingles with yours. An intimate position that had you feeling both anxious and breathless.

His signature black cloak forms almost a barrier covering your bodies thanks to his outstretched arm. If any passer-by’s were curious enough to look, they would think you both were up to something rather…devious. You shake your head; what were you thinking? Embarrassment floods your features; why would you think along those lines? You disliked this egotistical man. Yes, you merely were working together. This was out of convenience.

Both of your panting slows down. Immediately, you both stiffen hearing the crunch of rushed footsteps nearby accompanied by yelling; indeed it sounded like a group of knights. Instinctively, your fingers clutch the hem of his cloak tightly.

You go to move and take a peek and Taehyun whispers, “Are you stupid?” Glaring, you scoff quietly, “Says you, genius!”

Rolling his eyes, he murmurs, “Give it a while, princess. Patience. Who knows where they could be at? They could be waiting at the end of the street for all we know?” You huff in irritation.

Your gazes lock onto each other; finding almost a drop of comfort in his dark eyes. He muses, “I’m surprised you didn’t faint back there out of fear.”

“Didn’t have much time to process anything, forget fainting,” you scowl. Smirking, he snarks, “I’m curious. You pissed them off or something?” You grimace at his vocabulary, “No! Why always blame me?”

Taehyun’s eyes glimmer as he leans slightly closer, musing, “Oh, I don’t know. You seem like the type to unintentionally cause trouble.” You roll your eyes, “Of course, you’d say that.” You frown, “But seriously, the reason why they grabbed me…there’s a bounty on my head.”

“Seriously?” He quips, surprised. Angrily, you snap, “I can’t believe Sehun would do such a thing! I- the knights looked… twisted, almost excited to see me,” you shudder.

Taehyun murmurs, “I suppose having a price tag on your head does that.” You scoff, “Lucky you don’t, huh.” He gleams amused, “I’m not worth much in comparison to you, sweetheart.”

Taehyun smirks, “So what’s the bounty amount?Maybe I’ll take a shot.” You snap with narrow eyes, “I-I don’t know! Probably a lot? And as if I’ll let you lay a hand on me.” He hums, “Now that’s some high self-worth.”

You deadpan, “You’ll be next. I’ll put a bounty on you, sorcerer.” His eyes twinkle in a challenge, “I’m not as easy to catch as you are, princess.” You scoff, “Look who’s talking about self-worth to me.”

Taehyun snarks, “Oh? Where are your manners? Is that how you talk to your saviour? You should be on your knees, thanking me.”

You peer up at him fiercely. The gall of this man! Slyly, he hums, scanning your angered face, “Then again, the sight of you on your knees might give passer-bys the wrong idea...” You smack his shoulder as he grins unashamed. Imbecile.

You grit out flustered, “Open your mouth one more time and I’ll-“

He leans closer, “Or you’ll what? Use your big words. Hit me with it, princess.” How utterly condescending. Your gaze flickers to his lips - to his coy smirk; he’s enjoying getting you flustered, getting you annoyed. Shakily, you murmur, “I’ll…”

There’s just something about him that irks you incredibly. From his arrogance, condescending attitude, but there’s slivers of hopefulness, a kind heart under that icy exterior, perhaps even a touch of deep sorrow. Your moment is shattered as you both hear more footsteps and yelling.

The clanking of armour resounds and you hear one of the passing knights remark, “Search the area. This is where they were last seen according to some witnesses. Check all the alleys and nooks.”

Taehyun mutters frustrated, “Oh, we’re fucked.” You flinch; you still had to get used to his profanity. You glare, “Well, it was not my idea to be cramped up in-“ You stiffen as one of the knights peers in your direction; his eyes widen, “Wait! Between the bookshop and the apothecary!” Ah drat!

Before you can respond; Taehyun grabs your wrist and you both sprint out of the nook. Other guards surround you in a semi-circle formation. Taehyun summons his wand as he murmurs something, a dark smoke emanates out of his wand.

“Put the wand down! Or we’ll shoot!” One knight shouts; your eyes enlarge seeing the other knights aiming their arrows at you both in their bows. You snarl, “Do you realise who you’re aiming at here? This would count as an open attempt at assassination!”

Taehyun squeezes your hand and he huffs with a dark grin, “Keep calm, I’ll just turn them into mindless puppets and-“ You snap, “No way!”

The knight bellows, “Wand down. Now!”

You had to deescalate the situation; you did not want deaths on your hands in a foreign kingdom; your parents worked tirelessly to obtain allies. You couldn’t ruin it. There had to be a more diplomatic solution, you were sure of it! You just had to convince the Crown Prince!

Suddenly, you step in front of Taehyun, your arms outstretched bamboozling him. His expression is malevolent; a frustrated aura around him. It perhaps scared you. “What are you doing, princess? Don’t be foolish.”

Glaring at him, you ignore his remark and face the knights as you announce, “We-We are not a threat. I am well aware of the bounty on my head. I merely came here to seek his highness, Crown Prince Choi.”

One of the knights narrows his eyes; his hand on the hilt of his sword, “Crown Prince Beomgyu? What business do you have? You barely even have regal status anymore?” What did he mean by that?

Your jaw stiffens and anger consumes you, “Mind your words. I may not rule Fortuna, but I am still part of the royal family. We are allies with Luna. I have the right to seek your ruler. Does your Prince know of this absurd bounty?”

Taehyun scoffs; his fingers itching to turn these pathetic knights into mere ash. It was useless talking to these numbskulls; what did you think you were doing? You were far too naive. The knights remain silent processing your words.

“All I ask is for the opportunity to speak to his highness and explain my situation to him. If he then decides to ignore my plea, then let what happens, happen.” You sigh exasperated.

Taehyun indignantly scoffs, “You cannot be serious. You think he’ll side with you, when his knights are already thinking about the money they’ll get if they capture you?”

You huff, “I just need one opportunity, Taehyun. I’m rather persuasive.” He deadpans, “You? Persuasive? Dissuasive you mean.” You glare unimpressed. You hum snarkily, “Plus, you’re with me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He grunts. You hum, “You’ve come this far, can’t leave me now.”

Taehyun mutters, crossing his arms, “You’re going to make me regret saving you, aren’t you? Brat.” You give him a sugary sweet smile.

The knights peer on slightly awkwardly at your exchange and the other knight cuts in, “Right, well. Fine. But you must abide by our rules, your highness. You do not have as much power as before. You will be escorted shortly.” Your shoulders slacken in relief; thank goodness!

The knight continues, eyes flickering to Taehyun beside you, “Also no uncontrolled magic use within the kingdom.”

Taehyun sneers, “Why a little dark magic got you trembling behind that armour of yours?” You grit out, “Taehyun.” You smile back at the knight awkwardly, “Sorry, he’s a little rabid at times.” Taehyun glares into the back of your head, gritting out, “I’m not a dog.” You beam brightly back at him, “Be a good boy and follow the nice old knights here.” You hear some of the knights around you snicker.

Taehyun grumbles with a death stare aimed at you. He should have just turned you in a mushroom back the damn woods; would have saved everyone the trouble.

Both of you are escorted through the streets to your misery as people watch on with curious or appalled expressions. Well, safe to say, you were both humbled. As you reached the grandiose gates of the palace, you were relieved.

He mutters, “Fucking, disgusting place.”

You glare, “You’re going to be imprisoned at this rate.” You notice how tense he is; you did know he was not a fan of the palace. He was banished by the royal court after all.

“Should’ve left you behind,” he grumbles. You scoff, “You’re so mean, you know that?” The knights sigh, peering at your conversation; how bothersome.

Eventually, you both enter a large foyer. The intricate tapestries catch your eye. You had only been here twice, albeit when very young. You hadn’t seen the crown prince often, you saw him when he was pretty much a young teen. He was often horse riding or training. The interior of the foyer was just as beautiful as you remember.

The palace staff whizz by you all gazing widely at you. You suppose your reputation was in shambles at the moment. Taehyun sits grumpily on one of the tufted velvet chairs with one leg atop the other and his cheek resting on his palm. You roll your eyes sitting beside him, “Don’t be a baby. Suck it up.” He throws you a glare, “I could have been home by now, reading by my fireplace, but no…here I am babysitting you.”

You shrug, crossing your arms, “Well, perhaps fate had different plans.” Taehyun grunts, “Well fate sucks.” You scoff; how grouchy could a man be?

A maid approaches you with a curt smile, “My lady, here is some of our finest freshly brewed tea.” Ah, finally some decent etiquette and manners befitting your status! “Thank you,” you utter brightly.

You reach out for the cup feeling parched and your eyes widen as your cup gets stolen in front of your eyes. Taehyun grins at the maid, “Thanks,“ he sips on the tea cup. Your tea cup. The maid stands there gawking in silence, holding her empty tray and you sit there appalled.

He did not. You snap to face him, “You heathen! That was for me! Not for you!” Taehyun hums delightfully while sipping your tea, “Don’t be a baby, suck it up. Isn’t that what you said?” You let out a shrill yelp of exasperation, “You damn pest!” The maid quietly retreats unbeknownst to the both of you squabbling.

“Idiot! There’s already water in your ugly satchel!” You snap. Taehyun shrugs, “Well, help yourself then,” he unbuckles the satchel. You seethe, “My imbecilic self called for your name, oh what a fool I was!” You lean back on the backrest sighing loudly.

He snorts, “Oh? That’s rather ungrateful. But I suppose, for you noble folk, that’s all you know how to be, huh?”

If it weren’t for you being royalty; you’d have choked him out and used quite the colourful vocabulary. You peer away huffing, “Do not test me.” He sarcastically drawls, “Oh, I am so scared. Trembling in fact. Have mercy, princess.”

Taehyun smirks at your seething figure; he found it rather endearing. Your sparky remarks and insults. The way your brows would furrow and your lips would pout ever so slightly when you spouted angrily. Your large eyes peering at him, oh so infuriated. You were akin to a kitten hissing - wanting to be perceived as a threat but just coming off as adorable.

Fuck. Get it together, Taehyun. He shakes his head running his hands through his blonde locks.

“You-!” You turn around ready to grab his stupid cloak by the collar.

“Oh? This is certainly the sight.” A husky yet mischievous toned voice interrupts your outburst and you both stiffen. You peer over and your eyes enlarge, abruptly standing. Prince Beomgyu?

You clear your throat, lowering your head out of respect, “Your highness.” A chuckle escapes the handsome man’s lush lips, “Hm, no need for formalities, Beomgyu is fine. We’re of similar age, no?”

You’re stunned; he’s changed so much. You remember how adorable he looked when he was younger, sporting a round headed short bowl haircut and a cute face. Now he’s grown into his features; having a sharp piercing gaze and sleek face overall. Truly, he was the epitome of a Prince Charming; something out of your books you’d fawn over. Your heart flutters; you’d never expected him to grow up so well.

His lips form an amused smirk; his eyes scanning you over briefly, “My, my, you look different.” You murmur, “I hope in a good way?” His eyes glimmer for a moment and he hums amused, “Very.”

Taehyun walks beside you clearing his throat, “Now that you’ve finally graced us with your presence, your highness. Could we get to the main matter at hand? I want to go home.” You freeze. You peer over glaring, “Taehyun. Some respect.”

Beomgyu smirks peering at the man beside you, he muses, “This…is your travelling companion, no? The one that threatened my knights. Attacked them with orbs? Quite the bold one.”

You awkwardly smile, “Ah, well- you see-“

Taehyun cuts in, “What type of hospitality do you have? A noble walks in, and your men decide to manhandle her for a bounty?” You mumble, “Well, he’s right but still-“

Beomgyu peers between the two of you quietly before bursting out laughing.

Taehyun deadpans, “What’s so funny?” You elbow him with a glare, “Shut it, sorcerer.”

Beomgyu laughs, “Oh my, this is hilarious. You two are like cat and dog.” You hiss, “Well, we all know who’s the dog. Always barking. Doing stupid things.”

Taehyun grits out, “Yeah, you.”

Beomgyu hums, shaking his head, “Moving on, please seat yourselves. I had heard about your insistence to meet me, princess.” You smile sitting down, “Y/n, is fine.” Taehyun scoffs beside you.

You murmur, “Well, yes, you are our ally kingdom after all.” Beomgyu’s expression becomes serious, “Your father. My condolences, by the way. I couldn’t make it to the funeral; there was serious conflict in the North. So my mother attended on my behalf.” You frown, “I- It’s fine.”

“Fortuna is in a dire situation isn’t it? I have heard about the tough decision to strip you of your title.” You stiffen as your blood runs cold. Your title? What? Taehyun freezes beside you at the words. No way. Absolutely no way. Before you could process anything, Beomgyu continues, “Oh right- My condolences again.” You nod, “Again? What do you mean? For my position?”

Beomgyu peers at you confused, “Do…do you not know? Oh- well I suppose you were on the run and all, apologies.” You stammer, “Know what?”

Beomgyu quietens for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry, goodness, I didn’t expect to be the one to break this to you, but your mother, the Queen… she-“

You heard enough.

Taehyun straightens up with wide eyes, “Queen Iseul? She’s passed?” Beomgyu nods solemnly, “I received the letter a day ago.” You sit there shattered; a sense of deep regret and pain fills you. Tears well up in your eyes and you find yourself being unable to form any words.

“Y/n?” Beomgyu calls. Taehyun peers at you with a saddened expression, “Princess, I…”

Your hands form shaky fists. Your mother finally succumbed to the slow poison. Sehun…you would go to hell for this, you bastard. Everyone in on it, would go to hell. Memories of you and your mother flood your brain.

Beomgyu peers at Taehyun slightly regretful, “Should have I not broken the news?”

Taehyun mutters, “It’s better now than later.” Beomgyu frowns, “I suppose so.” He continues, “Y/n, I’d like to apologize for the earlier behaviour of my knights. It appears they still require proper discipline training.” You don’t say anything having become quiet.

Your mother couldn’t even see you before she died. How pitifully she must have passed knowing the peril of Fortuna.

Taehyun observes you closely and he murmurs to Beomgyu, “Actually, may we discuss the current circumstances at another time? Is there somewhere we could stay for the time being until she..”

Beomgyu nods, “Our guest wing is available. I was going to suggest it anyway. Our head maid will escort you. You both have had an exhausting day, it is best to rest.”

Beomgyu peers at you with a melancholy expression, “Y/n, please make yourself at home. Take all the time you need. I apologise for the turn this took.” You sniffle, “No, no, thank you for telling me.” You stand up.

You wanted to be alone. To bawl your eyes out and scream like your soul was being ripped from your very being. Beomgyu summons the head maid and you frailly smile at him on the verge of breaking down. Hold it in, y/n.

Why did nothing ever work out for you?

Beomgyu softly murmurs, “I shall see you later. Lunch and dinner will be brought to your chambers.” You nod lifelessly.

Taehyun awkwardly murmurs, “I apologise for being so upfront and rude earlier, your highness.”Beomgyu muses, “It’s quite alright. You’ve had a rough time.”

Soon enough, you’re both escorted to your guest rooms. Taehyun’s room is beside yours. He stands outside your door as you peer up at him; your eyes glazing over.

Tears finally brim over streaming down your cheeks and his brows furrow as he looks at you pained. “Sweetheart,” he calls out frowning.

You heave out breaths beginning to sob. He stands there stiffly for a minute peering at your shaking form before he steps forward, arms outstretched, “Princess?” You weep, wrapping your arms around him sobbing into his cloak. It felt soft against your cheek; comforting as his body seeps through it.

Taehyun peers down at you in his arms pitifully. Frankly, he didn’t know how to comfort someone - no, it had been too long. For some reason, seeing you cry, weeping, it hurt him. It hurt him oddly to see you like this, this vulnerable. He preferred when you were glaring your pretty eyes into his soul.

You were determined, pure in your pursuit. He saw that. People like you always got the short end of the stick. You weren’t like the other nobles; as much as you tried to portray yourself to be. You were like a book he could read back to front. It frustrated him, he found himself being strangely fond of you.

That’s just probably because he was isolated for so long. That’s all, nothing more. Just a forlorn sense of loneliness, that’s all.

You force yourself to pull away from his oddly warm embrace and turn around to walk into your room. What were you doing? You were already a burden to him. You dragged him here this far. He was probably incredibly fed up with you.

Once you were better, you’d apologise to him. You’d allow him to go home. This wasn’t his battle to fight. It was yours. He complained enough, anyway.

Croaking out, you go to close the door with a weak smile, “Get some rest, Taehyun.” He merely nods blank-faced. The closing click of your door resounds and you sink down to the floor once more wallowing in your tears.

You’d make him pay.

You’d make Sehun, grovel at your feet for mercy. Whether that be your last wish or not.

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