#miscelunaaa

[minisugakoobies]

FIC TITLE GAME THINGY??????????????????????

the title is "Blow me one last kiss"

OKAY I LUB YOU GOOD BYEEEEE

Em! Are you thinking of the Pink song that is now stuck in my head?

Title: Blow Me One Last Kiss

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader, mentioned Namjoon x Reader

Genre: fake dating, crack, smut, friends to lovers

Summary: It's not fair. It's been a year since you and Namjoon broke up, and while your love life has been in the gutter, your ex is thriving. When you discover that he's bringing his new flavor to your high school reunion, you decide there's only one thing to do: ask your successful (and hot) friend Yoongi to be your pretend boyfriend, all to make Namjoon jealous. But as the big day draws near, you start to question just how much the two of you are faking.

#fanfic title game #min yoongi #kim namjoon #lovely moots #miscelunaaa

[bonvoyagenoona]

i got a man but I want u ✨ (bias selfie tag)

Was tagged by the beautiful @palpalopaloma and the gorgeous @miscelunaaa​! Thank you, and sending you that warm, chill energy back to you tenfold @palpalopaloma​, as well as that precious adorable Namgi sweetness @miscelunaaa​!

Here’s my introvert line bias set (minus apparent newcomer Hobi?!):

Tagging @mochilatae @skyys-universe @playmetheclassics @purgatorywriter and anyone else who’d like to join!

#memes and games #lol been a while since i've done this!! #thanks for the tag paloma! #yoongi #jungkook #jin #lolllll jin god love him #miscelunaaa

[bangtanintotheroom]

MY BELOVED DREAM TEAM … team??? Triad!! How are y’all doing?????? Has your new relationship been thriving? And weird spots?? I hope y’all are doing well 💜

DT Trio: Hi!

DT Namjoon: We're doing great!

DT Hoseok and OC: What he said!

DT OC: Thriving as much as it can be! Still a lot of obstacles to work through but we're doing our best. *beams at the guys*

DT Hoseok: Yup, we're managing. *chuckles* Actually, funny story about something that happened the other day. I came home from work and found Joon and Y/N messing around but I wasn't sure if I should leave them be or join in...

DT OC: *rolls eyes* Oh please, you knew what you wanted to do.

DT Namjoon: Yeah, the second I asked if you wanted in, you ripped your clothes off and hopped in the bed.

DT Hoseok: 😅

#character asks #dream team #emmmmm 💖 #miscelunaaa #my lovely moots

[raplinesmoon]

I know you're on a break rn but if you're feeling up to it and need a break from the break, here's this <3

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

hope you're doing well, isi!

Hello Em! Thank you for thinking of me, you're so sweet. I actually do currently need a break from the madness of real life so this is great timing!

Let's get into it (yuh) in no particular order:

On The Ropes - what else can I say? I adore this Seokjin and this OC with every bit of me, and their journey means so much to me as a person and a writer. I hope they show everyone that you can recover from your past, make mistakes, and still be happy in the end (because at the end of the day, everyone deserves to live a happy and fulfilled life). I'll never get tired of their story.

2. Autumn Leaves - I was just talking to Mars (@joheunsaram) about how this fic always makes it onto my list of favorites. It's one of the works I'm most proud of, and I do wish it got more recognition at times. However, sometimes I'll just go back and read it myself and cry over how deep and profound Hoseok's love is in this story.

3. October - you already know it! This fic is just one big sob-fest for me. It was also one of the fics where I focused more on the development of the member's character instead of the OC, and so it was a fun challenge. It holds a deep personal meaning to me bc it helped me through a period of loss, and I hope it does the same for others.

4. The Library of Our Love - my very first fic! If someone asked me which OC I'm most like, I would say this one, because they're literally based on me! My entire heart is in this fic, it's the most vulnerable piece of myself I've offered up for anyone to read. Fun fact: when my best friend found out I wrote fics, she asked to read this one and it made her cry because she remembers this happening to me in real life and how much it affected me.

5. An Age of Oddities - a recent addition to the list, but this was a fic I thought I'd never write. The task of recreating the tone and entire Gothic vibe was a big challenge and something new for me, but I thought it worked out beautifully! I'm super proud of the writing in this one, not to mention I am constantly thirsting over Don Jung, our favorite rake!

#asks #ask games #miscelunaaa #thank you em! this was very fun #it also made me realize that my masterlist is a mess tho #brb omw to fix it!

[joheunsaram]

for the ask game, 6, 22, 24 <3

hewwwwo em! thank you for playing along! hehe

6. name three books that changed your life.

omg this is so so tough. famous five by enid Blyton - it was one of the first books I read and really got me into reading for fun when I was a kid. I love that series so much! creativity inc by ed catmull - this is one of my fav books not only because its about Pixar but the leadership techniques showcased in it really made me into a better person when heading a team. A clockwork orange by Anthony burgess - it taught me patience lol cause that slang is something I hate with every fibre of my being but that being said, I think it was one of the first books I read as a teenager that made me cry (even though I hated I was crying for him).

22. favorite beverage?

already answered here :)

24. are you reading a book at the moment? what do you like about it?

im currently reading nihilism by nolan gertz im just a sucker for philosophy books. I like reading about other people's idea of life and what they make of it. also I love how in the beginning he says that no one can really be a nihilist if they call themselves that because that means they believe in nihilism and true nihilists don't believe in anything. I laughed at that so hard lol

Ask me random questions to fill my inbox 💜

#lovely moots #miscelunaaa #em #ask games

[ugh-yoongi]

hi! would it be alright if i asked what your favorite namjoon fics are? thank you and have a great day 💗🥹

hello nonnie, it is always okay to ask me for fic recs! <3

most of these works contain mature themes/content. please heed tags and do not engage with any explicit work if you are a minor!

i know there are a bunch i've forgotten, so please reblog and share your own work and your faves!

also, please note: there are a lot of fics on these lists that are posted to ao3. it has recently come out that a volunteer was removed from their position for being pro-palestine (you can find the twt thread here). i am in the process of looking for a better alternative, but until then, it is unfortunately probably the best way to share these stories. while i personally won't be posting to or reading on ao3 for the time being, how you choose to engage going forward is completely up to you! i just wanted to make sure i was being transparent.

namjoon x reader

anything by @effortandmore

anything by @hamsterclaw

anything by @miscelunaaa

1-year anniversary by @johobi

omerta by @anotherbtswriter

hammer it home series by @gukslut

hey, it's me & leave no trace behind by @yoongiphoria

love bytes by @stutterfly

real magic & park and ride by @here2bbtstrash

house of cards & guilty by @xjoonchildx

lacuna by @eoieopda

dream team by @bangtanintotheroom (feat. hobi)

cyanide on my bedsheets by @jimilter

laundry day by @snackhobi

bloom by @hobidreams

the snow globe effect by @gukyi

you've got a friend in me by @wwilloww

pronoia by @junghelioseok

limbo by @beahae

love hard by @raplinesmoon

swiss miss by @here4kpopfics (feat. seokjin)

my feet to follow, and my heart to hold by @daechwitatamic

a fine line by @moni-logues

roommates with benefits

as always, mxm fics under the cut!

member x member

softer than steel (namseok)

frustrations in late foucault (namseok)

the universe needs more you (namseok)

in your atmosphere (namseok)

why don't you figure (my heart) out (namseok)

i'm on fire (rap line)

delta (rap line)

꽃꽂이. kkotkkoji (namjin)

you have 1 new message (namjin)

beta tau sigma (namjin)

white rabbit (namjin)

local dumbass idiot helps sexy criminal and then writes sad bird poems instead of just saying Yes Seokjin I Like You Too (namjin)

easy (namjin)

and they were roommates (namjin)

burn me like an ember (namjin)

the understood boundaries of self (namjin)

more walls (collected along the way) [namjin]

imprints & magnitude (namjin)

salt water (namjinkook)

disgruntledofficebrat [active] (namkook)

you can leave the cape on (namkook)

108 degrees (namkook)

the whole of the moon (namkook)

travelogue with a frat boy (namkook)

it's a color that i can't describe (namkook)

how much to give and how much to take (namkook)

the courage of stars (namkook)

come take it (if you want a piece of me) [namkook]

a feel so sweet (namgikook)

objects in mirror are closer than they appear (namgi)

green carnation (namgi)

the added bonus (namgi)

tear you apart (namgi)

different when i'm with you (namgi)

adrift (namgi)

i'll fuck you if you let me, baby (namgi)

sleepless in (namgi)

恋の予感 (namgi)

take it or leave it (namgi)

baby, but we will (namgi)

verified amateurs [online now] (namgi)

cyrano more like cyraNO (namgi)

record it for later (namgi)

into the red morning (taejoon)

don't call it love (taejoon)

i am red with love (taejoon)

the bad thing (minimoni)

you were more than just light (minimoni)

wish we'd fall in love (minimoni)

but i want it anyway (minimoni)

#namjoon x reader #namjoon smut #namjoon imagine #namjoon scenarios #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fic recs #fic rec

[marxy-06]

Favorites Rec List 2

More of my favs -> If you have any recs please share :))

Kim Seokjin

Forever (@oddinary4bts)

Rekindle The Spark (@blue-jade)

The Cockpile: Change of Pace (@httpjeon)

Every Year (@another-army-spot)

Christmas Warfare (@gimmethatagustd)

Feathers (@miscelunaaa)

Embers of the Fire (@chateautae)

Min Yoongi

He Makes You Insecure (@kookiesbuckethat)

Tuqburni (@solastia)

Fuck Being Friends (@strawberrynamjoon)

Jung Hoseok

In desperate need of recommendations!!

Kim Namjoon

Sugar (@joonberriess)

Scent of a Woman (@sahmfanficbts)

Park Jimin

Tuqburni (@solastia)

Blue Kamikaze (@gguksgalaxy)

Headlights (@jeonsjiddies)

Believe it (@writtenwhalien)

Lover to Lean on (@sketchguk)

Making Him Jealous (@parkmuse)

Ain't Real Cherry (@jimilter)

Kim Taehyung

Aplomb (@vminity21)

Temping (@kinktae)

Pretty Little Things (@dntaewithluv)

Not That Good (@taleasnewastime)

Underdog (@whitesparrows97)

Good Girls go Bad (@jkstompers)

Kodachrome (@hobivore)

Tolerate it (@archivedkookie)

Tripping on Skies, Sipping Waterfalls (@bangtae-sohotddaeng)

Original Idea (@whatifyoulivelikethat)

Jeon Jungkook

Late Fee (@1kook)

Are You Going to Stay (@hollyhomburg)

In Your Eyes (@sweetaesuga)

All That Glitters (@aquagustd)

Hot In Black (@vminizzle)

Resurgence (@wintrbears)

Ruin the Friendship (@kpopfanfictrash)

Love Knows No Bounds (@jessikahathaway)

The Present (@btssmutgalore)

Kodachrome (@hobivore)

Making Him Jealous (@parkmuse)

Stay (@sahmfanficbts)

Must Be Nice (@kooksgalaxy)

OT7

You Never Walk Alone (@agustdakasuga)

Oasis (@secret-kpoplibrary)

Hurts your feelings Reaction [Maknae Line] (@thebangtancloud)

Combined Beings (@numinousher)

Escape (@amazedforjjk)

#fanfic #park jimin #jungkook #bts jhope #bts namjoon #bangtan seokjin #min yoongi #kim taehyung #bts x reader #bts fanfic #fanfic rec

[hamsterclaw]

Fic Library: Yoongi (Pt 1)

My ult bias, it makes sense that there were too many to fit into one list. All of these authors capture the essence of my favourite tsundere king, check these stories out and show them some love.

Pause by @whatifyoulivelikethat. Music producer MYG x reader, domestic abuse. The first time I ever slid into an author's DMs was after I read this, to let them know how much I loved this story. It's unexpected, and profoundly beautiful, and re-reading it now takes me back to where I was when I first read it.

Like Butter by @bonvoyagenoona. Photographers MYG x reader, director KNJ x reader. Set in the setting of a magazine production team, and featuring a very sexy scene with our fave maknae and a scheming Park Jimin.

Countermelody by @bonvoyagenoona. Producer MYG x shopgirl/musician reader. A gorgeously rendered enemies to lovers story that's as much about life, love, new starts, self belief as it is about Min Yoongi and his beanie. IYKYK.

Moonlit throne by @hobidreams.Joseon king Yoongi x reader, historical AU. The seminal Joseon dynasty story told in a non-linear timeline with a perfectly characterised Yoongi and incredible attention to detail.

Three Tangerines by @kithtaehyung. Fuckboy Yoongi x f! reader, brother's best friend AU. 3tan makes it onto almost every fic rec list I've seen, and deservedly so - the dialogue slaps, the writing's sharp and this Yoongi's irresistible.

Bet on it by @minisugakoobies. Quizzers Yoongi x reader, featuring a super competitive reader and Yoongi with a blonde undercut. Hot, fun and hilarious.

Perpetual Datejust by @jiminrings. Model Yoongi x manager reader. A very sweet, romantic read, with a devoted reader and a healthy dose of angst.

Sodium Vapor by @miscelunaaa. Yoongi x f! reader. An atmospheric, wistful read about a chance meeting that also has Em's signature raw honesty.

Man of the year by @raplinesmoon. Single dad Yoongi x gn reader. A sweet, heartwarming read, and Yoongi's relationship with his daughter is adorable.

Look down on me like that by @here2bbtstrash. Co-workers Yoongi x reader, enemies to lovers. There's nothing better than Yoongi being an asshole, and he's written so perfectly here, as are reader and cute and endearing babystarcandy JK.

Teardrop by @hesperantha. Yoongi x reader, road trip AU. I read sometimes just for the pleasure of how a writer puts words to paper, and this is one of those stories - there are so many truths woven into the words, subtle and beautiful.

Moving day (Explicit) by @here2bbtstrash. Yoongi x reader, domestic AU. Sweet, sexy smut involving Yoongi tying up his hair. I repeat, Yoongi tying up his hair. The visual still gives me chills.

Proof by @illneverrecover. Yoongi x reader, strangers to lovers. A confident reader approaches an equally confident, sexy Yoongi with the added bonus of Joon and Jin as supportive besties.

Quiet Kitten by @thatlongspringnight. Professor Yoongi x college student reader - a smutty read with a fiercely sexy, stern Professor Min.

Straight Shooter MYG x reader, cyberpunk AU by @snackhobi. A perfectly characterised Yoongi, a dystopian futuristic setting and a subtle and gorgeous love story that I've read and re-read more times than I can say. The story that pulled me into BTS fanfic that I still have so much love for now.

Punch Drunk MYG x reader, boxer AU by @joonbird. From memory there's an open ending but that hasn't stopped me from re-reading. A troubled Yoongi's depicted so beautifully here.

Greedy MYG x reader, mafia AU by @xjoonchildx. Ana knows how much I love this - this Yoongi breaks my heart every time and I love how the relationship develops between him and reader.

Close Call by @xjoonchildx - a follow up to Greedy that's just as stunning as the OG story. I can't tell you how much I love this. Yoongi's a provider, and he takes care of his own, and there's nothing sexier.

All the wrong places by @mrworldwideshoulders. Yoongi x reader, strangers to lovers, in progress. An intriguingly irritable Yoongi covers the tab for reader at a bar.

Interlude: Sundown by @eoieopda. Part of the Darksided series, featuring Yoongi x reader in an established relationship. Hot, smutty, intimate goodness.

Angel by @sailoryooons. Mafia Yoongi x sex worker reader. I started reading this and couldn't stop - the writing's sharp and riveting and the pacing is perfect. A sexy, smutty, captivating read with a sexy, dangerous Yoongi.

Part 2

#fic rec: yoongi #fic recs list #min yoongi fic

[miscelunaaa]

in the midst of the earth | knj

pairing: doctor!namjoon x eastern orthodox novice nun!reader

genre: angst.

summary: After your grandfather is hospitalized following a massive stroke, Namjoon watches you pick up the pieces and try to hold them together all by yourself.

rating: 18+/M for dense, mature themes

word count: 5.7k

warnings: Hospitals. Athiest!Namjoon. Strokes and associated adverse medical events. Probable medical inaccuracies. Religious themes. Difficult family dynamics. Grief. Emotional fixations. Inexplicable tension. Minor character death. Meltdowns. Author knows nothing of what it is like to be a doctor or how treatment works behind the scenes. Author is also not a nun in any religious tradition, so there’s likely inaccuracies in that regard as well. Meltdowns. A single moment of weakness; kissing. Lofty science metaphors. Ambiguous ending.

notes: Hi. Welcome to Nun Fic. This fic has haunted me for like six months, and it’s taken almost as long to draft it. The idea first came to me during fic name game I did ages ago; the title has since changed but the motif that stemmed from the title does make an appearance a few times. This story is rooted in enough of parts of myself (probably too many in the first place) that to run over them here would take too long, and likely weaken the integrity of what I want this story to do. There are very likely some inaccuracies around how the medical or clerical parts of this fic work together. This is all to say perhaps have some discretion when responding to this, if you choose to do so? It remains that something doesn’t have to be wholly correct in order to be true. Some notes that may help you along as you read, or confuse you even further:

St. Kassia (Wikipedia)

Salvation is Created (YouTube), the eucharistic hymn from which I yoinked the title. For background on the piece, here’s a link to its Wikipedia page.

Also like, this is technically inspired by an Elvis movie??? Which I do not make a habit of watching ever but I was raised by a late boomer-aged white man who lives for cheesy romance so um … yeah like idk do with this but here’s yet another Wikipedia link if you’re curious.

Anyway, I have no excuses other than idk what the hell this is, just that it’s so excruciatingly important to me that I hardly know what to do with it now that it’s done. It’s not for everyone, and that’s okay. If you do read it, I hope you find it valuable in some way :)

my masterlist | my disclaimers | read on ao3

There’s something about you that bothers him, Namjoon decides. It’s not the fact that you’re a nun, though the overt piety of your very existence does in fact bother him more than he’d care to admit.

It’s the fact that you’re the singular quiet person in your entire family.

He’s met some jovial ecclesiastics in his time, so it’s seems incredibly strange. The other sisters he’d met at some time or other were far more talkative than you, and this is to say nothing of the numbers of priests and pastors he’s witnessed giving service at bedside. You’re so shockingly quiet that the only way he knows you’re around is the faint scent of incense coming off your clothes.

More than once you’ve startled him, sneaking up behind him like some strange, half-real shadow. He’s read about why you wear all black, why even your hair is covered with a weird little cape that looks like a black Christmas tree skirt. You’re supposed to be dead to the world.

You’re quiet enough to be, but the dead don’t smell like incense.

&&&

There’s a lot about Namjoon’s job that he likes, and there’s a lot that he dislikes. The feeling of first walking into the room when he’s had a new patient assigned to him is one of the things he dislikes the most. Now that they have this new patient stabilized, they have to look at next steps as they find out more information; he’s the one who has to convey all of that to the family.

The wide eyes of the each member of your family turn to him all at once, even yours. The room falls silent, each face looking at him with varying levels of hope and exhaustion.

And then the hard part of his job comes. It’s never pretty.

There’s so many people here for one person; it almost makes Namjoon sick. He’s watched patients rot away alone, with no one but a friend or a disinterested child to watch over them. It’s not uncommon for a patient to have no one at all. And this guy gets ... What, like ten people? Twelve? There’s so many that they sent him to a waiting room to discuss what’s happened to your grandfather.

A murmur passes through the family as he tells them that their patriarch has had a massive stroke. It’s unclear, he says, what the prognosis is. Only time will tell what the damage is, and that will dictate what happens with treatment and rehabilitation.

And then the questions start coming. Everything is run of the mill, and everyone, it seems, has something to say or ask. Everyone, that is, except for you. When you’re not looking at him intently, making the hair raise on his neck, you’re glancing at the clock or at the face of whoever among your people is talking. Even as the questions die down, you say nothing.

You simply reset your jaw, and keep your head down, brushing your fingertips over a dark coil of rope wrapped about your hand.

&&&

It would seem you have no where else to be. You’re the one Namjoon sees most often at your grandfather’s bedside over the next few days. It’s so odd that even the nurses have commented on it. Some think it’s sweet that you sit at his bedside in constant prayer, others are concerned for your health. Not once does anyone see a member of your family ask if you want to leave and do something else, and the nurses have noticed.

And still, you ask him no questions. You just look at him calmly, never rising from your seat in the corner, never saying anything, hardly acknowledging him or others who come and go. A placid nod, nothing more.

He wonders, at that point, what it must be like to hide your emotions from the world like this. He wonders what you’re feeling, if anything at all. And yet the tight set of your jaw tells him that even still waters run deep.

Whatever you’re feeling, you’re bent on keeping it between you and your god.

&&&

It’s been a week since he took on this new patient, and you’ve been around just a little less. Namjoon’s glad for it, mostly because he feels like he’s no longer being haunted by your constant presence whenever he comes to talk about new findings. It’s still not looking great; the patient is going to be in the in the ICU longer than Namjoon would prefer.

On day nine, the doctor realizes that, contrary to his initial opinions, he’d rather deal with you than any of the other people on rotation at the patient’s bedside. It’s almost embarrassing that he’s not sure whose offspring you are, but with such a limited look at your appearance, he’s accepted it. After speaking with your grandmother and a handful of people in the generation before you, he realizes that he’d prefer your stoic silence to the barrage of strangers who seem to think they know his job better than he does.

It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. When it comes down to it, there’s nothing he can do for the families of his patients aside from remaining honest and forthcoming. What this patient needs the most right now is someone to wait for him to wake up. You seem to know that too, and Namjoon hates that he only now sees that you know more than he would have expected at first glance.

&&&

It bothers him, the way your family treats you. He’s heard their snide remarks, seen their wayward glances, felt the ceaseless expectation that your mild manners will benefit them. He didn’t notice it at first, too quick to draw conclusions he knows now to have been unfair. And now he can’t unsee what he’s noticed.

“Oh, Y/N will do it, you’ll stay here won’t you, Y/N?”

And his ears prickle at the careful tone you reply with. He doesn’t look up from his computer screen, but he imagines your jaw is tight as it so often is. “I can stay here, yes. It’s no trouble. But please, use my rightful name.”

The original speaker huffs a little, and another speaks up, trying to be kind but sounding patronizing instead. “Of course dear, what’s your adopted name again?”

“Kassia.”

Namjoon’s mind wanders as the conversation veers away to other things. It’s no wonder that your were present at your grandfather’s bedside more than anyone else. He finds the way they treat you shocking, to be honest; your complacence with the way they treat you shocks him even more.

&&&

He’d been surprised to walk by you in the hall minutes later, but then, the look of reined in anguish wasn’t much of a surprise, given what he’d witnessed mere moments ago. You probably feel stifled, he thinks, and who wouldn’t? He feels stifled by the family and he’s not even related.

He glances back to see that you’ve stopped in front of the map of the hospital near the elevators. You’re biting your lip, eyes glassy, your fingers twisted together with the black coil of rope you always have at hand. With an inward sigh, he turns back down the hall.

“Sister, is there something I can help you find?”

His sudden appearance startles you, but only just. Beneath your black clothes, he can see that you’ve tensed up.

“Doctor Kim.”

“Yes,” he says carefully. “Do you need help finding where you want to go?”

He shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have gotten involved in what ever business you have wherever, but he’s always been bad at ignoring upset folks. You’re just another person on the list, or at least that’s what he’s telling himself.

Your voice is quiet, but steady. “I’m trying to find the hospital’s chapel on the map but it’s a bit convoluted …”

“I’m on my lunch right now, I can just show you where it is, if you’d like.”

Namjoon could kick himself for meddling in your affairs like this, but when you assent, he shoves the regret down in favor of being cordial.

&&&

The walk had been quiet. He found it strangely pleasing that you kept up with his long strides. Namjoon supposes he expected you to walk timidly, and instead he found that you walked with purpose, but without the intent to draw attention. You faded away, just like you did at the patient’s bedside; it’s not a monastic’s job to be noticed.

And yet he’d noticed you, in spite of your spectral presence. Namjoon’s noticed so much about you that he wants to notice no longer. He can’t help it at this point; there’s just something about you that draws him in. He feels like he sees too much when he sees you, and yet it’s still not enough.

He doesn’t like it. It makes him feel obsessive.

Now, as he stands at the back of the little chapel and watches you approach the altar, he can’t help but think that maybe it’s just wonder. How is it that you are so young, but so dead to the world? Invisible to everyone but him?

Namjoon watches as you approach the altar, crossing yourself as you bow. The chapel is simple, it has none of the trimmings that the one would find in the churches you’re used to. Somehow, it seems this is enough; you take a seat in the front row and he watches as your shoulders slump a little. Underneath the humming quiet of the space, he hears a your sigh shake from your lungs.

It strikes him suddenly.

He feels like he’s intruding on a moment between you and your god.

He sighs and checks the time. He’s needed elsewhere, and he knows it. But the longer he stays in the little chapel, with its dim lighting and thick silence, the more alone he is with you. It’s suffocating.

It requires more effort than he’d ever care to admit, but he finally tears his eyes away from your hunched figure. He doesn’t feel your gaze follow him out as he leaves the chapel.

&&&

Since showing you where the hospital chapel is, Namjoon’s noticed his mind trailing to thoughts of you as he goes about his days. He makes his rounds, visits patients in intensive care, look over files that all seem the same; each moment is accompanied by the memory of your eyes meeting his own.

When he finally visits your grandfather’s room, he expects that seeing you again will leave him unaffected. After all, he’s been constantly haunted by the press of your gaze. If only wishing made it so. He walks into the room, and sees you sitting at the patient’s bedside, alone as always. When you look up from your prayer rope, it’s the same as it’s always been. It’s as if you see right through him. Like you see all of him all at once.

You nod silently, your features hard, your jaw tense.

Namjoon chews on the inside of his mouth. Is there even a reason he needs to be here? There’s been no change in the patient’s condition, and he’s not yet well enough to move to a different unit. He’s just toeing lines of unprofessionalism at this point by lingering without saying anything.

“Dr. Kim, may I ask you a question?”

It’s been days since he last heard your voice. He feels disordered. He feels like a man lost in a desert finally stumbling upon an oasis at which to rest. He feels like a prisoner seeing light for the first time in years.

“Sure,” he says. He thrusts his hands in his pockets so that they have something to do besides twist and fret with nerves. Why is it that you’ve begun to affect him in this way?

“I want you to be honest with me,” you say quietly, your eyes falling to your grandfather’s frail figure. “I know you’re not sugar coating it with the rest but—” You raise your eyes to Namjoon, and he finds himself holding his breath. “—I feel as though you’ve not been allowed to be forthright with them somehow.”

You’re not wrong. Your family is so large and loud that he’s hardly been able to get his points across about your grandfather’s condition. Shit, he’s surprised you’ve been able to hear anything he’s said over their raucous, emotional reactions to each bit of news.

He crosses his arms and meets your eyes, and he tells the truth. It’s not looking good. He should have been able to wake up by now, he should have been able to get moved to a different unit, he should already be on the road to recovery. And yet, none of that has happened. Your grandfather’s looking at only ever being half there for the rest of his life, however long it may last. And it may not last long. There’s only so much they can do.

To your credit, you hold up an excellent front. Your features are finely schooled, your gaze still and cold as you regard him steadily. But when you glance at your grandfather, Namjoon notices your fingers twitch in your lap. The rope in your hands is the only thing that betrays how disquieted you are.

&&&

When one works in medicine, sometimes one just hopes to be wrong. Namjoon wants to be wrong every time he has to give a patient’s family bad news, and yours is no exception. Relaying the outcomes to patients, while depressing and difficult, is always hard, but it gets a little easier each time.

Personally giving you the news himself made him want to believe in miracles.

When he sees you the next morning, you’ve already heard from whomever he’d talked to over the phone hours ago. Overnight, your grandfather experienced another stroke.

It was a rare moment, in some ways. No family had been with him, but Namjoon had been the doctor on call for the unit over night. He’s gotten little rest, he’s had little time to collect himself and stay grounded. He’s not been able to prepare himself to face you or anyone else. Chance is funny like that; you still ask him yourself and do it with that soft voice (the one that’s started to haunt him at ungodly hours) to tell you what happened and what the options are.

It’s not pretty. The patient has already started to experience massive organ failures and he’s comatose anyway, so it’s not like his systems are operating in a way that can keep him alive. For some reason he’s not letting go. Darkly, Namjoon wonders if he and his patient have something in common.

Before his thoughts can inspect that thought further, Namjoon forces himself to watch your reaction to the news. The steady, cold gaze with which you regard the world is cracking at the edges. He can see it. It’s there in the shadows under your eyes, the set of your jaw, even in the way your hands fidget in your lap as you sit at the patient’s bedside.

It’s only a matter of time before the cracks give and whatever you keep behind them comes crashing out.

&&&

After having to explain to the patient’s family—your family, all gathered in that stifling waiting room—yet again what the prognosis for this latest stroke event is, Namjoon’s feeling strung out and exhausted. It’s been a late night, he’s gotten very little sleep, and if he has to sit through another emotional moment with the family of any of his patients, he’s going to fucking loose it.

He finds himself walking briskly through the halls of the hospital over his lunch just to keep himself alert. He’d tried to resist the urge, but he even decides to walk in areas that he normally doesn’t frequent, including the wing the chapel’s on. It’s fortuitous, then, that the there’s a light shining through the frosted glass panes set into the heavy wooden doors.

Namjoon walks by once. And then he rounds back and walks by a second time after a few minutes. His curiosity gets the better of him when he sees the light still shining through the windows, and he finds himself carefully pulling the door open and ducking in.

You’re sitting in the front row, just like the last time he saw you in this room. It’s quiet—almost hauntingly so. The thick carpet and heavy doors deaden the bustle of the building. It feels like he’s stepped into another world; he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sensation.

You don’t turn, not even when the door swings closed behind him with a thick thud. Not even as he deliberately shuffles to the front of the chapel and sits precisely where he sat days ago, the last time you and he were alone like this.

Namjoon regards you for a moment. Your eyes are cast low to the floor, your lips pressed tight, your jaw tense, the set of your shoulders beneath your habit somehow defiant. And still, your hands are tangled with that damned prayer rope, as if all you need to do is ask and your grandfather will magically be well.

When you don’t look up to meet his gaze, he settles back into his seat and looks at the altar. It’s plain; just a cross wrought out of wood and finished with a walnut stain on a wood-paneled wall. Two staves, not the four your church so often venerates. No icons, none of the brilliant gilding, no vats of sand for candles, no incense, none of the trappings you must be used to. And yet, you’re still here, alone in the silence.

“What do you need?”

His words surprise even himself. He never does this. He never reaches out to members of a patient’s family like this. Never one on one, never so isolated from the rest.

Namjoon watches as you shift in your seat. Air rushes from your lungs as a shaky sigh. When you meet his eyes with yours, all he can feel is your gaze and the feeling of his blood rushing through his ears and the itch to pull you closer to him. He speaks again.

“What can I do to help you?”

There’s something ablaze in your expression, something hot and heady buried deep within you, making your facade crack still more before him.

“I don’t need anything,” you say. The facade holds, it seems, but only just. Your eyes flicker from his and trace his face. He thinks they might linger for a moment on his mouth, but perhaps he’s just tired, or thinking wishfully.

It irritates him that you insist you need nothing. “Kassia, please. I—” The name tumbles from his mouth like it’s nothing. He has to fight reaching forward to touch you. “The hospital has grief counselors, they have social workers that can help you. You’re getting pushed into so much of your grandfather’s care and it’s wearing you out to do it all alone. It’s not good to internalize all this.”

Your face remains anguished, your posture rigid. You seem so fragile now, as if a light breeze might make whatever wall you keep between yourself and the world—and, by extension, Namjoon—will make it fall to pieces.

And then quietly, your voice hoarse with emotions you refuse to show, you say, “This is none of your business, Doctor Kim. How I choose to be there for my family is none of your business.”

Namjoon sighs, falling back into his seat. He can’t look at you now. He can’t make himself watch as more pieces of your front fall away.

“Can I reach out to the chaplain for you? Do you want me to see if he can arrange for you to see a priest?” He hardly recognizes his own voice; the low murmur feels at odds with the authoritative tone he always uses for this job.

“No, thank you. I can manage fine by myself.”

&&&

It’s hard. Awful, really. The trickle of guests in and out of your grandfather’s room over the next few days is so typical of what Namjoon has seen during the final acts of similar cases. This case is so utterly normal in his line of work, and yet it’s nothing like anything he’s ever had to handle before.

You’re still a shadow, sitting in your corners, standing behind your family members; somehow always there but never seen, never acknowledged. Namjoon himself tries to forget you’re there, but that faint smell clinging to your clothes pierces through the static scent of the hospital. Sometimes he thinks he feels your eyes on him while his back is turned, or perhaps on his face when he’s not looking. He also thinks it’s in his head, a bias looking to be confirmed because he can’t escape you, even once he’s gone home and scrubbed the hospital from his skin in the shower.

Does he linger in your mind as you do in his? Do you see him in your dreams as he sees you? He’s never seen an inch of your skin and yet he’s seen it all, just not here, not in this reality. He can’t be rid of your presence. You cling to him somehow, like the scent of smoke clings to clothes.

Like the incense clings to your habit, even now.

&&&

It finally happens, just as his night on call is ending. The sunlight is trickling over the tops of buildings and trees, through a sterile window. The chime of equipment gently signals to nurses and himself that something has gone wrong and then, as suddenly as it all began, it all stops. The patient is gone, and the paperwork that Namjoon was given after the last stroke event means that he can let the old man leave in peace. He can’t bring himself to look at you as you stand to the side, pressed back against a wall, shaking silently as you process what watching a person drift away looks like.

&&&

It’s been a little while. Namjoon was supposed to go home hours ago, but he’s stuck around to help inform the patient’s family about what the next steps are. Assorted aunts and uncles and cousins are milling around in that same fucking waiting room. It’s strangely quiet, for once; there are few questions or comments as he explains what happened. Nothing breaks the silence but sniffles and small, piteous wails that make him feel numb and dead inside. This sort of thing only gets so much easier with time; dealing with it effectively comes down to fortitude and lots of counseling for the compassion fatigue.

You’re there in the corner until the very end, when Namjoon suddenly realizes you’re not. Like a ghost, you’d managed to sneak off, and he’d not even noticed. Neither, for that matter, had your family. As he leaves the room, he hears someone ask another where you’ve gone. They use your birth name, and not your given name, and it takes all he has to not return and correct them as he walks away.

His feet carry him to the chapel without his agency. It’s automatic at this point; he finds himself wandering by this part of the hospital on his breaks all the time anymore. Instead of walking by, he stops in front of the doors.

He’s sure you’re inside. And he’s sure you’re in anguish. He’s not sure, however, if it’s him you want to check in on you. He’s not sure how much he cares.

With the press of a palm, he opens the door and slips inside the chapel.

The door settles shut behind him. That eerie, velvet silence settles around his shoulders like a cloak. It’s still so thorough and surprising for him that he almost misses the quiet sobs creating texture in the space. The wall between you and the rest of the world appears to have finally crumbled, leaving you alone in the wreckage, without a care for the damage its dissolution has done.

As he nears the front of the chapel, you tense and cast a glance over your shoulder.

“For Christ’s sake, Doctor Kim,” you laugh wetly. “Don’t you have a patient or something you should be attending to?” If you’re supposed to sound sardonic or bothered or even put out, it doesn’t work. You only sound hollowed out and broken.

“My shift’s finished actually,” he murmurs. “You weren’t with the rest of your family.”

“So you came here,” you sniff. “To what end, Doctor Kim? You can’t honestly be here to pray.” You’re on your feet now, rounding on him like some wounded animal fighting for the chance to be left alone. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, you hardly know what to do with someone like me.”

Namjoon takes the tirade in stride. You’re finally allowing yourself to feel something, and he’s not about to stop it. And you’re not wrong, not entirely.

“The nun has fucking feelings, a shock to everyone I’m sure,” you cry, words falling from you bitterly, like you can’t stop it. “I’ll be fucking damned if any of them give a shit about how I feel in all this. They got to go to work and live their lives and I was stuck here, watching him suffer.”

Namjoon watches as you start to crumble right before his eyes. He might have missed your walls coming down, but some part of him is glad he’s here for you to fall apart. Someone needs to pick up the pieces. It may as well be him.

“I’m the one who told him it was okay to go. I—” Tears are filling your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. “I held his hand j-just hours ago. I told him it was okay t-to let go. That it was t-time to just f-face whatever the fuck is out there when you die.”

He watches as you bring hand to your face to brush tears away, but instead the sobs wrack your body and you bare your teeth as you cry anew. He doesn’t know what to say. What could he possibly say to make any of this better for you?

Instead, Namjoon steps closer and holds his arms open. You fall into his chest unbidden, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his body as close as he can. The way your warmth feels against his own is strange, because it feels far better, far more natural, than it has any right to be. You’re supposed to be dead to the world, and right now you’re anything but that for him in this moment.

You clench fistfuls of his shirt in your palms. This ache, this hurt … this isn’t something he can fix, and yet it seems he’s the only one who’s ever cared to even fucking try. It breaks his heart more than loosing any of his doomed patients ever could. He finds himself trailing his fingers over your back in what he hopes are soothing circles.

He’s not even sure you’re really with him to hear him say, “Shhh, it’s alright, you’re okay, I’m right here for you,” until you suddenly raise your head to look him straight on. Tearstained cheeks, shining eyes that are starting to look a little swollen, just like the lower lip you’ve probably chewing on nonstop. And yet, Namjoon can’t help but feel drawn in by your gaze, still magnetic and haunting as ever.

Your fists tighten around the fabric inside them as you glance between his eyes and his lips. Namjoon realizes, suddenly, coldly, that your faces have become close, that he can feel your shuddering breath creeping across his skin.

He’s not sure who moves first. He’ll never be sure. It’s so instantaneous that it feels almost inevitable, like this is what the movement of the universe has been leading to all this time. His entire life feels like it hinges on the moment your lips meet his own and fit together as if your mouths were never meant to be parted.

His hand is suddenly cupping your face, tilting it so that he can slip his tongue against yours. You don’t just open to him; you draw him in, nipping at his lips, sucking at his flesh, finally allowing yourself a moment to be greedy.

Namjoon can’t get enough of your hot skin against his palm. His nails brush against your habit and god, he just wants it gone. He wants it out of the way. Something primal has taken hold of him, he knows it, even as he finds himself pressing forward against you. The small whine that escapes your throat makes him long to pin you against the chapel wall and let you take from him as he wants to take from you. With the way you’re pulling at his shirt, at his hair, his heart, you feel it too. Whatever this is is so massive that neither of you will ever be able to escape the tug of its gravity.

As quickly as it all started, it’s over.

His front is suddenly empty and cold, but for the blood stirring in his heart with bitter bile in his abdomen. He’s not sure who steps away first, just that it’s perhaps the most unnatural thing he’s ever experienced. Your eyes are wide, aflame with more emotion than any person should ever have to hold within themselves. Over the silent hum of air circulators working, he hears the sound of you breathing in time with himself, panting as you both come down from the high of indiscretion

Before Namjoon can say anything, an apology or an explanation or just fucking anything to keep you from hating him, you walk away. It’s as if he’s sprouted roots as he watches you walk away and out of the chapel. The stoic curtain has been drawn around you again and he’ll never get the chance to pull it away. Just as it felt inevitable to kiss you and be kissed by you, this feels just just the same. It’s inexorable. There’s nothing he can do to stop you.

He just watches you leave before sinking into a seat in the front row of the chapel and putting his head in his hands.

&&&

It’s been a long week. For months it’s felt like Namjoon’s had nothing but long weeks, but this one seems so particularly bad in a way he can’t describe. Patients making strides and then loosing all the ground they gained. The families of patients becoming aggressive and distraught when they learn the news that their beloved kinsperson will not be making whatever recovery they envisioned for them. Nurses and medical assistants being berated and then taking it out on each other, or sometimes him. Other doctors shirking their duties. And of course, he’s nothing if not a self-loathing workaholic, so he shoulders every ounce of slack until it’s close to breaking him.

It takes a more senior doctor asking to speak to him in the hallway for him to realize how fucking bad he’s been internalizing his stress. He almost snaps like a twig in front of five people, just because the man asked him for a moment of his time.

“Take a walk, Doctor Kim. I don’t want to see you for an hour.”

Namjoon doesn’t realize he’s wandered to the chapel until he’s looking at the heavy wooden doors. They stand before him like an immovable barrier. He hasn’t been here since you left. It wasn’t so long ago, he knows it’s only been a month or three, but it feels like it’s been an age. Long enough that he’s lost track of the time, but not so long ago that he’s forgotten the way your flesh fit against his.

The memory stirs in his throat as he gently reaches to pull the door open and step inside.

The chapel’s preternatural silence settles over him like a blanket. In the past, it’s been an uneasy sensation, but now it’s welcome. He could use some quiet, some space to just feel and decompress. He sits a few rows back from the front and listens to silence ring in his ears, letting time slip by without registering how much of it goes.

Abruptly, Namjoon hears the doors behind him close with a thud. He turns to see a priest, smiling sheepishly as he gives him a little wave. He’s got a bulky briefcase in his hands and a sweater over his black shirt. At his throat is a priest’s collar.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, doctor,” the priest says with a warm smile. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here this early before the service.”

Namjoon finds himself rising before he can even think about it. “No, please, don’t be sorry. I just needed somewhere quiet to be for a moment.”

“Well, this is the perfect place for that,” the priest says, glancing down the chapel’s center aisle at the altar. “I don’t believe I’ve met you before! I’m Father Herman.”

The doctor grasps the priest’s outstretched hand to shake it as he give his own name. “I’m not usually around this part of the hospital but it’s—well, it’s been a week,” he laughs nervously.

Father Herman nods, as if he understands Namjoon’s struggle completely. “The church is a place of healing, first and foremost. Whenever a soul ails, we always pray that they finds their way here.”

Namjoon thinks about you sitting in the front of the chapel, with your prayer rope and silent suffering. He thinks about the unending way his life has stretched before him since you left. He says nothing, however, as he watches Father Herman walk to the front of the chapel and set his bag in one of the chairs.

He must sense the doctor staring at him, but he seems unperturbed. Maybe he’s used to getting stares. “Was there something else you needed, Doctor Kim?”

The words are kind, but they rattle around Namjoon’s brain for a moment before he can really let them sink in. He hasn’t thought about any of his needs for what feels like weeks. No one’s asked about his needs for much longer.

“Um, yeah, maybe. I think I might have some questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

“Absolutely, son. Fire away.”

Thank you for reading! Drop me an ask and tell me what you think. Find me in various places at my carrd :)

©miscelunaaa 2022. My work is only found on this blog and under my ao3 pseud. Do not, under any circumstances, copy or repost my work. Thank you.

posted: 11.2.2022

#bts fanfiction #kim namjoon fic #namjoon x reader #kim namjoon fanfic #knj fic #knj x reader #knj x female reader #namjoon fic #namjoon fanfic #I don't even know what else to tag this with lmao #namjoon angst #bts angst #it's just an angsty little jaunt my friends #complete with notes #I'm sorry ahead of time #but hey if you liked sodium vapor then this is the shit for you #miscelunaaa #this is going to flop so hard hahaha and I'm not even mad

[minisugakoobies]

for the ask game!! 20, 26, and 42 <3

Hey Em! Thanks for sending in some questions and helping me procrastinate! 💕

20. favorite fruit & vegetable?

I love bananas. Get a big bunch every week and eat them as my mid-morning snack. Smother a little peanut butter on them? Heaven.

For veggies, I love zucchini. Pan fried, deep fried, thrown in a stir fry, in a galette. Love it.

26. what’s your favorite season & why?

Spring! I need sunlight and warmth. And green trees! Fall and winter just make me sad because everything gets cold & dark, the trees are bare, the earth turns brown and grey. And summer is too hot! But I thrive in spring.

42. favorite film genre? 

I just answered this one! I cheated and said three - scifi, fantasy, and superhero. They're kinda all related, so it counts as one in my brain.

Send me an ask from this list!

#asks #lovely moots #miscelunaaa #ask games

[xjoonchildx]

kanalia | jhs x reader | chapter five: the king is a fool

banner by the amazing, incredible @kth1

⚜️summary: secrets and uncertainty plague a young queen in her arranged marriage to a kind but distant king. the farther she drifts from her husband, the closer she gets to one of his most trusted men.

⚜️pairing: queen!reader x royalguard!hoseok

⚜️rating: mature, 18+

⚜️genre: royal AU, historical AU, smut

⚜️warnings: infidelity (it’s complicated, y’all) mentions of pregnancy, fertility issues. OC struggles with depressive thoughts and episodes.

⚜️word count: 10K

⚜️notes: the queen is hot and bothered, literally & figuratively. the king puts several Ls in the disappointed but not surprised category, everyone gets drunk at some point. lord min is a terrible archer, yeona remains round and winning. the queen could melt steel with her sexual frustration, lord jung is not faring much better but at least he knows what he's doing, slightly awkward marital smut. the queen fights with everyone.

i could never have finished this chapter without these amazing authors & minds @miscelunaaa and @vyduan and one person who would probably level us all with her first fic if she decided to write one, @hobi-gif. please let me re-iterate how much it means to me that any one of you reads my stories, and it would make me endlessly happy to talk to you about it. you can talk to me here 💕

previous chapter final chapter

Hyeri is curious.

She examines the stains at the hem of your walking dress with narrowed eyes, pausing her thorough study of the red-brown splotches only to steal the occasional furtive glance your way.  

Her lips purse as she shakes dirt loose from the grooves of your walking boots. She watches the sediment fall to the floor with a raised brow, uncharacteristically quiet as she reaches for the broom to sweep the mess away.

But her bewilderment only grows as she draws closer.

The older woman’s posture stiffens as she regards you, lips pulling into a thin line as she takes in the state of your wind-swept hair and grimy fingernails. You must reek of the ill temper you’ve brought back from your ride, the smell of it as pungent as the sweat and horse on your clothes. She tests your temperament in much the same way as she tests your bathwater, query as feather-light as the fingertip she skims along the surface.

“Are you… well, this evening, Your Grace?”

“As well as I ever am,” you answer succinctly, accepting her hand and stepping carefully into the tub. Woven into the spaces between each of your clipped words is rebuke; a silent warning to proceed no further. Your handmaid, who is by no means a meek woman, has the good sense to heed it.

So Hyeri says nothing as she takes a comb to the tangles in your hair, working them apart with peach oil. She says nothing as she scrubs away the dirt embedded beneath your normally pristine fingernails. And she says nothing still when you wince at the ache in your thighs as she helps you from the bath.

When the heavy chamber door finally pulls behind her, shutting the stares and the questions safely out, you make your way to bed. You extinguish the lamp on your nightstand and welcome the shadows.

And then you succumb to the darkness that envelops you, inside and out.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Steamy heat has put an end to weeks of pleasant fall weather. 

You’ve sought refuge this afternoon beneath a tree at the edge of the castle’s sprawling open field. The oak, though grand, offers scant protection from the midday sun. A bead of sweat trickles down your neck and disappears into the linen at your décolletage. 

“Between you and me, I’ve always found hunting to be an appalling sport.”

Boram shakes her head at the scene in the distance. The King and his men claim to be training for an upcoming hunt, but by all appearances, there is little training taking place. Instead they look to be bandying about like mischievous little boys, scrambling for position in front of the straw targets with bows in hand. 

“I find it to be an exercise in vanity more than ability. Little more than male preening disguised as sport.” Boram dabs at her brow with a handkerchief and sighs. “What do you think?”

You don’t answer Boram’s question on account of your distraction. Try as you might to keep your eyes on the dashing elder Lord Kim or the charming young Lord Jeon or – heaven forbid, your husband – they wander to Lord Jung instead, over and over and over again. Your gaze pulled to his strong face as though drawn by a magnet.

He turns his head and his dark eyes find yours across the distance.

The butterflies you’ve felt in his presence before are not to blame for the unsettled feeling that comes over you now. The very sight of the man makes your stomach turn over, as though you can taste the vivid recollection of the last time you saw him. 

The memory of that wonderful ride – and of the horrible way it ended – are still bitter on your tongue. Like picking the most beautiful fruit in the orchard only to find it sour and decaying inside. 

“Your Grace?”

You blink.

“I say this to you as my friend and not my Queen,” Boram says, pausing to clear her throat. “You don’t seem yourself today. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Nothing at all,” you lie quickly, smoothing down the damp curls springing up around your ears. “I’m fine, truly. Though I suppose it is possible the heat is making me cross. I can barely think in such conditions.”

“Awful, isn’t it?” Boram laments, reaching over to give Yeona’s belly a tickle. The baby curls into herself like a starfish, giggling as she rolls around on the blanket. “Yoongi says it will take a rain to break it. But until then, we must all suffer.”

“And suffer we shall,” you echo under your breath, watching Lord Jung load his bow in the distance. He sets his lithe body in a precise stance then draws his arm back and releases his arrow. It flies in a tight arc and lands just below the bullseye on the target. The men erupt into raucous cheers. You resist the urge to scowl.

“As for the hunting,” you add, “I think men are just as guilty of the frivolity they so often accuse women of. Not that any one of them is likely to admit it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Boram laughs. “Men are not known to be skilled in the art of introspection.”

“They certainly are not.”

And why should they be? Men never have to stop and consider the consequences of their actions. They alone decide the rules of engagement. They are free to be as vain and as frivolous and as thoughtless as their hearts desire. Horrid, infuriating creatures.

Lord Min steps up to the target. His stance is uneven and his arrow is wild the very second he lets it loose. It flies yards from the target and lands off in the grass. The men jeer loudly.

“Poor Yoongi,” Boram winces as she watches the men tease him. “He’s never been much of an archer, I’m afraid.” But the good-natured Lord Min appears to take it all in stride, shrugging off their taunts as he trades his bow for a fresh tankard of ale.

The King takes his turn next – the lines of his body thicker and stronger than Lord Jung’s, but no less elegant. The men circle around your husband as he draws the bow back with one strong arm. He takes careful aim with his arrow and deftly plants it just above the target’s bullseye. The sound of the men’s whooping echoes across the field.

And so it goes for a while, with the men taking turns loosing their arrows to varying degrees of success.

Lords Park and Jeon both prove to be adequate archers, hitting the targets more often than not. The elder and younger Lord Kims are less skilled and spend the lion’s share of their time plucking arrows from the grass behind the targets. Lord Min quickly gives up on the endeavor entirely, opting instead to sit with his ale and heckle the others.

But the two best archers on the field refuse to be distracted by drink.

The King and Lord Jung set an arduous pace, loading and firing their arrows in quick succession. Even at a distance, even with your meager knowledge of archery, you can discern that both men are quite evenly matched in terms of skill. They load, fire, and strike their respective targets with precision.

On and on they persist – despite the brutal heat, despite the fact that the other men have begun to tire. One by one the other Guardsmen surrender, abandoning their bows and collapsing onto the grass to watch. 

“These two seem quite serious, don’t they?” Boram notes. 

They certainly do. The air of silly fun that’s sat over the group for much of the afternoon is all but gone now and what began as a diversion for all of the men has clearly become a challenge between just two. The other Guardsmen seem to sense the shift in atmosphere as well, their faces earnest as they watch the King and Lord Jung compete.

Physically, the two men are quite different. The King’s muscular arms and chest serve him well as he steadies his bow and fires. In contrast, Lord Jung’s body is lithe, sleek. He moves with an agility the King cannot. But both wear matching expressions of determination. And though this competition might have been amiable at the start, it’s now evident that neither man is willing to leave the field without a clear victor.

Lord Min calls out to them both – voice too distant for you to make out his words – and the men appear to nod in agreement. They both step back from the targets, increasing the difficulty of each shot. But it takes only a few more arrows to prove that the added distance is no hindrance to either man. Both set their stances again, both aim and fire, and both land their arrows with ease.

The Guardsmen sitting nearby fall silent, and in the absence of their racket the King’s answering growl of frustration echoes over the entire field. 

“Oh my,” Boram whispers. “I’d heard there was some tension between them, and it would certainly appear to be so.”

It certainly would. Right now, the King and Lord Jung look more like rivals seeking to settle a score than lifelong friends. 

The King’s agitation is apparent in every move he makes, in the way he jerks the arrows out of the straw targets and stalks back into position. Lord Jung’s agitation is equally apparent. He accepts a skin of water from Lord Min without so much as a thanks and hands it back once he’s drained it.

It’s a strange thing to see the handsome Guardsman challenge his King with the very same passion in which he’d defended him just days prior.

“Has the King spoken to you about it?”

“No,” you admit stiffly, “He has not. Are you determined to keep me in the dark, as well?”

“Heavens, no,” Boram protests, pulling Yeona into her lap. She hands the baby a rice cake and Yeona sets to gumming at it right away. “I would never want you to think that I’m speaking ill of the King, is all.” 

“I could never think that of you.”

There is hesitation in Boram’s face when she flicks her dark eyes back to meet yours. 

“Well, the details I have are few,” she starts slowly. “But what I know is that the King expressed a wish to see Lord Jung married again and Lord Jung, from my understanding was – ” she pauses, carefully considering her next words,“ – less than amenable to the idea.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Yoongi says they fought over the matter. Quite thoroughly, from what I’ve been told.”

“I see,” you say, taking great care to keep your expression impassive. “And did Lord Min explain why Lord Jung is so opposed to marriage? He’s still a young man. I can certainly see why the King would think it a logical proposition.”

Boram’s lips purse as she thinks.

“I do not know that I can say. Though I consider Lord Jung to be a dear friend, he can be terribly private about some matters.”

You cut your eyes towards the field to search for the man in question. 

Does she really know Lord Jung? Do you? Today there is no sign of the man who’d leveled you with a smile in the Great Hall, no trace of the man who’d teased you about riding clothes before helping you onto your mount. The man you see now wears a strained expression as he watches the King take aim, his energy volatile like a pot ready to boil over. 

Perhaps you’d been foolish to think him so different from the King. Perhaps they are as evenly matched in the art of duplicity as they are the skill of archery.

“So what will come of it?” you ask after a while. “Will the King – make him marry?”

“I don’t know,” Boram admits. “And therein, I suppose, is where much of the tension lies. Lord Jung has already taken a bride once in service to the Kingdom. I can’t imagine he’d be inclined to do it again.”

There’s a sudden commotion on the field then, an outburst that has Lords Park and Jeon on their feet. The younger men rush to meet the King and Lord Jung mid-field, nodding as the King speaks. Both take off running at once. 

“I’ve no clue what that is all about, but I do wish they’d end this already,” Boram grumbles, watching the young men disappear behind the tree line as they go off in search of whatever it is the King’s asked for. “I don’t know how much longer I can last in this heat.”

“Nor I,” you agree, watching the King and Lord Jung speak to one another. Both men look sober, the lines of their faces hard. “But it seems we’ll all have to endure it for just a bit longer in order to humor this contest of male prides.”

Some arduous minutes later, Lords Park and Jeon make their return to the field.

The dust kicked up by the horses they ride precedes them, the ground parched from weeks without rain. Both men arrive in a cloud of grime – Lord Jeon on the King’s mount and Lord Park on Lord Jung’s– and dismount without delay, handing the reins over to their elders.

So this is how they will decide the victor.

“Well, let’s hope they keep their wits about them,” Boram sighs. “Lest they both break their legs in the heat of competition.”

“Yes, let’s,” you mutter.

The King is first to take his turn, of course. 

He mounts Jeonsa with ease despite the horse’s grand height and takes his time warming the warhorse up. The King runs his mount in circles around the target until he’s satisfied with his plan and the timing of his shot. He steadies himself against the jostling with his strong thighs, pulling his bow back to fire. The arrow hits the target just below the bullseye. 

The men, who’ve spent hours now drinking in the hot sun, erupt into a chorus of ruffian cheers. 

Lord Jung wastes no time taking to his own mount. His horse is leaner and quicker than Jeonsa, and it’s clear that he commands complete control of the animal’s every step. Both horse and rider move as one as he urges his mount faster, straightening his back to fire. The arrow hits the target just above the bullseye.

The men are getting rowdy now, egging on both competitors as they circle on their horses. Their shouting is louder, more animated, and you would not at all be surprised if there were a few healthy wagers underway. You wonder which of the men they’ve bet on. 

You wonder which of the men you would bet on before pushing the thought away and reminding yourself that you’re not particularly fond of either at this moment. 

The King circles Jeonsa around the target once again, taking his time about it. He seems to consider every circumstance surrounding his next shot – the angle, the speed, the light wind that blows east. After a great deal of circling and thought, he rears back to release his arrow.

It lands on the target, just above the arrow planted by Lord Jung. 

The shouting from the men becomes a low roar.

Lord Jung pointedly ignores the commotion, rolling his shoulders as he stares down the target, brow knit in concentration. Soon he’s urging his mount to move, the pair fluid as they circle the target. 

Just like the King, Lord Jung circles longer for this shot than he had for the first. Twice he draws back as though ready to fire and thinks better of it. But after painstaking deliberation, he finds his stride. He pulls his arm back and sets his stance. Then he releases his arrow. 

And it misses the target entirely.

It flies off the end of Lord Jung’s bow with astonishing speed, gliding just to the right of the straw and landing off in the distance. The men are on their feet now, jumping and yelling and slapping one another on their backs. Lord Jung shakes his head in disgust.

“Well,” Boram reaches for her basket, loading her things into it with haste. “That’s settled now. I certainly hope at least one of them feels better. Let’s move into more liveable conditions, shall we?”

You open your mouth to agree just as you spot the King barreling towards you atop Jeonsa, leaving the men celebrating his victory on the field behind. 

You nearly stumble over the hem of your dress in your rush to rise to your feet. Your husband is grinning widely when he reaches you, stopping his mount long enough to extend one large hand. You place your hand in his and he dips his head to plant a kiss on your fingers.

“Well done, You Grace,” you demur, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “A hard-fought victory.”

“Thank you. I’m quite pleased with the outcome.”

The King acknowledges Boram with a smile before turning his mount to ride back to his men. You put a hand to your brow to shade your eyes and watch as they cheer for him – reward him with the adulation he’s clearly worked so hard for. 

But a thought occurs to you as you examine the scene in the distance. 

There is no sign of Lord Jung. 

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King comes to you that night – hair damp and smelling of fine soap, breath tinged faintly with ale. 

He coaxes you to your knees just as he’s done so many times before. His fingers slide against your most secret place, slippery just as they’ve been so many times before. And then he’s pushing inside you, hard and hot just as he’s been so many times before.

But there is something different about him tonight.

Your husband’s touch is rougher than you remember. His grip on your waist is harder than you remember, large hands moving from your waist to your backside to dig his blunt fingertips into the soft flesh. His thrusts are more forceful than you remember, more erratic, powerful enough to push you up the length of the bed. 

You fist your hands into the bedding and push back, refusing to allow your knees to buckle under the pressure. That earns you a low groan from the King – a sound that strikes a strange chord inside you; sends a shiver racing up your spine. You press your hot face into the sheets.

Perhaps Namjoon is still feeling the effects of an arduous afternoon in the hot sun. Perhaps he’s still in his cups after a night of drinking with his men. 

Or perhaps it is all just a trick of your mind.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Morning brings no improvement in your mood. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

You wake snappish, jarred from a fitful sleep by the sudden appearance of light in your chamber. Shafts of it – hot and harsh – stream through your windows, spill across your duvet, assault your eyes. You bury your face in the pillow in a futile attempt to avoid it, sweat beading at the nape of your neck until the uncomfortable warmth forces you to quit the bed.

But the rude manner of your awakening is only one reason for your irritation.

The other is the lingering tenderness between your legs, a dull ache you can feel with each careful step. The sensation is more an annoyance than a true discomfort, but it vexes you nonetheless. Each muted throb serves as an unwelcome reminder of your visit from the King, of the peculiar way he’d bedded you last night. 

Your face flames as you think of it.

What is he about, your husband? And what of the juvenile, chest-thumping nonsense you’d witnessed yesterday afternoon? The combative way he’d gone up against Lord Jung and the grand show he’d made of coming to you to fête his victory. Boorish, absurd behavior – all of it. 

You go about your morning ablutions in silence, unwilling to meet Hyeri’s eyes for even one moment. You are in no mood to withstand her meddling today – well-intentioned or otherwise – and so it is for the best that she helps you wash and dress in relative silence. 

If there is something the older woman means to say, she has the good sense to swallow it, murmuring only a quiet warning about the heat as you slip out the chamber door.

And heavens, how you are wholly unprepared for the heat.

It, too, has worsened overnight – the air around you nearly thick enough to drink. You hurry towards the aviary, spurred on by the promise of the shade beneath its trees, but by the time you are finally seated at your desk you are soggy and sticky all over. Slick with sweat between your thighs and beneath your arms and breasts. 

Perhaps you should have heeded Hyeri’s warning. 

The thought rankles you as you open your book and attempt to pick up your story where you’d left it. You start and stop the same sentence over and over again, the heat so tyrannical that you can barely breathe, much less think. Even the King’s prized birds refuse to fly under such conditions – opting instead to perch on the highest branches, wings lifted to cool themselves with the occasional passing breeze. 

The stillness unnerves you; makes your aggravation mount with each unbearable minute that ticks by and before long, you throw your novel down in frustration. This will not do.

Loathe as you are to spend another day confined to the castle’s thick stone walls, there is no avoiding it. You’ll not survive another half hour in this heat, which means you’ll certainly not be able to pass an entire afternoon in it. You huff as you throw your things back into your basket and stalk off towards the aviary’s entrance.

But perhaps you should have been more mindful.

Immersed as you are in this black mood, you don’t notice the brambles growing at the edge of the heavy gate. You brush past them in a hurry, only to be wrenched back by the thorns that take hold of your skirt. You tug at the material with your free hand, successful only at tearing a hole in the fine linen but unsuccessful at pulling yourself free. You drop your basket in the struggle and the contents spill out, an apple rolling to a stop at your feet.

It is then that you do something very unladylike, something that would have earned you an exaggerated gasp from your sister or a sharp rebuke from your mother. 

You swear. Loudly.

You summon all of your frustration and scream what is perhaps the most undignified word you know at the very top of your lungs, the vulgarity echoing in the aviary’s eerie quiet. And though it’s done nothing to solve your current predicament, there’s something truly satisfying about speaking the nasty word out loud, about shouting it into existence.

That is, until someone coughs.

“I take it you need some help, Your Grace?”

You clap a hand over your mouth as you whirl in the direction of the voice.

Lord Min approaches slowly, eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes in your sorry state. You’ve no idea where he came from, but at this very moment you’ve never been so horrified and grateful to see him, all at the very same time. 

“Yes, I – ” you start and stop, flustered by both your behavior. “ – I’m stuck. The brambles are caught in my skirt and – ”

“Oh yes, I see,” he says, leaning down to examine the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. He tugs at the bottom of your skirt and you wince at the sound of the fabric tearing. “You’ve got yourself quite tangled up here, haven’t you?” 

“I believe I have,” you admit with embarrassment. Lord Min gets down on his knees and begins plucking thorns and burs out of the fabric, brow knit with concentration as he attempts to extricate what remains of your fine linen dress.

You clear your throat.

“My Lord, I hope I didn’t – Well, rather, I hope you were not offended by that word you heard me say. It’s not a word that I usually use, not really. Well, not ever. What I mean to say is that I know of coarse language, of course, but I’m certainly not in the habit of using it.”

“What word?” Lord Min interrupts your rambling from his perch at your feet, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Did you say something, Your Grace? I must not have heard it.”

The corners of his mouth curve into a cautious smile, which you return with a timid one of your own. His teasing is welcome. It brings badly-needed levity to your embarrassing situation and lightens the heaviness of this atrocious day.

“What’s this, Min?”

At once, the gesture dies on your lips.

Lord Jung comes into view by way of the same path taken by Lord Min, though his sudden appearance does not bring you the same kind of relief. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

The very moment he’s standing before you, critical gaze moving from you to Lord Min and back, you feel absolutely lightheaded with anxiety. You wonder what he must make of the scene he’s stumbled upon: Lord Min on his knees, at your feet, hands fisted in your skirts. 

“You Grace.” The lines of Lord Jung’s beautiful face are hard as he acknowledges you, his voice stiff and formal in a way that makes it foreign to your ears. He bows to you much in the same way, body rigid as he performs the required motion.

“My Lord,” you return with similar formality.

“Her Grace is stuck,” Lord Min explains, unaware or perhaps unbothered by the provocative position the two of you have been discovered in. “I’m trying to free her without ripping this linen to shreds. Could use your help, seeing as you’re standing there. Push that branch back for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Oh, but now you feel a migraine coming on. Lord Jung squeezes into the space beside you, leaning over Lord Min to push the brambles back so that the older man may have both hands free to work. At this point, both men are too close, but he is far too close. Heat blazes a path up your neck and into your cheeks. 

Inhale, you twit. Exhale.

“Last few, Your Grace,” Lord Min announces, voice muffled by your skirts. “I think the linen will need a bit of mending, but not much more.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Lord Jung’s gaze connects with yours. His dark eyes, normally so warm and expressive, are flat as he regards you. In fact, everything about the handsome guardsman’s countenance is uncharacteristically severe today, from the deep knit of his brows to the way his bow-shaped mouth presses into a firm line. He looks away from you without so much as a smile.

Is he – is he angry with you?

Your mouth nearly falls open at the realization. What right would Lord Jung have to be angry with you? It was he who’d laid the trap with the promise of a perfect afternoon spent riding and he who’d sprung the trap by defending your husband’s dishonesty. 

If either one of you had a just claim to animosity, it would most certainly be you. 

The awful word you’d uttered at the very start of this ridiculous dilemma springs right to the tip of your tongue. If only you had the courage to spit it at him. Horrid, infuriating man.

“There now,” Lord Min announces. “I think we’ve got it. Hang on to that bramble for a bit longer while Her Grace steps away from the gate.”

You start forward slowly, steps mercifully unencumbered by gnarled plants. Though Lord Min has done his best to salvage the fine linen, your skirt is now covered in a fine dusting of grime, torn in places from your knees to your ankles. Hyeri will have a fit when she sees you, but you couldn’t care less about the state of your ruined dress. The only thing that matters now is quitting this place at once.

“Thank you so much, Lord Min,” you breathe, dropping to your knees to gather your scattered things. The elder guardsman helps you retrieve the wayward charcoals and papers, which you hurriedly stuff back into your basket. “I’ll be off now and won’t take up any more of your afternoon.”

With that, you rush to your feet and turn on your heels to leave. You try not to think about the scene you’re leaving behind – Lord Min puzzled by your sudden exit, Lord Jung affronted by the fact that you’d pointedly ignored him in your thanks. 

You make haste with those first few steps towards freedom, only to be pulled back once again. Only this time, not by jagged brambles.

“Your Grace.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand at the sound of the gruff voice behind you. You turn around slowly, acutely aware of both men watching your every move. When Lord Jung steps forward, your eyes fall to the gently worn leather binding in his hands. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

You take great care to school your features, though the panic rising inside of you threatens to spill out. Your most private thoughts are inside that book. Fragments of poems and unsent letters and one horribly incriminating sketch of a man who is most certainly not your husband.

“Thank you, My Lord,” you mumble, resisting the urge to run to him and snatch the book right out of his grip. You can feel him watching your every move as you approach to accept it with unsteady hands.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

A storm is coming. You can feel it.

Never mind that the sun is shining – or that the sky outside is a perfect, crystalline blue. The clouds dotted across the horizon hang in the air, unmoving. There is no wind to rustle the leaves in the trees. The calm is ominous. Foreboding.

“... think none of the people in this kingdom have ever seen this kind of display before. I imagine they’ll be quite awed by it. I’ve only ever seen it once myself, in a village far North. A strange lot, those people are. After all these years, they still dabble in the dark arts.”

At the other end of the long dining table before you sits the King. He’s been prattling on like this for the better part of ten minutes now; far too absorbed in his grand talk of the festival to note that his audience of one has yet to engage with a word that’s come out of his mouth.

“It’s strange though, to think of celebrating a Fall Festival in this heat. Though I generally prefer the heat to the cold, these conditions are quite beyond the pale. We’ll have to have just as much water on hand as we do ale.”

You make a sound under your breath that you hope will pass for discourse.

“Of course, there’s still much to be done. But the stewards assure me that everything will be ready in time. And there will be much to celebrate this year as I’m told the crops in all our holdings are faring well. The wheat has – ”

The King’s jabbering comes to an abrupt stop.

“You’ve barely eaten,” he notes, in a sudden fit of awareness. He regards you over the rim of his wine glass, curious. “Is the jajangmyeon not to your liking?”

“It is to my liking,” you insist, pushing the wheat noodles around your bowl in a half-hearted attempt to appease him. “As always. I suppose I’m just not very hungry tonight, is all.”

“I find that surprising,” the King says, as though you’d asked his opinion on the matter. “I understand you were brave enough to venture out into that awful heat this afternoon. I would have thought you’d be famished tonight.”

Every muscle in your body tenses at once.

“Oh?”

“I spoke with Hyeri this afternoon,” the King elaborates, oblivious to his misstep. “She said she’d warned you against leaving the castle under those conditions, but you’d off and done it anyway.” He chuckles under his breath as he recounts the conversation. “I think you surprise her at times with how strong-willed you can be.”

Beneath the table, your hands ball into fists.

The thought of Hyeri disclosing the details of your day to the King, no matter how trivial, incenses you. You imagine them together over tea, sharing a laugh as they trade observations about your shortcomings. Or worse – meeting with one another somber-faced as they commiserate over your inability to produce a child. 

That thought is the most insidious. Your nails dig savagely into your palms.

“Do you and Hyeri discuss my comings and goings often, then, Your Grace?” 

Your husband shrugs, helping himself to another generous serving of noodles.

“Often enough, I suppose.”

“So am I then to assume that when you ask me about my day, you are merely standing on ceremony? Surely you must be, given that you’ve already had a full report from my handmaid.”

The King sets down his chopsticks to look at you, perplexed by the contentious turn in this conversation. But he’s careful to school his features as he considers what to say next.

“Of course not,” he starts slowly. “I ask after you because I genuinely want to know about your day. It’s a consideration that I would think customary between husbands and wives.”

Is he – is he toying with you?

What on earth would His Grace know about what’s customary between husbands and wives? He is the one who’s made this marriage into a farce with his deceit and adultery. He is the one who’s held you at arm’s length from the very start in order to protect the woman he truly loves. Your husband’s hubris is as astonishing as it is aggravating. Horrid, infuriating man.

“Well I, for one, would genuinely like to know about your day, Your Grace,” you say, unable to keep venom from seeping into your every word. “So tell me then – as is customary between husband and wives – how did you pass the afternoon?”

The color drains from the King’s face. 

You should shut your mouth now and say no more, you know it – but by now you are far too consumed with anger to give much thought to the consequences of sharp words. You push the bowl of jajangmyeon away and get to your feet.

“Nothing of interest to share, then?” You raise a brow as you stare down at your husband, unwilling to look away for even one moment. “What a pity. Perhaps tomorrow.”

The King’s eyes narrow but his mouth stays shut. He says nothing in his own defense, says nothing to attempt to placate you. 

And he says nothing as you turn your back on him and walk out the door.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The first crack of thunder sounds just as you’re readying for bed. You stand at your window and watch the storm roll in. 

Black clouds build off in the distance, discernible only by the occasional flare of lightning. Each bright flash is followed by an earth-shaking rumble that satisfies you somehow, as though you’ve manifested this squall with your thoughts. The violent wind and rain it carries with it a mirror of the tempest inside you.

“Do you require anything else, Your Grace?”

Hyeri’s voice comes from behind, timid and small. She’s been tiptoeing around your chamber all evening, clearly disquieted by the cold reception you’d given her upon your return. The well-bred, well-behaved woman inside you whispers that you should turn to her, do something to reassure her, but you refuse. 

Fortified by your anger, you keep your back to Hyeri and go on staring at the storm clouds.

“No,” you say firmly. “You can retire for the night.”

“But I – ” Hyeri starts, stops, and then sighs. “Very well. As you wish, Your Grace.”

And you do wish. You wish for Hyeri to leave you – not just tonight, but every night. And you wish not just for Hyeri to leave you – but all of them. You’ve grown quite tired of humiliating yourself in this kingdom; of placing your trust in people who’ve made you into a fool time and time again. 

There is rustling as the older woman hurriedly gathers her things, then a brief pause before she slips out the door. The heavy thud that finally announces her departure brings you some small measure of peace, but it does not last.

Your bath-damp body is warm when you slip beneath the heavy duvet. Too warm. Though the storm raging nearby brings with it the promise of cool rain, it is still too far off to displace the humid air in your chamber. You toss and turn beneath the heavy covers for a while, your thin nightgown soaked through with sweat by the time you finally kick your bedding away.

So you lie there in the dark, close to feverish with heat and unable to settle down. Every time you close your eyes, you’re taunted by images – of Hyeri, of the King, of the child that never comes. What you would give to be able to quiet your mind, to have some respite from the reality of your circumstances.

But there will be no respite, not any time soon. The thunder outside is close enough now to shake the castle’s heavy walls with each new blast that rips through the sky. You feel the tremors right down to your bones, the sensation causing goosebumps to scatter across your skin. 

In spite of the heat, you shiver. 

There’s a prickling that starts at your scalp and goes right down to your toes. It makes you itch with the desire to drag your nails down your arms and legs. It makes you want to squeeze your thighs together, tight and tighter still until your agitation is gone. Perhaps that is the solution. 

You cup your breasts through the damp, thin material of your nightgown. They feel sensitive, tender — and the very moment you brush your fingertips over your nipples they come to life, pebbling against the gauzy fabric. 

You close your eyes and try to imagine that your hands are not your own. That the fingers that close around the aching buds, teasing and testing, are not your fingers. That the dormant pleasure the pressure rouses inside you has instead been roused by someone else. 

In your mind, the hand that steals between your thighs is not your own. It’s larger than yours, the fingers longer and rougher than yours. You imagine that hand parting your legs, coarse fingertips slippery against the wetness gathered at your entrance. And you imagine it caressing you there, expertly stroking the spot that makes the air leave your lungs. 

What would it be like to be touched like this? To have a lover’s lips at your neck and his hand between your thighs? To have the weight of him pressing down on you, the scent of him enveloping you – to feel his warm breath fan over your skin?

These thoughts only serve to make the ache between your legs more pronounced. But the more you attend to it, the sharper it becomes. Pleasure blooms with each inexpert pass of your fingers over that place, but in its wake your desperation grows, too. 

You whine under your breath as you touch yourself harder, faster – a heaviness building at your core that makes you feel full, overripe. There is relief on the other side of whatever this is, and you know it. 

But can you reach it? 

Your imaginary lover would know how to help you reach it. He would take you in his arms and in his mouth and leave no inch of your body untouched. He would fuse himself to you, skin-to-skin, and show you how to beckon your pleasure at will, help you realize its full potential. 

In your mind’s eye you can see him – legs and arms strong and lean, golden skin illuminated by firelight. The mouth he sets to your aching nipples would be soft, lips pretty and bow-shaped. And his hair would be dark and his eyes would be a rich chocolate and his face would be – 

A clap of thunder explodes in the sky. 

Your eyes fly open – unseeing – as you gasp from the shock of it. It leaves you trembling, body slick with sweat and limbs tingling from the sudden fear. You lie there in the dark, panting as you wait for your heart to stop racing. 

And just like that, the pleasure you’ve been chasing is gone. Quick as a rabbit. 

Outside your window the heavens weep, the rain beating against the ground like a hail of arrows. 

The dry earth enjoying a relief that always seems to elude you.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

“Magnificent, Your Grace.” 

Hyeri passes a hand over the embellishments in your bodice, chest puffed with pride as she examines the dressmaker’s handiwork. Though her brown eyes have long gone dull and gray with age, they shine as she steps back to take you in from head to toe. “Just magnificent.”

It is magnificent – far and away the finest garment you have ever worn. 

Rich, plum-colored velvet embellished with gilt thread, the plunging neckline and bliaut sleeves lined with pressed bezants. You hardly recognize the woman looking back at you in the mirror, the one with her hair swept off her neck in an intricate braided bun, eyes darkened with kohl, ears and neck adorned with sparkling gold. Whoever that woman is, she is far bolder and far more sophisticated than you.

“There’s nothing like his work,” Hyeri muses, running a thumb over pattern pressed into the hem of one sleeve. “Frail as he is, it takes him ages to complete a dress. But he’s worth it. Worth the wait and worth every single won.”

You study the intertwining gold patterns stitched into the bustline. No doubt the King has paid dearly for this dress and all its fine accoutrements. The thought of your husband spending an obscene amount of money on it nearly puts a smile on your face. 

“You look remarkable in this dress,” Hyeri remarks quietly, wrinkled mouth lifting at the corners with a cautious smile. “Well, of course, you look remarkable everyday, but especially tonight.” 

Her expression is bittersweet as she reaches for you, gently tucking a strand of hair that’s fallen loose of your braid behind your ear. This newfound emotional distance has been hard on her, you know. It’s been hard on you, too. And though holding her at arm’s length has proven difficult at times, it feels somehow vital to your self-preservation.

“Don’t forget your shawl,” Hyeri says softly. “It’s gotten quite cold out there.”

It certainly has. The storm that ripped through the kingdom just days ago took the insufferable heat with it, leaving behind a pure, crystalline cold. The night sky is clear enough to see for miles. 

So you accept the shawl from Hyeri with a quiet thanks, avoiding her eyes as you slip out the chamber door.

By the time you make your way to the great hall, the revelry is already well underway. You can hear it pulsing through the slats of the heavy wooden doors, the music and commotion contained within powerful enough to stir the ground beneath your feet. The footmen posted at either side of the entrance bow deeply as you approach, then move to pull the doors open.

You raise a hand to still them, wanting a moment to steel yourself before entering the fray.

“I’m not – If you’ll just give me – ”

One of the guards steps forward to speak when your words falter.

“No need to explain, Your Grace,” he says earnestly. “Just let us know when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” You take as deep a breath as your elaborate gown will allow. “Truly.”

You already know what awaits on the other side of those doors. Artificial smiles that hide whispers about your empty womb, honeyed and hollow words of praise from your exasperating husband. Pity too, perhaps, from those connected enough to be privy to the true state of your marriage. 

But you’ll bear it. You must. Because it’s what’s expected of you and because your political survival in this kingdom depends on it.

“Well then,” you say, smoothing down your velvet skirt with trembling hands. "I believe I've had time to collect myself."

The very same footman that had spoken to you just moments earlier gives you a sympathetic smile as he places one hand on the door’s ornate wrought iron handle. He pauses to look at you before signaling to the other footman, one brow raised as if to say are you sure?

You swallow thickly and nod your affirmation.

Slowly, the heavy doors are pulled open, creaking as they part. You step forward to enter, feeling a rush of cool air at your heels. The brief hush that falls over the great hall makes your heartbeat quicken.

But then the King stands. 

He rises to his feet and bows to you, and every person inside the great hall follows suit. You return his bow and then straighten, holding your head up high as you set off to fulfill your duty.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King makes no mention of the tense meal you’d shared just a few nights prior. Not that you’d expected him to. If anything, your husband’s predilection for avoidance has been one of his most consistent traits. And if he’s harbored any ill feelings about the curt words you’d spoken that night, surely they’ve been washed away in a torrent of ale.

He’s already a bit drunk when you take your seat beside him – pleasantly so, if his ruddy cheeks and leisurely smile are any indication. His dark eyes are glassy as they sweep over your form, taking in the grandeur of your dress. But they linger at your bust for just a heartbeat too long and it takes all the self-control you can muster to not kick him beneath the table.

“You look fetching in that dress,” the King notes, reaching for his tankard. “The color suits you.”

“Oh? Then you’ll be pleased to know I’ve dozens more just like it on the way.”

You startle a laugh from the King just as he’s taken a drink and he splutters on it, coughing until tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “Very good of you to warn me before the bill comes due,” he wheezes.

“But of course, Your Grace.” You infuse your words with cloying, contrived sweetness, putting a hand over your heart for emphasis. “It is the very least I could do.”

The King chuckles as you turn to look out over the room. 

The tables below the raised platform on which you both dine are teeming with people, their long wooden benches bowing beneath the substantial weight. They are littered with food and drink, tankards and platters and goblets scattered for as far as the eye can see. 

You sip your wine and watch partygoers reach over one another for noodles and steal dumplings from their neighbors’ plates.

It takes a minute for you to spot Boram. She and Lord Min are tucked into a corner, cozy and close. Your dear friend is the very picture of contentment; resplendent in a royal blue gown, glowing in the torchlight when her husband presses a kiss to her temple. Your heart aches as you watch them. What you would give to have what they have – to know the fulfillment they’ve found in one another.

In fact, the Mins make for such a compelling tableau that you nearly overlook the one behind it. Lord Jung is dressed in an arresting black and gold tunic, dark hair styled away from his face and a tankard of ale in his hand. And he is not alone.

Seated close to him – so very close – is a woman. A beautiful woman, as best you can tell from a distance. Her dark red dress in perfect contrast to her shiny fall of dark hair, the garment cut to accentuate what can only be described as a generous bust. She leans in to Lord Jung as she says something, décolletage on full display when she throws her head back to laugh.

Your grip on the wine goblet in your hand tightens.

The woman is brazen, that much you can tell. Her proximity to the Guardsman is far too close to be proper, her scandalous –  if stunning – manner of dress far too self-indulgent to be benign. And though you cannot make out clearly how she’s been received by Lord Jung, the very fact that he has not sent her away is telling. Is this the woman he intends to marry, then? Or just a diversion for the night? 

You drain the wine that remains in your goblet and signal for the serving girl to bring you more.

Moments later Lord Jung, too, flags down a passing servant to fill his tankard. For a man who once took great pride in extolling his discipline with spirits, he seems to be exercising very little of it tonight. In fact, he looks to be indulging as much or perhaps even more than his fellow Guardsmen. Perhaps that is why he does not he does not move to distance himself when the alluring woman at his side places a hand on his arm.

You swallow another large sip of wine.

“It’s nearly time for the evening’s entertainment,” the King says. “I think you’ll be impressed by what’s in store.”

You cannot tear your gaze from the scene before you. You cannot stop staring at the comely woman at Lord Jung’s side – stiffening in your seat when she leans over to whisper in his ear.

“I’m looking forward to it,” you say absentmindedly, lifting your wine glass to your lips once again.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

When you were a girl, barely ten years old, your father had come home from a long journey with a fantastic tale. 

He’d spoken of fire – in shades of red and green and gold – launched into the sky, embers raining down on the earth in a magnificent display. You’d been spellbound by the picture he’d painted for you, wishing desperately to see this phenomenon for yourself.

And now you have.

The King’s promise of a surprise well exceeds your expectations. Each new flare sent up over the open field is met with a hush from the crowd, followed by loud cheers and applause as it explodes into color.

“I brought them back from a village up North,” the King explains, preening at the crowd’s reception. “And though I wanted to show them right away, I made myself wait until the most advantageous time. What do you make of them?”

“They’re splendid,” you answer earnestly. “I’ve never seen anything so grand.”

The King hides a satisfied smile behind the rim of his tankard. By this point in the evening, he’s crossed the line from agreeably drunk to good and well soused – as have many of the others in attendance. You, too, are feeling the effects of your wine, experiencing that strange weightlessness that can only be brought on by drink.

And you are glad for the distraction of the fire display. 

It’s helped pull your focus away from Lord Jung and that woman. Though each time there is a brief break in the presentation, you cannot help but search the throng for any sign of them. You wonder where they are right now. What they might be doing. But then you drown the bitter thoughts with the wine in your goblet.    

The night wears on and the crowd around you becomes rowdier, louder – the ale barrels slowly disappearing one by one. Even the King is looking a bit worse for the wear. He’s sagged into the chair beside you, heavy-lidded as he watches the bright detonations that light up the sky.

You are not faring much better. A dull throb taps at your temples, no doubt the consequence of drinking too much wine, and you suspect that it will be far more pronounced come morning. You ought to retire for the evening now, while you still have some of your wits about you.

You open your mouth to say as much to the King at the very same time you catch sight of a slim man ambling away from the crowd. Though he’s hundreds of yards away and though there’s little light beyond the torches and the occasional embers in the sky, you recognize him right away. 

You would recognize him anywhere.

Impulsively, you get to your feet and utter a rushed goodbye to the King. He bids you farewell with a sluggish smile and not a moment later he’s gone back to gazing skyward, mesmerized by the lights. Just ahead, Lord Jung slinks off into the shadows, moving with an unsteady gait. 

And you follow him. To what end you cannot be sure.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Clearly, you’d given no real thought to this course of action. 

If you had, you’d not be scurrying across damp grass right now, struggling to keep your balance in your beautiful velvet dress. The heavy fabric weighs you down with each step, making each footfall precarious. In fact, if you’d stopped for even a moment to consider the implications of stealing away to pursue a man who is not your husband, you’d have ended this lunacy long before it even began.

But here you are in the dark, chasing after Lord Jung. With only the moon to light your way.

The slender man moves quickly, unburdened by the trappings of women’s formalwear and assisted by his long legs. You lift the hem of your dress off the ground and do your best to keep up on the shadowy path. Just a short distance ahead you can make out the lines of a thatched roof and wooden fence. 

It’s the stables, you realize, and the pieces start to fall into place.

He’s come here to meet that woman. The two of them must have agreed to leave the festival and come here for a secret tryst. Were you a woman in your right mind, that realization would stop you cold and send you running straight back to the castle. But you are absolutely not in your right mind. You are dangerous tonight; fearless from the wine flowing freely in your veins.

As such, the very thought of Lord Jung arranging for a passionate liaison with this woman has the opposite effect. It infuriates you. And you’ll not be satisfied until you can see the proof for yourself and then end this fixation once and for all.

Overhead, a flare of light illuminates the darkness just as you’re nearing the horse stalls. It’s followed by the sound of sizzling gunpowder, and it draws your attention skyward. You look up just in time to see wisps of fire tumble back to the earth. But when you fix your gaze forward again, Lord Jung is gone.

What on earth?

You’ve barely begun to consider your next move before your body is moving of its own volition, jerked right off the walking path by a hand that wraps around your arm like a band of steel. Lord Jung drags you behind the horse stall with one hand and claps the other over your mouth to smother the sound of hysteria that threatens to escape.

“What. Are. You. Doing?”

He hisses the words, one by one, his low vibrato thrumming with barely-contained anger. You’ve yet to recover from the shock of being accosted in the dark and so you stare at him, bewildered and mute.

He releases you, dropping the hand covering your mouth to walk to the edge of the stables. You watch as he ducks his head around the corner to check the walking path. Once he’s satisfied you’ve not been followed, he rounds on you.

“Anyone could have seen you.”

“No one saw me,” you scowl, finding your voice. You rub your forearm where his fingers dug painfully into your flesh. “They’re all far too drunk to see anything, I assure you.”

The Guardsman shoves a hand through his dark hair and exhales deeply.

“What are you about tonight, Your Grace?” 

A fair question, and one you ought to have considered before dashing off into the night. But you’d been so hellbent on hunting the man down that you’d given no real thought to what you’d do if you actually caught him. You hesitate for so long that he grows impatient, closing in on you.

“What,” he repeats slowly, “Are you about?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Well, you ought to know,” he growls. “You ought to know damned well exactly what you’re about before you go off following men into the dark.”

But it’s not as though you’ve followed just any man into the dark, is it? You’d followed him. The admonishment riles you, bringing your temper back to a full boil. You straighten your spine and sear him with a withering look.

“That woman tonight. At the feast. She wants you to bed her.”

Lord Jung’s dark eyes go wide just before they narrow. He stalks towards you slowly, forcing you to retreat until your back is flush to the stable’s rough wooden slats. Slivers of moonlight play off his angular face, making the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced.

He’s beautiful – even like this – even when he’s so irate that he can barely stand still.

“I know what she wants,” he murmurs, voice sinking to an octave that raises goosebumps on your arms. “What I do not know is what you want. What I do not know is why you are here.”

“So you intend to bed her,” you challenge.

Something dangerous flickers in the man's expression as he regards you, gaze potent enough to almost make you regret your sudden bout of daring. Almost.

“No.”

And so there is no tryst. No agreement between secret lovers. Adrenaline floods your veins, bringing with it a clarity that you’ve not had since you began drinking tonight. You’ve been reckless – so, so reckless – and now there is no undoing what you’ve done. 

“I’ve answered your question and now you will answer mine,” Lord Jung warns, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “What. Do. You. Want?”

All the fire has left you now. Whatever force possessed you to confront this man in this way has disappeared, leaving behind only a sickly taste in your mouth. You’ll feel more than just the wine in the morning, you know it. 

“Brave enough to follow me into the dark, brave enough to demand I explain my plans for bedsport,” he continues, brows knit as he stares you down. “But somehow, not brave enough to tell me what you’re doing here in the first place.”

“I – ” 

“Tell me then,” he goads, growing more agitated by the minute. “Open your mouth and speak. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

You ought to have slapped him across the face. At the very least, you would have earned the look he’s giving you right now – this frozen mask of incredulity that’s come over him. He backs away from you slowly, as though poised to run. But he doesn’t.

“You’re mad.”

“I am not mad,” you say evenly, with a poise you’d not thought yourself capable of. “You asked me what I want and I’ve told you. I want you to kiss me.”

Another burst of color explodes in the sky. A loud cheer goes up over the field nearby, a disquieting reminder of the hundreds of people milling about just a short walk away. The commotion seems to sober him.

“Go home, Your Grace.” His words are strangled, forced. “You are playing with fire. You have no idea what you’re doing here.”

You stiffen, lifting your nose in the air. 

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you lie.

Your insistence only serves to make him even more agitated. He begins to pace back and forth, glowering at you as he moves.

“Go back to your castle, Your Grace. Go back to your fine life and your fine things and no one will ever be the wiser.”

“I will not,” you refuse, petulant.

Lord Jung delivers his last blow, the fatal one, in a voice so graveled it sounds as though the words are spoken by a stranger. And perhaps he is a stranger, this man you’ve been so infatuated with. Perhaps he’s nothing like what you’ve made him in your own mind.

“Go back to your husband,” he growls. “Your King.”

Your humiliation is instant and acute. You burn with it, the embarrassment so all-consuming that it nearly makes you see stars. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears, feel your heart pounding in your throat when you finally manage to speak.

“The King doesn’t want me,” you say stiffly. “Though I am certain you already know that.”

“The King is a fool!” he explodes, surging forward and slamming his hands down on either side of you. The outburst is violent enough to shake the horse stall and the venom in his countenance nearly makes you come out of your skin. His mouth hovers terrifyingly close to yours, so close that you can nearly taste the ale on his breath. You stop breathing altogether. 

Then he wrenches himself away from you, staggering backwards as though he’s been burned.

“And so am I.”

i’d love to hear from you about this chapter! you can talk to me here. otherwise, i hope you enjoyed it and only the final chapter is left 💕

#hoseok smut #j-hope smut #bts smut #hoseok x reader #j-hope x reader #bts x reader #hoseok #bts hoseok #bts x you #hoseok x you #bts scenarios #bts au #hoseok imagine #bangtanarmynet #thebtswritersclub #bangtan

[bangtanintotheroom]

For the ask game: champagne!

champagne— what’s your favorite form of physical affection, if any at all?

I'm not very physical a lot of the time but when I'm in the mood, I like to rest my head on someone's shoulder. For affection towards me, I like when someone taller hugs me and bends me back a little, it just feels so nice 😊

#asks #ask game #emmmmm 💖 #miscelunaaa #my lovely moots

[raplinesmoon]

ISIIIIII

salmon, champagne, and hibiscus, if you're up for it <3

HI EM!!! Thank you for sending these in!! <3

salmon— would you prefer a partner who is an introvert or an extrovert? why?

My initial gut instinct is to say introvert, just because I'm very introverted and need someone who understands that energy, but maybe more ambiverted? Someone who's either on the introvert leaning extroverted side or vice versa just so the two of us aren't sitting at home all the time? I love to go out and explore new places!

champagne— what’s your favorite form of physical affection, if any at all?

I'm not very big on physical affection (my love language is acts of service), but I do really like hugs! I think they're a very versatile and super tender form of affection you can use to show anyone you care. I also really like having my hair stroked (my mom did it to me when I was in the ER last week bc I was sick, and it just made it seem like everything was going to be okay).

hibiscus— what’s your favorite pet name, if any? why?

HMMMM I'm not big on pet names in general, but I would like to say that I've always wanted to be called/call someone the Urdu word Jaan. It means soul/spirit/life, and I just think that's a beautiful way to refer to someone you love and cherish. Also fun fact, Jaan comes from the Persian word Joon, which means the same thing, and my nickname for Namjoon is Namjaan.

pink themed asks

#asks #ask games #miscelunaaa

[thatlongspringnight]

A Moment of Jealousy

Pairing: Jung Hoseok/female reader

Rating: M for mature

Genre:  Historical au, Regency era

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, dirty talk, foul language, a ring goes in a place rings shouldn't go, outdoor sex, jealousy

Summary:

Seeing another woman even dare to touch him sets you ablaze, but luckily, Hoseok is always there to quench that fire.

Word Count: 1667

Tagging: @xjoonchildx @hobi-gif @miscelunaaa @vintageroses10 @wwilloww @vyduan @minisugakoobies @augustbutwinter @sahmfanficbts @hamsterclaw @starlostjimin

“You’re a lout!” It's almost shrill…actually, no, it is shrill - tearing from your lips as you walk down the hall, clutching tightly at the skirt of your riding habit as your feet carry you into the garden.

You’re making a scene, happily dragging the servants into this, even happier to drag your husband’s *noble* friends into it as well. “You’re a rake, I should have never let you have me!” and then he’s behind you, not even bothering to respond to you in kind - his cold fury only serving to make you boil, a teapot hissing in simmering rage. 

He must think he’s better than you - he does think it, you know it, and that’s why Hoseok has always driven you mad.

Mad with fury, mad with lust.

Now you’re just mad - 

 “Nothing but a rake.”It's more of a grumble, and only for your own ears this time, as the stableman - expecting the both of you for an afternoon ride, seems surprised to see only you.

Yes of course, no doubt Hoseok had stayed behind, more inclined to calm his surprised sycophants than come after you, even if that is all you want.

All you want is for him to choose you, for his eyes to find your own…and only your own. Is that so much to ask? That the man who married you covet you and you alone? 

“Ah - my lady where is - “ “My lord husband can surely ride his horse on his own time.” You snap. “Or perhaps his whores, I care not either way.” and then you are hoisting yourself up, cursing the side-saddle that would have been lovely on a leisurely stroll, gripping at the pommel with your thighs for some semblance of balance and control. 

The comment is cruel, and truly, likely false. Hoseok - even if his eyes had shined today - at that simpering little fool who had the audacity to bat her eyes at him, to giggle, to place her hand on his arm - 

“My lady, I really insist - “ “Truly, you can insist your way to the seventh hell, Taehyung.” And your horse, handsome gelding he is, is quick to respond to your cue to go, and then go faster at your insistence. 

God in heaven, how you loathe the feelings swirling in your chest, the feeling of inadequacy that builds in your chest at the idea he’d dare to glance at someone else. How his eyes could ever darken in a way you recognize from when they fall onto you. 

Fucker - Heartless bastard. The fast trot of your horse sets your fiery blood nearly to ash. How dare he - 

The more you ride, the angrier you get, your heart set on the one place that can give you peace, that damned grove where he had first asked you.

“Dammit!” and there is a call in the air, just loud enough you can hear it, and it drives you forward. “If you don’t - !” You can’t hear the rest but you can imagine it - Hoseok - on his horse…yelling into the wind.

Yelling for you - 

You stall your gelding, quick to murmur a soft stay as you toss his reins over a tree branch, letting your feet carry you.

Just because you want him to catch you doesn’t mean you have to make it easy. And…you do want him to catch you, of course, feeling giddy as you dash into the woods, uncaring of the way the tree branches catch you, or the way your too-fussy hairstyle begins to unravel.

All you care about is the heat under your skin, the burning excitement as you hear his curses, as he calls for you, the feeling of anger so akin to the feeling of longing you aren’t even sure what dominates you -

“Got you - !” and his arm shoots out, around your waist before you can even protest, and protest you do, a squeal on your lips as he all but shoves you into the trunk of a tree. “Don’t you dare even move.” And when you meet his eyes, they’re burning, as searing as his grip on your wrists, holding you more than still. 

“Surprised you even noticed I left.” You answer, feeling the heat of his breath, watching the way his chest rises and falls as he pants from exertion. “You seemed content enough just to be petted and praised -” “My God woman, your jealousy will end us both.” Hoseok grits through his teeth, shifting a hand to your neck, then gripping at your bun, more than eager to tear it down, sending your hair cascading. 

Well - as best it can with his grip on it, wound ‘round his palm, as he tugs roughly enough that you whine, head tilting up. “You made me look like a fool.” “You are a fool.” You answer, hoping to goad him into more, and you can see the way his eyes narrow, how his jaw tightens. Now, the anger has shifted, boiling turned to simmer, the heat warming you till you want to melt under his grip, sting turned to honey. “And a dandy.”

“And you are a parrot, all screech and no teeth.” He counters, and God does he paint a portrait - his grip so firm, his black riding coat cut to fit his form like a fine glove. 

Everything about him screams power, the sinews of his lean form as obvious as the way he’s looking at you. Fond and furious. “You made a scene, you shamed us both.” And his face is close now, so close your noses almost touch as he presses you harder against the tree trunk. “People talk.” “Let them talk about how mad I am, then perhaps they’ll stop sending their daughters to pine over you, Hoseok.” You’re prim enough that he laughs, a darkened chuckle. 

That laugh, so airy when in the company he liked to keep, is even better now, dripping from his lips like a threat. It's so rare that he shows himself as he truly is. Not the sun in the sky, but a raging forest fire - the type of brightness that could swallow you whole, incinerate your very being. 

“That is what you want?” And it's the drop of his head against your skin, the graze of his teeth against your jaw. “You want me to show you your place? At the head of the line of pining women, first to throw yourself at me?” “I am your wife - “ but it's cut off, his mouth hot against yours, silencing you, finally. 

“My wife, my ill behaved creature.” He hums. “My jealous, jealous girl.” and he is hiking up your skirts. “Where is your place? If not on my cock.” And that is enough, your hands meeting his as you snatch your skirts higher, legs already parting at his hand sliding up your thighs, meeting your cunt with those damned fingers of his.

HIs fingers slide into you like a sword to a sheath, and you gasp. There is a coldness, a fullness towards the end as you realize he is still wearing his signet ring. If you still your muddled thoughts, and your aching body, you imagine you can almost feel the outline of the crest emblazoned on it.

The ancient crane motif of his family, now your own. 

“I won’t have to do much work.” He is sly, his tone almost teasing in its dryness. “You’re more than ready.” “Then don’t put in the work - spear me already.” You answer, far too heated to even care for his fingers inside of you- delicious though they are .

“You’re no better than a courtesan.” He answers, but his breeches are undone before you can even fathom it.

His cock, glistening, the darkened skin drawing a shudder of ache around the fingers he still has buried inside of you.

“Fuck.” He curses, and now you’re empty, his hand slick with you as he pulls your leg up, as he sinks into you.

No more pretense. Finally. “Fuck, you feel -” And he grunts, tilting your body till your feet are struggling to maintain their footing, till he’s the only thing keeping you up, the bark digging into your back every time he thrusts into you.

“Y-You’re going to rip my dress.” You are clutching at him, your fingers digging into the fine material of his riding jacket. “You - I will have to walk back half naked.” “Good - that is what you deserve for the scene you made, walking back half naked.” He means it too, and there is a piece of you that wishes he’d make due on that promise, and tear your dress down the seam. 

Make it clear to everyone what he had done- how he had gladly taken you. How he’s fucking you, right now, each thrust of his strong hips making you whine and whimper. 

You love it when he fucks you like this, when he is rough, like the tree behind you, making you beg for him, and beg for more. “Don’t you think they can hear you back at the manor?” He asks. “Don’t you feel even an ounce of shame for how loud you are?”

“None.” and you truly ARE shameless in how you call out for him, his name echoing loud enough to frighten even the birds into calling. “You did not marry me for my shame, husband.” And that seems to break the solid sort of scolding he’s been giving you, a sly grin breaking through as his mouth finds yours, almost like he’s trying to stop you from noticing it at all. 

But you let him distract you, let him have you till you’re quaking, trembling in the aftermath of your want for him, till he’s filled you to bursting, a satisfied sound on his lips, satiated with you, with how you took him.

“Perhaps.” and it's said with no small measure of pleasure. “I should take you in the parlor next, in front of those women you despise so much, hm?” 

#jung hoseok #hoseok fic #hobi fic #hobi x reader #historical fiction #historical au #regency fic #bts fic #bangtan seonyandan