Genre: Do I write anything that isn’t smut? The answer is no.
Summary: Look up from your books once in a while. A good dick down might be on the other side.
Word count: 4,267
A/N: I’m appalled at the lack of Hoseok smut so I thought I’d polish this piece I had about him and post that. Enjoy! Feel free to request stuff as well.
at the silver and pink watch on your wrist as you typed continuously onto your
laptop. You sighed deeply as you pressed enter to switch line. This essay was
taking so long to write and you could feel all your focus slip away, tiredness
taking over in heavy presses on your eyelids. You met eyes with your charming
boyfriend on the other side of the table. He smiled at you sweetly before
looking back down at his papers. Unlike you, he was enjoying himself, writing
lyrics and listening to some music on his laptop, calmly sipping a warm cup of
tea. You glanced to your left and reached for your nth cup of coffee promptly
sitting atop a messy pile of books. You tilted it. Empty. A sigh made its way
between your dry lips and soon enough your cold hands found their way back onto
your keyboard, resting lifeless on the keys.
You were so
focused on getting this paper done that you didn’t notice Hoseok getting up to
make you another warm drink. His presence lurked tall behind your back as his
left arm entered your peripherals, putting a black mug down on the table,
making sure to push away all your scattered papers. He grabbed your other mug
under your soft stare. You lazily reached for the new drink and brought it up
to your mouth.
you Hobi.” you murmured.
He put the
other mug in the sink before standing behind you again, his gentle hands on
your shoulders, massaging the sore muscles. You took a long awaited sip. Hm… Chocolate?
that’s hot chocolate.” you whined cutely.
Attempting to write with a 2 year old sitting next to you is like trying to type when an octopus wants to give you a hug, make you eat a goldfish cracker, steal your pen and note pad and write his own version of Hamlet on your laptop. At the same time.
When he was still a lonely child in the depths of Casterly Rock, he oft rode dragons through the nights, pretending he was some lost Targaryen princeling, or a Valyrian dragonlord soaring high o'er fields and mountains. Once, when his uncles asked him what gift he wanted for his nameday, he begged them for a dragon. “It wouldn’t need to be a big one. It could be little, like I am.” His uncle Gerion thought that was the funniest thing he had ever heard, but his uncle Tygett said, “The last dragon died a century ago, lad.” That had seemed so monstrously unfair that the boy had cried himself to sleep that night.