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pviscelle · 1 year ago

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M for Maniac | MasterPost

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Female Character

Genre/Tags: Dark Romance, Thriller

Word Count: 3k

Status: Ongoing

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Implied sexual content, graphical depiction of violence, gore, mental instability, major character death, LGBT characters, angst.

Synopsis: In 21st Century Seoul, danger equaled things starting with the letter 'M':

Man,

Menace,

Malevolent,

And Min Yoongi.

'Crisis' was a given under his regime as a ferocious Mafia. But who was to stop him with a sound mind? Might be the people working at NIS.

However, the only two ways to reach him were either by dying at gunpoint beneath him or being tied down underneath him and grinding his favorite gun.

Kwon Iseul, a special agent assigned by NIS, made the worst decision of her life by pledging to arrest and unveil his true identity to the world, thinking she could beguile him with her coquettish beauty.

Spin off to Your Devil: A Doomed Catastrophe

PROLOGUE

The rough drag of his shoes across the hallway only stoked the urge to bash the head of the judgmental woman glaring at him into the same floor.

She was in her early forties, her thick glasses failing to hide the crow's feet that even makeup couldn't smooth over. The garish red lipstick she wore seemed less like an attempt at beauty and more like a desperate signal, casting her as someone hungry for attention—any attention.

He never cared to learn her name. Why would he? He hated her, not just for her constant pettiness, but for the ugliness that seeped through her polished exterior.

Women like her wore a human face over a heart of venom, two-faced like a shifting shadow, and he knew their kind all too well. One of them was the reason he was stuck here instead of relaxing in his own house.

"I see you've got the guts to shave your head but leave a patch of hair. A real sloth you are, Min Yoongi," she sneered, her gaze pinning him down with disgust.

Yoongi clicked his tongue, unbothered. "Had to, after the lice you gave me, old receptionist," he shot back.

"How dare you? I'm not old!" she snapped, her voice rising, preferring to be offended by a mention of old age to the insult of being accused of having lice.

"Haven't moved past denial yet, huh? Good luck telling that to your eighteen-year-old son."

"My son thinks I'm beautiful, you filthy rat. Go get your therapy," she hissed, eyes flashing with hatred as Yoongi walked off, cackling.

His laughter bounced off the walls, leaving her with nothing but the sound of it ringing in her ears as he reached the polished mahogany door of his therapist's office. Before stepping in, he paused to throw one final jab at the haughty receptionist: "Get your son some glasses. Maybe then he'll see what the rest of us do."

He left her standing there, seething, as her fury burned holes into the back of his freshly shaved head.

A soft click echoed through the room as Yoongi entered, and an unsettling quiet followed. The smirk that had stretched across his lips vanished as soon as he saw Dr. Lee, seated behind his desk, studying what Yoongi assumed was his report.

The doctor, burdened with knowledge, fixed his gaze intently on the white sheets and the CT scan Yoongi had taken the day before.

Yoongi shifted his weight, absently scratching behind his ear as the silence stretched on. Dr. Lee still hadn't given any sign that he had acknowledged his presence. For a moment, Yoongi considered leaving, trading insults with the old receptionist seemed far more appealing than sitting through whatever this session had in store.

"I can hear you second-guessing yourself, Yoongi," Dr. Lee said without looking up. "Don't think about leaving. Come in and sit down. We've got a few things to discuss."

Yoongi huffed. "Are therapists mind readers too?"

Dr. Lee glanced up, smiling faintly. "No, but after three sessions, I assure you we can pick up a few things. Come on, take a seat. I promise I won't bite."

"You therapists are creepy. I don't trust any of you."

Dr. Lee chuckled, leaning back in his chair as if Yoongi's comment was nothing more than casual banter. "Why not?"

Yoongi shrugged, finally walking over to the chair across from the desk and dropping into it with an exaggerated breath. "You people get anyone to spill their guts. That's why."

Dr. Lee's eyes crinkled as he let out a hearty laugh, the sound filling the room. "And yet, here you are. So, why not start with your secrets?"

The doctor waited patiently as Yoongi mulled over his response.

After a moment, Yoongi met his gaze and said flatly, "Secrets aren't meant to be shared. People who can't keep them are weak, and I'd rather die than be one of them."

Dr. Lee raised an eyebrow, highly intrigued.

Yoongi was sharp, and despite his defiance, Dr. Lee had to respect his wit. He'd seen countless kids at Malgeun Psychiatric Hospital, but none quite like him. The boy never failed to surprise him. He vividly recalled their first meeting, where Yoongi had immediately ridiculed the entire profession of therapists—just like today. The sneer in his voice and the malice in his eyes were unmistakable signs of how deeply he'd been hurt. Dr. Lee knew then that Yoongi needed treatment more than anyone at the hospital.

"Fair enough," Dr. Lee said, still smiling. "But secrets have a way of bleeding into everything else. . . like family. How about we talk about that?"

The room's lightness vanished, replaced by a suffocating tension, as if Yoongi's mood had cast a shadow over it. His jaw tightened, and his eyes grew cold, sharp as a blade.

"I don't have a family," Yoongi replied, his voice blunt and icy.

Dr. Lee almost winced at the bitterness in his tone. But as a professional, he knew better than to let it show. He decided to confront the unspoken truth. Sooner or later, Yoongi would have to face it.

"Yoongi," he began, "I know your father's death hit you hard. It's natural to feel angry, even isolated. But the distrust, the withdrawal—those are not the answers. Your mother, your brother, and I. . . we all want to help."

"Stepmother," Yoongi said instead, his sharp voice cutting through the air. He wore the same malicious expression, his eyes slits of cold fury, his lips twisted into a dark, mocking smile. "And her worthless son. That's what you mean, right?"

Truth be told, Dr. Lee felt a wave of intimidation wash over him. He had expected lingering resentment in Yoongi's gaze after reading his case, but what he saw instead was pure, seething contempt: an almost palpable desire to cause harm.

The doctor took a steadying breath, choosing his words with care. "Yes, but what difference does that make?"

Yoongi's laugh erupted, maniacal and loud, his head thrown back as though the doctor had just said the most absurdly hilarious thing he'd ever heard. Large puffs of air escaped his mouth, his chest heaving with each ragged breath until he let out a scoff, finally calming down.

"Difference? It makes a hell of a lot of difference, Doctor." Yoongi crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. "Do you have any idea what it's like to watch your father fall into the pit his beloved second wife dug, knowing full well she intentionally pushed him in, and that it would cost him everything?" His voice grew progressively more strained and louder with each word. By the end of his frustrated tirade, he was shouting, almost leaping out of his seat.

Dr. Lee was stunned, rendered speechless by Yoongi's sudden change in behavior.

In all their sessions, he had never seen Yoongi this outraged. This was the first instance where Yoongi had openly expressed his anger, and it went beyond just being trapped in this place.

From the look in Yoongi's eyes, Dr. Lee realized the issue wasn't rooted in his mind but in the very core of his heart. At last, he understood exactly what he needed to do, something that had previously eluded him.

The timer perched on Dr. Lee's desk chimed, marking the end of their fourth session and the heavy tension that had settled between them. Yoongi shifted forward, reaching for the water glass beside the timer. He grasped it and brought it to his lips, drinking quickly in a series of rapid gulps. The cool water eased the heat building in his body, inch by inch, soothing the burn that the session had left in his chest.

Dr. Lee broke the silence, his gaze calculating as he watched Yoongi closely. "Seems like the penny's dropped now," he said, his tone calm and measured, as he simultaneously jotted something down on a blank sheet of paper.

A slight tilt of his head showed Yoongi didn't quite catch the idiom. But the moment he saw the list of medications prescribed to him, his confusion quickly gave way to newfound fury.

"Hell no! Mood stabilizers? You think I have trust and anger issues? Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"Calm down, Yoongi. These will help you gain control over your emotions," Dr. Lee spoke, rising to his feet as Yoongi suddenly stood and began pacing the room, his anger unmistakable. His restless movements clearly indicated he was searching for something to channel his fed-up energy.

He swiftly spotted a set of paperweights in various sizes, and in a desperate frenzy, he flung them in every direction. His eyes then fell on a pot of fake plants, and without hesitation, he hurled it toward the window. The glass shattered with a deafening crash, sending shards scattering across the floor.

"Why would I need treatment just for telling the truth? Why won't anyone believe me? That snake, Ga-eul, killed my dad!" It wasn't just some fucking gas explosion!" Yoongi bellowed over the crash of breaking photo frames. "Everyone keeps saying he was just in the WRONG place at the WRONG time! But why can't you all see he was DELIBERATELY put there?!"

The moment Yoongi's disorder was confirmed by his actions, a piece of something sharp flew through the air, striking Dr. Lee just above the eyebrow. He winced, shouting in pain.

Hearing the ruckus, the receptionist from earlier rushed into the room, her eyes widening as her mouth dropped open. One manicured hand flew to her chest, pressing dramatically against her heart, as though overwhelmed by the chaos around her. The office was in disarray.

"Call the nurses, Lilia!" Dr. Lee barked at her, clutching his forehead with a grimace. Though he wasn't bleeding heavily, the dizziness clouding his mind made his vision swim. He heard fast, heavy footsteps before three indistinct figures burst in. Two of them, broad-shouldered and strong, swiftly overpowered Yoongi, forcing him to the ground.

Dr. Lee pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and pressed it to his forehead, gently dabbing the small cut. With his other hand, he rummaged through the scattered mess, found his glasses, and rubbed his weary eyes before sliding them on. His breathing was ragged, and only then did he notice the relentless pounding of his heart.

No one at the hospital was like Min Yoongi—damaged, seething with fury, consumed by darkness. Now, Dr. Lee knew that for certain.

The accidental death of his father had devastated Yoongi, and his unrelenting rage and outbursts ultimately led to one diagnosis: PTSD.

"Quickly! Get him to his bed and restrain him," Dr. Lee ordered the two male nurses. He turned to the third, Nurse Sora. "Do you know where the sedatives are?"

Sora, visibly shaken by Yoongi's frantic yelling, nodded, her hands trembling.

"Fetch them for me, fast!"

The group struggled to bring Yoongi into the hostel room, where all the beds were, and bound him to one of the bunks. Children and staff of various ages stared, some in shock, others with unsettling amusement, and one in particular with pity.

"No, you can't do this! Please, you have to believe me!" Yoongi's voice cracked with desperation as Dr. Lee, now unnervingly calm, filled the syringe with the sedatives that would soon drag him into unconsciousness.

"I can prove my father was murdered!" Yoongi shouted, but his words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

A wave of fury surged within him, boiling into another violent storm.

Yoongi's body trembled, his anger coursing through his veins like fire as his head throbbed in overwhelming rage.

"Oh, I swear, I'll make you all pay for this," he snarled, his teeth grinding as the sharp sting of the needle pierced his skin. The cold liquid seeped into his bloodstream, and a wave of numbing darkness began to spread, drowning out his fury as his body succumbed to the sedative's grip.

His eyes drifted shut, the tension in his shoulders melting away. Before he knew it, he had succumbed to a dreamless slumber, the weight of his thirst for revenge lying dormant within him.

Yet, a thought tugged at the edges of his mind: if he were to prove the allegations against Ga-eul regarding his father's death, he'd have to face the truth alone, entirely by himself. By his own means.

He had to convince the world that he was not insane, in stark contrast to Ga-eul's claims on the day of his father's funeral, when she cried with false tears, insisting that she had lost both a husband and a son, as if they had been unjustly condemned to a place with no return. As if she weren't responsible for her husband's death and Yoongi's banishment to Malgeun Psychiatric Hospital in the first place.

With these thoughts weighing on his chest, Yoongi awoke thirteen hours later, his heart heavy. His senses were dulled, but a persistent, aching void pulsed through his mind. He stretched his arms wide, feeling the movement, aware he was no longer bound to the bed.

Yoongi pushed himself up and propped a pillow against his back. A sigh escaped him, followed by a yawn. He scratched behind his ear—an unconscious habit when he was at a loss. He glanced around, the dim lighting offering only a faint view. The darkness of night had settled in, and every kid he knew (or didn't) was fast asleep, some snoring loudly.

"Hey, Yoongs!" somebody called. The voice was smooth, yet carried a firm, masculine edge, echoing faintly from somewhere above Yoongi.

Yoongi's head jerked upward, his eyes freezing as they locked onto the gaze of the most handsome boy he'd ever seen.

"I saved you some dinner. Eat it. You were out for most of the day—whatever they gave you must've been pretty strong," the boy said, his voice a mix of concern and frustration on Yoongi's behalf.

"You know I can't stand the crap they serve in the cafeteria, Kim. And stop calling me 'Yoongs,' or I promise I'll add your name to the kill list with the others," Yoongi said, finally breaking eye contact, his voice soft as a whisper.

The boy chuckled softly at the threat, his tone low and dismissive. Moonlight from the room's only window bathed his face, highlighting a smile that only added to his charm. He climbed down from the ladder of his bunk and walked the short distance to the parallel lower bunk, where Yoongi glared at the covered food, as if his intense stare could peel away the aluminum foil and reveal the garbage beneath.

"Oh, you'd never put me on that list, Yoongs, and you know it. Secondly, I'll stop calling you 'Yoongs' as soon as you stop calling me 'Kim.' I'm only a year older than you, for crying out loud. Stop acting like I'm some goddamn thirty-year-old," he said with a playful grin. "And third, today's dish was your favorite. I saved it just for you."

He approached and sat beside Yoongi, who instinctively shifted back an inch, creating distance between them.

"How do you know what my favorite food is?" Yoongi asked, dismissing the other comments with a wave of his hand. He grabbed the food, peeled back the foil, and to his surprise, found his favorite dish: bulgogi kimbap, tteokbokki, and black rice.

The boy rolled his eyes, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "It's the favorite dish in every typical Korean household. Who doesn't love it?" Kim explained.

Just then, Yoongi sniffed the food and immediately recoiled, his face twisting in disgust. The rice was stale, and the tteokbokki reeked of rotten fish. Yoongi had been right—the cafeteria food was a disaster. Tteokbokki was never meant to reek like a rotten fish.

"This is absolute garbage," Yoongi muttered, his voice thick with irritation. "God, take it away. You did this on purpose, didn't you, Kim? I'll definitely kill you for this." He shot a withering glare at the plate in his hands before shoving it toward Kim, but Kim just chuckled, clearly amused by Yoongi's reaction.

"It wasn't my fault the food went bad after sitting around for hours. Though, I'll admit, it did taste a bit better than it smells now, back when I first ate it." He took a whiff of the rotten food, wrinkled his nose in distaste, then tossed it into the trash. He made a show of wiping the dirt off his hands, rubbing them against his bright blue pajamas as if it had left stains on his delicate, bony fingers.

Turning back to Yoongi, his demeanor grew serious as he asked, "Why do you keep telling these people the truth they refuse to hear? Did you know how pitiful it looked when they bound you and drugged you while you screamed your lungs out? I was so devastated by the scene, I couldn't sleep a wink all night. I just stared at you until you finally woke up."

If the sedatives hadn't still held Yoongi in their grasp, he might have been moved by Kim's last words. He'd have to admit that Kim was probably the sanest person at the hospital—someone who truly cared, helped, and looked out for those who were genuinely hurting. He knew he was hurting just as much as the others, but Kim never let it show, always hiding behind that dazzling smile.

Yoongi paused, reflecting deeply on Kim and his qualities before answering any of his questions. No one had ever shown him as much kindness as Kim. Though he knew little about him, Yoongi could tell Kim was a man to be trusted.

A sudden wicked idea popped into his mind, brushing aside all of Kim's concerns.

The wheels in Yoongi’s mind whirred, a crooked smile creeping across his lips. "What was your first name again, Kim?" he asked, delaying the real question.

Kim furrowed his brows in confusion, but as Yoongi unveiled his master plan later, Kim's eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"What?!”

Read Here

#min yoongi #bts army #angst #heartbreak #dark romance #mafia au #yoongi x oc #yoongi fanfic #agustd #filthy smut #yoongi smut #thriller

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pviscelle · 2 years ago

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“oh well it’s constructive criticism’”

Let’s talk about the phrase “oh well it’s constructive criticism” and how people use that phrase to excuse themselves when they get called out for leaving criticism on fan-works. Especially in cases when criticism of any kind is not welcome, not warranted, and not asked for.

The thing is, unless criticism is asked for, it is not constructive no matter what the original intent is. To my mind and the mind of many other creatives/artist/writers there are only a few scenarios where constructive criticism is a legitimate response to something. Number one is obviously if you have been asked for it, the creative in question has given you explicit permission to critique their work. ex: “what are you honest takes/opinions on this thing?” then it is okay to give constructive criticism as it has been explicitly requested from the creative. Number two is in an educational setting. Like literary reviews of your classmates papers, teacher feedback after an assignment, the reviews you give at the end of a semester for your teacher’s class management. Otherwise, outside of these types of things, criticism for the sake of wanting to critique is rude. It is not constructive, because it’s not asked for.

I have had several comments over the years with the theme of “well since i read it i get to have an opinion of it, i get to share my honest take” and to that i say, no you don’t actually. Because my work is fanfiction, that you have not paid for, you are reading for free, that was not written with you in mind, that you could have stopped reading at any point, you don’t have the right to give your unwanted ‘constructive criticism’ to me the author. That is not me being sensitive, it not me being unfair or rude, it is just the fact. I am not making anyone read my fics, if you do not like the work, then do not read it- it is okay to stop reading a fic because you cant handle the writing style, or if there are lot of errors, or whatever. Just stop reading it. I can promise you, no author wants to see “well i liked this but the the wording you used it technically incorrect” cool, calling out what you think is a technical error when you have no bases for where an author is from and you are not their beta reader or editor, is something that is rooted in classism. It does not make you superior to correct people for the words they use. Language is not linear.

Saying “oh well it’s ‘constructive criticism’ ” makes you look like an asshat. If someone is calling you out for leaving criticism then it likely wasn’t asked for and thus it is not constructive.

For something to be constructive it must first have been consented to. It must be given in a way that is not mean or spiteful, or filled harmful intent, delivered kindly and with care. Constructive criticism when not consented to is never going to be considered constructive no matter how nicely it’s phrased. Just because something is accessible to you, just because it is available online, does not mean that it is consenting to critique.

Ask before commenting with criticism. Assuming someone is open to it just makes you look silly. So just ask first, if you really feel the need to have to critique. If they say no, respect that decision.

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pviscelle · 2 years ago

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A Midsummer Night's Dream | MasterPost

Pairing: Incubus x Female Character

Genre/Tags: Dark, Fantasy, Psychological-Thriller

Word Count: 2.3k+

Status: Completed

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Rejection, Implied sexual content, mental health issues, mention of the Second World War, and LGBT characters.

Synopsis: She was a force driving him to sin with sheer temptation even in her sleep. He was a mystical being not backing down until he had a taste.

❛You have driven me crazy, stupid girl. I can wait no longer now.❜

Read Here

#incubus #demon #fantasy #pschology #thriller #schizophrenia #demon x human #fiction #short story #1920s au #ireland #hallucinations #thrilling #demon smut #lgbtq characters

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pviscelle · 2 years ago

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Remember You: My Happiness | MasterPost

Pairing: Taehyung x Female Character

Genre/Tags: Classic, Romance, Fluff

Word Count: 11.6k+

Status: Ongoing

Rating: Teen and Up Audience

Synopsis: Kim Taehyung, a 22-year-old intern at Seoul Art Gallery, experiences a waver in his opinions toward life and love after differing them with the perceptions of a specific woman he met in France.

PROLOGUE

As a child, I always believed I was special—like all the best things in life were destined to be drawn to me by some magnetic field of uniqueness. I was convinced my connection with angels was above everyone else's, and that life's greatest treasures were reserved just for me.

Sounded ridiculous, didn't it? But good luck explaining that to the younger me, who proudly puffed out his chest while standing as the best man at his parents' wedding.

Wearing a tiny tuxedo, my charming little self stole the spotlight in every photo, unlike those thumb-sucking toddlers whining about not being included in their own parents' wedding pictures.

I couldn't stop flashing my crooked, toothy grin as I bragged to anyone who'd listen, whether child or adult. Because honestly, who else but Kim Taehyung could pull off something that exclusive?

That was my first real sign of being different from everyone else. Besides, my father had taught me a magic word—one that could work wonders on anyone, even high-ranking celestial beings like angels.

The catch was that I had to whisper it with absolute sincerity, followed by making my wish from the depths of my heart (or vice versa). And if I had been a good boy and behaved, as my father said, the angels would grant my wish, delivering their blessings in the form of whatever I desired.

Most of the time, though, I didn't feel the need to summon angels from their heavenly leisure to grant something as simple as an extra cookie from my grandmother. Because, honestly, a pair of wide eyes and a drooling mouth did the trick just fine. One look, and she'd melt, handing over not just one but two cookies, all while being charmed by the honey-sweet grin of her only grandson.

To put it simply, I had everything I could ever ask for. From my favorite Looney Tunes pajamas that I practically lived in, to the first paint kit I had once envied in the hands of a rich kid in art class. I suppose that's where my love for painting began.

There was something mesmerizing about capturing beauty on a blank canvas, allowing others to explore its untouched realm through my eyes. I recall a school trip to a small art exhibition where one particular artist had revived the spirit of a dead man's masterpiece. It left a lasting impression on me.

While standing in line with other students, organized by our teachers like compartments in a train, I found myself mindlessly swaying from side to side out of boredom. Sometimes, I watched the water bottle hanging from my neck swing in sync with my movements. Other times, I'd glance around and notice the same scene—bottles swaying in rhythm, accompanied by the occasional ugly cries and sobs from restless students.

The room was spacious, amplifying the sounds of visitors. Amongst the chatter, I overheard my Arts teacher, Miss Meena, whispering to a fellow teacher that she would sleep with the handsome man standing in the corner if he agreed. Miss Meena had always been my favorite teacher, ever since she tamed the unruliest child in our class with ease.

Thinking back, she was always kind to me, and my father had taught me to return kindness and help those in need. Without a second thought, I ran over to the handsome man to ask him on Miss Meena's behalf.

"Excuse me, Mr. Good-looking Guy." I was five years old.

The guy stood facing the painting, his sharp profile catching the light. When he craned his neck to the right, turning 90° to look down at me with raised eyebrows, I felt like I was being scrutinized.

"Did you just call me good-looking, kid?" he asked, pointing at himself in surprise.

I nodded. "Yes."

The motion made my cap press painfully against my neck, and staring up at him didn't help either. I gestured for him to come down to my level, and he obliged, kneeling so we were face to face. His jeans had two big tears at the knees, and now that we were closer, I could take in his so-called "good looks."

His bushy eyebrows were thicker than any shrubs I'd ever seen, and his eyes were a deep brown, the color of tree bark. His nose and lips were. . . fine. But the patch of hair on his chin immediately reminded me of my dad's stubble. My father had looked better with it, though Mom always said he looked even more handsome clean-shaven, and I never argued with her.

Maybe I'd grow a beard one day, outdo my dad, and finally prove that stubble was the key to true "good looks." I made a mental note for my future self to remember.

"Do you want something from me?"

I blinked a few times before shaking my head. "No, I don't want anything from you. I want to ask you something for my Art teacher."

He raised his eyebrows, forming an "O" with his okay-looking lips.

"Oh? What is it?" He placed a large hand on my back and pulled me closer, clearly amused by whatever he thought was coming next.

"Can you sleep with her?"

Spoiler alert: Amusement left the building.

"What?" Mr. Good-Looking Guy practically dropped his jaw to the floor.

I couldn't help but notice the gum stuck between his molars and thought—Ew. Didn't his mother ever tell him chewing gum was bad for his teeth?

Suddenly, I started to question Meena Miss' choice in men. He was supposed to be well-dressed, polished, and have the manners of a gentleman. If I showed up like him, my mom wouldn't even let me out of the house. And honestly, I wouldn't want to be in his shoes anyway—those beat-up Reeboks were definitely not my style. My feet were destined for better things, something with a bit more class.

Still, thinking about Miss Meena's obvious infatuation with this guy made me pause. Maybe I should make him reflect on all her good qualities before deciding.

"My Arts teacher, Miss Meena," I said, pointing my index finger in her direction. She was now leading the student train to the next painting. "She wants to sleep with you. She's always so nice to me, and she loves her son a lot. And whenever Jimin teases me, she makes him apologize."

I, in my infinite cluelessness, had the dumbest grin plastered on my face as I asked him again, "Can you sleep with her?"

When I glanced back at the guy, his expression made it pretty clear that a 'no' was coming.

My smile wavered. "I promise, she's really nice."

He sighed deeply. "I'm sure she is, kid," he said, pinching my cheek. "But I can't sleep—"

"Why not?" I interrupted, determined to get an answer.

He hesitated, running a hand through his long hair as if searching for an explanation my innocent brain could grasp.

"You don't know what it means, kid. It's just. . . not possible," he finally said. "I'm sorry, kid. You should go back."

He started to stand, but I tugged at his arm, giving it one last shot. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Please," I said, using the magic word that always worked.

The good-looking guy muttered something under his breath, and I began summoning every angel I could think of. If he didn't agree this time, I was going to cry. Seriously.

My cap slid back again as I looked up at him with pleading eyes.

He pursed his lips, thinking it over, and finally sighed, letting out a breath that smelled faintly of gum. "Alright, I'll talk to her," he said, reaching out to adjust my cap.

"Thank you, Mr. Good-Looking Guy!" I squealed, wrapping my arms around his shin. Silently, I sent a wave of gratitude to the angels. Dad would be so proud of me.

"Did he just call you good-looking?" a new voice asked.

Peeking through the gap between Mr. Good-Looking Guy's legs, I spotted a man who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. My mom would call these types of men 'strangers.'

"Yeah, he did. Hard to believe, right?" Mr. Good-Looking Guy replied with a chuckle.

"How could I? I'm starting to doubt if the kid's eyes work properly."

I frowned. This unfamiliar side character was making fun of me.

"My eyes work just fine, Mr. Stranger," I shot back, stepping out from behind Mr. Good-Looking Guy's legs. "Mom says I have beautiful eyes."

He was taller than Mr. Good-looking Guy, but I held my chin high and met his icy gaze. His blond hair was slicked back neatly, exposing a smooth, marble-like forehead. His eyebrows formed thin, straight lines above glossy lips that reminded me of the models I saw in television advertisements. Unlike his friend's plain white T-shirt with tiny holes, he wore a crisp white collared shirt.

I watched intently as he crouched down in front of me, adjusting his dress pants. He flashed a bright, toothy grin, and I couldn't help but wonder how many times he brushed his teeth each day to keep them so pearly white. I suddenly felt a strong urge to have a smile just like his.

"You sure do, little boy, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you," he said.

"It's okay, Mr. Stranger," I replied, mimicking how I would respond to Jimin when he apologized. "But I'm a big boy!" I flashed my signature boxy grin, and he laughed. A mouse had stolen my incisors a few days ago, leaving my smile a bit different.

"Of course you are. But just so you know, I'm not Mr. Stranger, and he's definitely not Mr. Good-Looking Guy," he snickered, casting a glance at his friend, who shot him an annoyed look. "I'm Jungho, and he is—"

"—Alex," Mr. Good-looking Guy, who was definitely not good-looking, interjected, gently caressing my face. "What's your name, kiddo?"

"Hello!" I greeted Alex and Jungho with a polite bow, just like Mom had taught me. "My name is—"

"Taehyung!"

"Miss Meena!" I shouted back as I noticed the student train had reached the junction where I stood.

"What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you not to break the line? What if you got lost?" She pulled me into her arms, bombarding me with questions one after the other.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but I wanted to ask Alex if—"

"Who's Alex? I told you not to talk to strangers."

I would have answered her if she had let me speak, but Alex jumped in first.

"It's me! I'm Alex!" he exclaimed, clearly agitated. "He was with us."

His mouth went dry after those two sentences, and I noticed him lick his lips nervously. The tips of his ears turned bright red.

Miss Meena mimicked Alex's earlier expression, forming an "O" with her red-stained lips and relaxing the tension between her eyebrows.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry if he bothered you. This is the first time he's done something like this. He's usually such a good boy," she said, her voice softening.

"He is a brilliant kid, don't worry about it. It was quite fun having this big boy with us," Jungho chimed in with a grin.

He chuckled when I playfully tried to bite his fingers as he tugged at my nose. I braced myself for another scolding, but Miss Meena seemed momentarily tongue-tied, her gaze fixed on Jungho. Perhaps she was captivated by his dazzling smile, which could easily steal the show.

"Shall I tell the children about my painting next? I suppose that's the purpose of the school trip, right?"

Jungho flashed another charming smile, and Miss Meena nodded eagerly, the rose powder on her cheekbones deepening in hue the longer she held his gaze.

As he began to explain his art, I settled into the arms of the compartment head while the other students clung to the train. He spoke of a renowned artist whose name I struggled to pronounce at the time, sharing how the man, confined to an asylum, poured his emotions into his work as a means of relief.

Jungho's rendition of the painting diverged from the original, featuring a Cypress tree carved into a cross with the silhouette of Christ overlooking a moonlit city. This creative interpretation blew my mind, and I couldn't wait to meet the genius who had inspired him.

Vincent Van Gogh. I would later come to know this great artist and his masterpiece, The Starry Night, as my understanding deepened over the years.

The man must have been a genius, for he offered a new perspective on life through his uniquely bizarre lens. The way he viewed the world captivated my soul, and somehow my own perceptions began to mirror his.

The blues, whites, and yellows that once simply delighted my eyes now held profound meaning. The city, the night sky, and the stars transformed into a sea of tranquility, with me as the voyager setting sail to explore. The crescent moon whispered its stories, and I became a neophyte eager to learn its language. I spent countless nights marveling at the celestial body that illuminated the darkness when the sun slipped away, igniting my imagination.

I was enchanted by how selfless and welcoming the moon was, despite its scars. It was no wonder the poets of ancient times romanticized and glorified it. Philosopher or no philosopher, I had become a slave to beauty, and by no means but through art, I knew to show my madness for it.

My dedication to painting flourished as my skills grew more refined. But so did Jimin's teasing, although he remained shorter than me.

I later learned that Jimin's jokes stemmed from his inability to understand my perception of art. He also confessed that he wanted to be my friend because he thought I was a nice person who could make friends easily. That day, my heart swelled for the kid who boasted about owning imported jams he'd never tasted.

I had previously considered how I could drop the bomb about "the sleeping incident" on him, imagining the comical look on his chubby face when I explained what sleeping with someone meant. But after making a fool of myself that day by asking the wrong question to the wrong person, I realized I didn't want to be a jerk to my new friend. The poor kid would be traumatized, just like any child who'd learn too much about their parents' escapades.

Nevertheless, our friendship thrived as we transitioned from kindergarten half-sleeves and pants to the full-length styles of middle and high school, all while losing sleep over our newfound adventures.

Jimin transformed from mocking my drawings to cheering me on at every art competition. His new role was to taunt my rivals and swipe paints from unsuspecting competitors within a wide radius. If he ever got caught, he would vanish into thin air until the end of the event, later texting me, "The clown found the mouse, so he fled." (Jimin took great offense at being called tiny, but he insisted he was cuter than Joy, his hamster.) This quirky phrase eventually became our code for trouble.

I remember participating in an art competition with a cash prize of 120,000 KRW. If I won, the money would be enough to buy my father a birthday present. Jimin knew I was a nervous wreck, especially with the transfer student joining our school that year. With his skinny frame and bowl cut, he looked like a buffoon, but I was aware that geniuses often had unconventional appearances.

My instincts proved correct.

The "Geek of a Goose" turned out to be exceptional at capturing the beauty of humanity and nature, thanks to his geographer and aesthete parents. His talent threatened to overshadow my plans (sarcasm intended, with a twinge of heartache). Jimin vowed to leave rotten insects in the transfer student's lunchbox, locker, and anywhere else he could reach until the guy graduated.

He even contemplated snapping the student's braces while he flaunted his award-winning smile. I stopped Jimin just in time, and we parted ways after we (or rather, he) agreed to sneak into the "edentulous skeleton's" house and refill his toothpaste with hamster poop.

That evening, I sat on the porch of my house, staring at the white sheet featuring the illustration of the one thing that brought me peace. As I looked up, the same moon peeked out from behind the clouds, as if embarrassed to reveal itself after my disappointment in not winning the competition.

"Don't hide from me, Moon. It wasn't your fault; it was the Goose's for being so damn good. Maybe it's his parents' fault for not using protection," I said, breaking into a broken chuckle.

"Or maybe it's my fault for not being good enough. . ." I murmured, stretching the corner of my chapped lips in a wry attempt at a smile. The crickets seemed to appreciate my thoughts, their chirping resonating from somewhere nearby.

I let out a sigh.

"Am I interrupting a moment of soliloquy?" I heard my father's voice call from a short distance away.

I turned around quickly, rubbing my face before inviting him to sit beside me on the porch.

"Or did I just hear you doubting your worth?" he continued, moving a bit closer than I had expected.

Crap. "You must be imagining things," I said.

He hummed gruffly, and the rich aroma of cocoa wafted through the air. Great, I was in for those therapy conversations again. There was no escape.

"Keeping secrets from your old man, I see."

"You're not old, Dad. You're still in your thirties."

"Then why is my son acting like a grown-up when he's barely eleven? Did you break up with your girlfriend or something?"

I wished the ground would swallow me whole.

"I don't have a girlfriend," I muttered.

"You don't? What a shame. I had my first girlfriend at the sparkling age of eight. Just don't tell your mother," he said, slurping from his cup.

"Dad," I said, biting my lip. He hummed again, and I turned to beam at him as he tsked, sipping his drink, the steam curling in the chilly air. "The girl was my great-grandmother."

"I wonder how you know that," he replied, raising an eyebrow.

I giggled as he took a gulp and burned his tongue.

"You said it plenty of times while we were drinking hot chocolate together," I teased.

I snatched the mug from his other hand and stared at the rich liquid for a moment. The warmth enveloped me, but when I brought it to my lips, my mouth frowned slightly as I savored the heavenly taste.

"Damn it, did I really?" he asked, pretending to be shocked.

I nodded, smacking my lips. "Yeah, and a lot of other things, to be honest."

"Well, who says 'drunk minds speak sober hearts'? Here I am, spilling everything to my son over hot cocoa," he declared, hoisting the mug into the air like a trophy. "Ladies and gentlemen, beware of this dangerous brew that reveals all your dirty little secrets to your offspring when consumed!" He deepened his voice for dramatic effect.

His goofy act and silly smile ignited warmth in my chest.

"Not 'secrets'! It's she-nan-i-gans!" I corrected him, laughing.

My cheeks ached as we chuckled in the stillness of the night, the quiet neighborhood wrapping us in a cocoon of warmth. It was an unusual moment for us. Father cracked an absurd joke, and we erupted into laughter once more.

When my giggles finally faded, I met his crinkled eyes, brimming with love and affection. I blinked away the intensity of his gaze.

"Won't you tell me why you feel unworthy over hot cocoa?" He nudged me with his shoulder, and I looked him in the eye. "I'm sure your old man has something to say about that."

As if the thread I was hanging onto had finally loosened, I broke down. All the sniffles and tears I had been holding back flooded out, like water pouring from a dam. I shared everything, even the brand of watch I wanted to give him for his birthday. He sat quietly, absorbing every detail I offered.

When I finished my emotional outpouring, he stroked my back until my hiccups subsided. The empty mugs were set aside as I nestled against his chest, enveloped in his embrace.

The lull of comfort surrounded us, time slipping by without a care.

"You in for some therapy now?" he hinted after a while, and I leaned in closer, eager to listen.

He dispelled the doubts and self-deprecation swirling inside me, affirming that I was worth more than any rare platinum. My abstract painting of the Moon hadn't lost the competition because it was lacking in value; rather, it had been overshadowed by the pure beauty of Mother Nature cradling her child, a vision the Goose had captured so gracefully.

No beauty ever surpassed that of a mother, and I couldn't agree more.

The next day, I made Jimin promise he wouldn't leave dead, rotten insects on the Goose's belongings. I took a certain delight in his disappointment as he wouldn't leave dead, rotten insects on the Goose's belongings. I took a certain delight in his disappointment as he whined about how hard it was to sprint after praying mantises and collecting termites from dead trees. In retaliation, he later buried them in the yard of the "stinking stick" (I had finally convinced him to stop calling the Goose an "edentulous skeleton," so he came up with a new nickname).

I spared Father my doubts, though. I held back the tiny qualm about angels that had crossed my mind that day, the same ones I wished to send prayers to in hopes that my name would be announced as the winner of the art competition. But it never was, and guilt gnawed at me for doubting their wisdom.

But I was wrong—very wrong.

Angels did not exist, and I knew this for a reason as I rode my bicycle through the rain-soaked traffic two years later. Humans were too quick to condemn non-existent creatures, blaming life for every heartbreak instead. I blamed life for mine. Because metaphorically speaking, if time was a slut, then life was a bitch. No matter how hard you try, you could never tame her.

Time may guide you, but life's unpredictability can seize everything you've worked for in the blink of an eye. It'd dig an irreparable void and leave you feeling like a living corpse, just as it did to me.

I had lost the meaning of life and the virtue of love. With each passing day, I simply survived.

But then, one magical night, Moon redefined life and love for me.

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pviscelle · 2 years ago

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Your Devil: A Doomed Catastrophe | MasterPost

Pairing: Jungkook x Female Character x Jimin

Genre/Tags: Dark, Mystery-Thriller, Love Triangle

Word Count: 52.5k

Status: Ongoing

Rating: Explicit

Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, graphic depiction of violence, mental health issues, character death, LGBT characters, mutual pining, and angst.

Synopsis: After eleven years since the haunting night at Winter Fest, fate once again weaves the story of Han Aera with that of Jeon Jungkook, an interior architect at Kim Enterprises. As lingering mysteries strain to emerge, their lives are upended when their past catches up, intertwining with the present and risking their future.

PROLOGUE

Sunlight gleamed, teasing her skin as she resisted waking, the sweet melody of birdsong filling the lazy winter morning. The night before had been incredible. A lingering ache pulsed through her body as she lay still on the king-sized bed. The same bed whose creaking wood had echoed their passion, carrying their sins through the room. Their fates were intertwined, sealed by the intimacy they shared, both marked by the moment of their mutual surrender.

A shy smile played on her lips.

She burrowed deeper into the blanket, clutching it to her bare torso. The sun was about to wash over her, but the warmth of the duvet held her in place, tempting her to stay. Yet, what she craved more was the comfort of her partner's embrace—his strong, tattooed chest pressed against her back, fulfilling her desire for quiet domesticity.

"I love how you smell like me," she remembered him saying, his voice husky and raw from the night's intensity. She had teased him about his obsession with the scent of her hair, but the memory of him burying his nose into the crook of her neck sent a spark of longing through her body. Her heart thudded, stirred by the thought of him. Unbeknownst to her, he had smiled at the evidence of her reaction. "You belong to me," he'd whispered, breathless.

Though nine hours had passed, the memory felt vivid, still driving her to the edge of reason. Flashes of how he had moved between her legs for the second time that night flooded her thoughts—slow, deliberate, yet overwhelming. He had robbed her of breath and replaced it with a bliss that shattered through her. She wanted that again.

Consciously, her fingers trailed down her stomach, pausing at her most intimate place. Her touch was slow, teasing, until her clit swelled under the attention. If he were to catch her like this at dawn, she'd place the blame entirely on him. His insatiable hunger had ignited a fire in her, and now he would have to face the consequences. Sweet and simple.

She traced delicate figure eights, her breath hitching as her fingers drifted lower, teasing her lips before finally dipping an index finger inside.

A year ago, the thought of touching herself so freely would have embarrassed her, but now, she didn't care. She wanted nothing more than to ruin the already wrinkled sheets beneath her.

Her eyes squeezed shut as she focused, finding that sweet spot he had so effortlessly discovered on his first glide. How did he perfect it so quickly? she wondered.

Her tightness engulfed her finger, and she remembered why he'd murmured "So incredibly tight" as his cock pressed into her. But just as the missionary position hadn't been enough for him, one finger wasn't enough for her. She added another, filling the space inside her. Her hips moved in sync, grinding against her palm, her modesty long forgotten.

If Hedone could witness the filthy fantasies unraveling in her mind, she would have flushed with embarrassment.

"You're mine to devour, Aera. Only mine," his voice growled in her ear, possessive and dark.

She groaned, the sound escaping her lips wanton and unrestrained, loud enough to stir the man beside her if he wasn't already awake, silently watching her morning show. His fist gripped his throbbing erection, the sharp bite of pain he inflicted on himself a twisted pleasure as he held off his release, savoring the wet, obscene sounds she created. The sight alone sent a surge of heat through her, thrilling her to no end.

In her mind, she imagined two wide, ravenous eyes burning holes into the back of her skull, their hunger bottomless, infinite. A shiver ran down her spine. Another finger joined the fray, her thrusts quickening to a frenzied pace. She moaned, body tensing and trembling until she was overcome by the violent spasms of release. Her fingers clenched and unclenched in rhythm, her body contracting around them with the force of a vice. Goosebumps erupted across her skin as the orgasm ripped through her, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. She panted, her chest rising and falling like a wild mare, nostrils flared and skin flushed.

The strange comparison jolted her back to reality. She'd always dreamed of owning a horse as a child—how innocent those dreams seemed now, in contrast to the primal rush still coursing through her veins. Gradually, the pleasurable tingles subsided, and the furrows on her brow smoothed into a calm, straight line.

She blinked once, twice, exhaling slowly as the events of the past twenty-four hours settled heavily in her mind.

Look what you've made me do, Jungkook, she thought with a bitter smile.

As if summoned by her thoughts, his voice echoed in her memory, low and sinister, repeating the warning he'd given the night before. "I told you, Aera. I'm the devil you shouldn't have danced with. But it's too late now. There's no turning back."

The silence that followed was deafening, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her throat felt parched, as if she'd swallowed the desert air, dry and unforgiving.

Aera licked her lips, steeling herself for what she knew she had to do next. She turned slowly to her left, her heart thundering as if it might burst from her chest. She braced herself for the sight of Jungkook's familiar smirk, for the menace in his eyes. But instead, her gaze fell on an empty indentation where his body had once been. The sheets were tousled, his presence lingering only in the ghostly imprint he left behind.

Her head dropped back onto her pillow with a soft, defeated thud. For a moment, relief washed over her-a strange, almost welcome weight on her chest. At least he hadn't been there to witness her morning madness, to taunt her about her lack of control. The monochromatic walls of his room would keep her secret, silent and unjudging.

For now.

Her gaze, unwavering, shot to the monochromatic walls, silently challenging them with narrowed eyes as she took in the room's decor. It mirrored his office, she realized-gray walls, brown furniture, and black equipment, all typical of modern masculinity. Yet, Aera believed Jungkook would benefit from a splash of color, something to reflect the light she sensed within him. Just as the thought crossed her mind, the bedside lamp flickered to life, as if mocking her notion, its light stuttering on and off.

Aera glared at it, her brows knitting together, and the flickering abruptly ceased.

Jungkook had once confided that he preferred the darkness, convinced he was better off immersed in shadows than dragging someone down with his sorrow. She wanted to prove him wrong. The Jungkook of the past month was a stark contrast to the man who had barely acknowledged her when she first joined Kim Enterprises. His attentive gaze, the tenderness in his small gestures, the understanding shining in his onyx eyes-each subtle trait revealed the precious soul he truly was.

To label Jungkook as a mere black-and-white image would be a disservice to his essence. To hell with the office gossip. They had nothing better to do than spread false rumors about him, and they certainly didn't know Jungkook as well as she did. She was 10,000% certain of that.

Emotions swirling within her, Aera picked up her clothes from the floor and made her way to the bathroom, taking her time to wash away the fatigue from the previous night's activities.

"Aah," she sighed, her palms kneading her sore hips and posterior.

Jungkook had certainly worked her over. Her limbs felt heavy and loose, as if made of thread and jelly, in desperate need of revival. If she didn't regain her strength, she feared she might break at least two bones-clumsiness was her constant, unwanted companion. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, brushing her wild hair into place and smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of her clothes. Satisfied with her appearance, she twirled on her heels and left the room, making sure to switch off the bedside lamp.

She had hoped to find Michelin-starred Jungkook in the kitchen, whipping up something delicious, but instead, she discovered a glass of banana milk sitting on the counter and the remnants of their date night dishes lounging in the sink. The refrigerator hummed continuously, amplifying the growing unease in her stomach. She was alone in his apartment. Completely alone. Disappointment washed over her, thickening the air with unspoken resentment, particularly when her eyes landed on a note tucked beneath the glass.

I'll be gone. Don't wait for me.

Your devil,

Jk.

What. The. Hell, Jungkook?

Starting the day with an unexpected disappearance after such an eventful night? Didn't he realize how that felt? He should have known better after last time he had bailed on her. This was infuriating and utterly unacceptable.

Aera exhaled sharply, her brows furrowing in frustration.

Her gaze drifted around Jungkook's kitchen until it settled on the sink piled high with dirty dishes. A surge of anger bubbled within her, and she couldn't help but want to unleash her frustration on them.

It was evident that Jungkook had left in a hurry. Otherwise, the dust motes wouldn't be floating aimlessly in the air. He was usually a gentleman, well aware of how to clean up after himself. Aera couldn't shake the nagging curiosity about what had been so urgent that he had to leave without a word.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she—or their date—had something to do with his abrupt departure. After all, Jungkook had never shown much interest in romantic gestures. So why had he been so ideal last night?

"Rhea is here, Jungkook!" she heard a voice call before she could even see the woman. "Time to wake up."

Rhea was another mystery Aera contemplated regarding Jungkook's life. The stunning beauty had long, slender legs and an effortless charm, making her perfect for any modeling agency. So why was she acting as Jungkook's caretaker?

"He isn't home," Aera replied, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. She heard a shuffle, and Rhea's questioning expression came into view as her body appeared in the hallway.

"What? Wait, who are you?" Rhea asked, her frown deepening, hinting at a growing sense of familiarity.

"Oh, so you're the one Jungkook coaxed me into organizing the candlelight dinner for last night," Rhea mused, hands on her hips. "Never would have guessed it would be you out of all the people he knows."

"You know I'm not like the others," Aera sighed, folding her arms as her chest tightened. Rhea's words both delighted and irritated her. Delighted because it showed that Jungkook had gone to great lengths for their date, and irritated because of the impression she had left on Rhea. It wasn't her fault that things had turned out the way they did.

"Yeah, whatever." Rhea rolled her eyes, pulling her hair into a bun and slipping on an apron. "If you're done doing half my job, let me handle the rest, okay? I assume you have somewhere to be. . . Can you please step aside? You're blocking the cabinet."

"Oh, sorry. Yeah, I'll move. Thank you."

Aera took six hurried steps away, but Rhea didn't notice the embarrassment lingering behind her closed eyes. As she exited the apartment, a timid "good day" slipped from her lips, oblivious to the kind of day that awaited her.

Once home, she went through her usual routines, taking a hot bubble bath by the end of the day. Her thoughts kept returning to Jungkook's behavior and his mysterious departure. She should have grown accustomed to his unpredictability by now, but she hadn't. Instead, nagging worries plagued her mind. Why had he left so suddenly? What was behind his secrecy? Why hadn't he informed her about it?

Any explanation, any hint, would have been better than the two sentences narrating his disappearance. The least he could've done was make a phone call, to show some decency. But no. He vanished without a word, leaving her stranded in her thoughts, and her patience thinning to the breaking point.

Aera sank deeper into the bathtub, her brow creased with frustration. Tomorrow, Jungkook had better be ready with some answers.

But to her growing dismay, there was no sign of him in the days that followed. Her patience, once so solid, slowly eroded into doubt. Pessimism gnawed at her as she marched into the office of the one person who knew Jungkook inside and out: Kim Seokjin.

"Aera!" Seokjin greeted her warmly, but his eyes betrayed his unease. "Take a seat. What brings you here?"

"Jungkook."

A single word, a name, yet it stirred something in Seokjin. The calm and collected CEO, the one who could charm his way through any obstacle, faltered at its mention. That was the kind of hold Jungkook had over all of them.

Seokjin forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "What did that troublemaker do this time?" he asked, his fingers pretending to flip through the pages of a file, though his mind was clearly elsewhere, unsettled by her presence.

"He disappeared. Again," Aera said, her voice tight with frustration. "And I thought maybe you'd know where he went."

Seokjin let out a slow breath, setting the file aside. "I wish I did, Aera. Trust me, I'm just as frustrated as you are. But. . . it's possible he took some time off after the Jeju Project. It was exhausting for all of us. You know how he is—he values his solitude."

It wasn't the answer she had come for, but it was a plausible explanation. Jungkook had always been the type to retreat into silence when things got overwhelming. After the whirlwind of the past month-and the intense night they shared-maybe he needed that solitude more than ever.

"I'll let you know if he contacts me," Seokjin added, his voice gentler now.

Aera swallowed hard. "Okay," she whispered, though the lump in her throat said otherwise.

Seokjin offered a sympathetic smile. "Anything else I can help with?"

She shook her head, not wanting to linger longer than necessary. "Thank you, Mr. Kim. Have a good day."

Seokjin nodded, watching her leave. The door clicked shut behind her, and after a moment's hesitation, he pulled out his phone.

He opened the messaging app, his fingers hesitating as guilt twisted in his chest.

Seokjin:

Aera came looking for you. I had to lie.

He expected Jungkook to ignore the message like so many before, but to his surprise, three dots appeared, making Seokjin straighten in his seat.

Jungkook:

Good.

Seokjin's heart raced as he prepared to ask about Jungkook's health, but before he could type another word, the "online" indicator next to Jungkook's name disappeared, just like he had for the past week.

"Shit!" Seokjin hissed, pressing his palms to his face as a headache pulsed behind his eyes. He hunched over the table, peeking through his fingers at the sound of a knock.

"Did I hear you curse, Jinnie?"

"Not now, Namjoon," Seokjin grumbled.

"Hmmm, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today."

"My morning was fine until you interrupted it with your amazing BJ skills."

Namjoon's footsteps grew closer, and Seokjin could feel the heat radiating from him.

"You know I could demonstrate those skills right now if you wanted."

"Fuck you."

"You have my permission."

"How dare you suggest that in our workplace?" Seokjin shot Namjoon a mock glare.

"Says the one who ate my ass on the thirteenth day of my employment." Namjoon grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "That was so nice of you. Did your previous assistant get the same luxury?"

Seokjin relaxed, easing his shoulders. He stepped closer to Namjoon and cupped his face, planting a soft kiss on his lips. "No, that's strictly reserved for my husband."

Crescent moons formed on Namjoon's cheeks as he pulled Seokjin into his embrace, placing a tender kiss on his raven hair. "I love you."

"Love you too, dear husband." Seokjin squeezed Namjoon's buttocks, eliciting a laugh from him.

"Naughty."

In that moment of peace, they allowed their actions to convey what words often failed to express. With Namjoon tracing gentle circles on his back, Seokjin felt the tension in his body begin to ease. But that relief evaporated as Namjoon spoke again. "He'll be okay, Seokjin. Jungkook knows how to handle himself. Don't worry too much."

Seokjin stiffened. His concern for Jungkook was painfully obvious, wasn't it? How could he not worry when his heart held such a soft spot for him? After all these years, he still recognized the miserable boy he first met in the Daegu Psychiatric Ward.

"I'm fine, Jin," Jungkook often insisted, but Seokjin had learned to see through the facade, to the deep anguish hidden behind those innocent eyes.

He took a deep breath, tightening his grip around Namjoon, and nodded.

Seokjin fell silent, surrendering to the calm while it lasted, aware that the notification about to flash on his phone could steal his breath away.

"Everything okay, baby?" Namjoon asked, his concern palpable as he studied Seokjin's stillness and strained breathing. "What is it?"

"He did what he said. I have to go." Appalled, Seokjin broke the hug and hurried out of the office, his heart pounding in his chest.

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pviscelle · 2 years ago

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Crystal Skies | MasterPost

Pairing: NamJin ft. Jimin x Reader

Genre/Tags: Fluff, Humor, FriendsxFamily

Word Count: 3.8k

Status: Ongoing

Rating: Teen and Up Audience

Synopsis: After two years of his father's incredulous death, Kim Namjoon and his sister move to Seoul to get enrolled in the best university. There, he meets 6 different people who have nothing in common but would show him the true definition of love, friendship, and an unbreakable bond they can share as a family.

But what happens when the secrets and confusions of the past abruptly jeopardize themselves and unveil something he should've known ages ago?

Will those stratocumulus clouds remain in his life forever or will they disappear and make his world have a crystal sky?

PROLOGUE

The amber liquid swirled lazily in Minseo's glass, tilting and rolling as his hand moved in subtle circles. He watched it, mesmerized, as if it held some secret he was desperate to uncover. It reminded him of a marionette—he concluded—lifeless, a mere puppet pulled by invisible strings, powerless to resist its master's whim.

He suddenly hated the image because he saw himself in that puppet.

Being controlled was the deepest kind of humiliation, an ever-present reminder of his own helplessness.

He was supposed to lead, to carry forward the company he had dedicated his life to. Yet even after Hyejun's calculated death, he couldn't claim the position that should have been his. Instead, he had been left to scrape by, kept just close enough to the seat of power to feel its heat but always kept out of reach.

Two years had passed since he'd been the head at MY GALAXY, and he still hadn't moved an inch closer to the top. He remained trapped under the thumb of Kim Jiwoo and the Board's stupid decisions, his ambitions snuffed out each time he reached for more.

The thought burned in him like a fever.

He had tried persuading the Board, even appealing to them directly, to see that Hyejun's son was an unfit leader—a young, inexperienced fool with no grasp of business and even less understanding of required knowledge. But instead of listening to his secret desire, they replaced him with the boy's mother, a woman whose quiet, kind methods were as dangerous as her son's obliviousness. The injustice was bitter, searing, and when he'd heard the news, he had wanted to tear down anyone who stood in his way of reclaiming MY GALAXY. But he had held back; a plan had begun to take shape.

One day, in his mind's eye, he and his family would hold MY GALAXY in an unbreakable grip, a legacy that would ensure no one ever looked down on him again. After all, everything he did was for his love, for the life they had dreamed of and shaped into human form, for the legacy they deserved.

It cost sacrificing years of hard work and passing up dreams of luxurious holidays, like trips to Jeju or romantic getaways in far-flung, exotic places with Hae Ji and their son. Yet he would throw it all away without hesitation if it meant realizing his vision. If anyone dared stand in his path, they would be swept aside without mercy.

"Everything is fair in love and war," he often muttered to himself, a mantra that had taken on new weight over the past few years.

He had plans, schemes bubbling in his mind, though he knew the current timing wasn't right. For now, he would sit in this poor Cheongdo hotel room, savor his bourbon, and refine the plans that would bring the Kims' reign to a fitting end.

With one quick, decisive motion, he downed the last of his drink, a sigh escaping his lips as he savored the bitter warmth. It was early for drinking, but who could judge a man imprisoned by forces beyond his control, chained away from what he loved most-his family and the son he longed to raise rather than spend his days navigating tedious company functions and lifeless boardrooms.

The thought of watching bulls brawl that evening brought another bitter taste to his mouth. He considered pouring another drink, only to be interrupted by a sharp ping from his phone.

He checked the screen and froze. It was a text from her. Just the sight of her name softened his tension, bringing an instinctive smile to his face. But as he read further, that smile faded.

The message contained a room number and the address of a nearby hotel. She was here.

In moments, he was out the door, abandoning his plans for the day as he made his way to her. He even broke a traffic rule or two on the way but reached the hotel in record time.

After a sharp knock, he didn't wait for a response before pushing his way in, closing the door firmly behind him.

"What the hell are you doing here, Hae Ji?" His voice was harsh, far more than he intended, but the urgency of the situation gripped him too tightly to care.

Had Ji flinched, surprised by his tone. "Minseo, I'm sorry. I just. . . missed you. I couldn't stand waiting any longer. It's been too long." Her words wavered as she reached out to embrace him, but he moved past her, running a hand through his hair as he struggled to keep his frustration in check.

"Damn it, Hae Ji. You shouldn't have come here. You know it was reckless."

Her hazel eyes narrowed, hurt flashing in her gaze. "Reckless?" she echoed, her voice gaining an edge. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you didn't think," he snapped. "What if someone saw you with me? Did you even think about what could happen if he found out?"

Hae Ji's breathing grew shallow as she fought back tears. She turned away from him, looking out at the street below.

"I missed you too, but we agreed not to meet until things settled," he said, voice softening as he walked toward her. "I can't risk anything happening to you. You know that."

He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, and she sniffled, but a fierce glint sparked in her eyes as she squared her shoulders and met his gaze.

"So what if he knows?" she whispered, defiance blazing in her voice. "If he dares to come between us like his precious one did before, he'll meet the same end. I don't care what it takes. I can and will do anything for you."

Amused, Minseo couldn't help but smirk, the intensity of her words rekindling his own resolve. Her strength, her fearlessness-these were the qualities that had drawn him in from the beginning. He had fallen in love with her a thousand times over, and yet wondered how he'd been so lucky to find her. She was a gift he would cherish until his last breath.

He kissed her, deeper this time. "God, I love you so much."

She returned his kiss, whispering back, "I love you, too. More than you'll ever know."

They stood in a long embrace, exchanging quiet words of love and longing.

"How much longer do we have to live like this?" she asked, leaning into him. "Minji keeps asking where you are. He misses you—and the Belgian chocolates you always bring him."

"Knowing him, he probably misses the chocolates more than me," Minseo joked, earning a light slap on his chest. "I miss him, too. Just wait a little longer, love. Soon, we'll have everything we dreamed of. No worries, no shadows. Just us." He exhaled, steadying himself for the day ahead.

"I'd like that," she murmured. "Would you. . . like to talk to Minji?"

He chuckled at her cautious tone, finding it endearing in its rarity. Even with all her boldness, she could still be unexpectedly shy.

"I'd love to."

She pulled out her phone, dialing their son's number. But after a few rings, her expression tightened.

"He must be sleeping," Minseo offered, attempting to soothe her worry. "You know he doesn't get up before eleven."

"But he always answers my calls," she replied, pressing her lips together as tension filled her eyes. "Something feels wrong."

"Come on, you're probably just overthinking it," he said, attempting a lighthearted tone.

"I'm not. Mother's instincts don't lie." She dialed the home phone next, waiting as the call connected.

Minseo rolled his eyes, dismissing her worry as needless-until he heard a familiar voice on the other end.

"Hello? Kims' residence here."

Hae Ji's expression darkened, her tone sharpening. "Put Minji on the phone. Now."

Minseo watched, a hint of tension seeping into his own chest as she exchanged terse words. When she finally hung up, he asked, "Was that Namjoon's sister?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice tight with annoyance as she collected her things. "I need to get back. That girl is nothing but trouble." She shook her head, then gave a sigh of relief. "At least she's leaving for Seoul with Namjoon tonight."

A dark smile crept over Minseo's face. The perfect moment had arrived, falling right into his hands. One of his plans could finally move forward.

"Yes," he replied, a glint in his eye, "that's good news indeed."

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