#//but the dreams are unpleasant nonetheless | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

liveyun · 30 days ago

Text

EYES LIKE STARS | 2

banner by the amazing @itaeewon 🫧

summary. “He was everything you were not. He was perfect—too perfect. Always kind, always excelling, always loved by everyone, even your own parents, like a reminder of everything you weren’t. And you hated this. You hated him. You hated the way he always included you, the way he tried to help, as if you ever needed his pity. He was always there, almost like a shadow you could never escape.

Returning to the town that holds both your earliest memories and silent secrets, you’re forced to confront not only the unsolved knots you’d left behind all those years ago, but the boy who was always at the center of your pain. Whose eyes have always seen right through you : Jungkook.”

title. Eyes like Stars

pairing. Jeon Jungkook x afab reader/oc

status. ongoing

genre. e2f2e2L (you get it), angst, drama, romance, boy next door sorta situation, emotional baggage, slow burn, eventual smut

wc. 13k+

warnings. (for this chapter) angst kinda. . . tbh, slight nsfw (nipple play, wet dreams), mythical creature reference, uhh kinda post nut clarity but also not so? , scene of drowning/possible near-drowning, parental neglect / toxic parenting, flashbacks, anxiety / panic attack 😬, our girl is learning to heal ❤️‍🩹, A NEW CHARACTER IS INTRODUCED 👀, some light-hearted fun and bickering, not proofread cause im tired byee it’s like really 3:15 am, “english isn't my first language,” the last part tho. . . . . . .

flash backs are highlighted in italics.

← previous | chapter index | taglist | main masterlist | next →

There’s a very small line between fear and curiosity.

The silence of the ocean isn’t like any you’ve known before. It’s thick, hurled down with a stillness that presses against your ears until you’re sure that you’ll be crushed underneath it.

The water stretches endlessly in every direction, dark and silver, the colour of ink spilled beneath a dim moon. It laps against your skin as if testing you, as if inviting you deeper. You float weightlessly on the surface, arms outstretched, as though surrendering yourself to the vastness of the world. But this surrender—it isn’t frightening. No, it’s rather. . . soft. Gentle.

The water laps at your skin like a soft caress, welcoming you, inviting you deeper into her embrace.

You’re truly floating—and for a moment, it feels like surrender. Like peace. The kind that numbs your bones and soothes the chaos inside you.

And you can’t resist. You’ve never been able to resist the pull of the sea. And you don’t think it would be the first time you’d be able to do so, too.

The horizon looks like it’s shimmering — blurring where the water meets the sky. Stars scatter above, their reflections rippling across the surface like a thousand tiny lights dancing just out of reach, sprinkled on the vast sky like dust particles.

Why are they so far away from you ?

Somewhere in the distance, you hear a thump. A faint hum that lingers, a low, hypnotic sound that pulls you closer. It’s as if the ocean itself is singing — a song only you can hear, a melody that fills your chest with a longing you don’t understand. A yearning which feels similar to the feeling of being homesick. It feels like silk, easing the tension from your muscles; it feels like coming home — though you don’t know why.

You sigh.

You sink deeper, arms brushing against the cool, endless expanse. It feels refreshing — cool. The water cradles you, and yet, it feels like something more. Like someone more. There’s a presence here — intangible, unseen, but there nonetheless. It circles you, watching, waiting. You feel the eyes on the back of your head, but it’s not unpleasant or something closer to.

The touch comes without any warning.

It’s a gentle pressure against your arm, light and delicate, almost as if it’s barely there. At first, you think it’s the current, or you’re just hallucinating, but it’s too precise, too careful, too textured. You freeze, breath catching in your throat, but the touch doesn’t retreat. It lingers, tracing along your skin like a very delicate caress. A voice whispers through the water, soft as the tide, as clear as the waters. It’s familiar, achingly so, but you can’t place it, no matter how hard you try. It’s almost like you’re squinting your eyes to look at a distant image better, but you cannot.

The sound curls around you, weaving through your mind, like how tendrils of a plant wraps itself around its support. And for a moment, you think you’ve recognized it — think you know who it belongs to.

It traces along your arm, delicate as a breeze, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Your eyes snap open, scanning the dark water around you, but there’s nothing. Only the vast, endless sea, and the sparkling waves. And yet, you can feel it— him —there with you, unseen but present, lingering just out of sight.

What was he?

The touch returns, sliding up to your shoulder, and this time, it’s more certain. More real. It trails down your spine, igniting something inside you that’s both comforting and terrifying and . . . arousing? Your breath catches in your throat, heart stuttering as you try to make sense of the sensation as goosebumps prickle all along the expanse of your flesh. It’s intimate, overwhelming — like the sea is alive, drawing you into something deeper, something you can’t escape.

But do you really want to, though?

The question flits through your mind, and without even thinking, you lean into the touch, letting it guide you further. The water swirls around you, cool but not cold — its surface now shimmering with an ethereal light that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The stars overhead blur, their reflections weaving through the waves like a dream. And then, you feel it — his breath, warm against your ear. The voice is clearer now, low and resonant, like a gentle plea. A delicious shiver runs down your spine at the sensation, as you feel your eyes close again.

You feel him — his nose rubbing against the expanse of your neck. A hum escapes your throat at the sensation when the slope of his nose rubs against the sensitive underside of your jaw, and then, you feel it.

Your stomach swirls with pleasure.

You hear him whisper something in your ear. Softly, almost like soft silk brushing against your skin— and though the words are foreign, you understand them. Not with your mind, but with your soul.

Don’t look.

The warning seeps into your bones, a quiet plea wrapped in something more dangerous. You’re afraid it’s all too much, too intense. You cannot understand the sensations in you — the bubbling heat in your stomach and the ringing bells in your head. But you can’t help it. You have to see. You have to know who he is.

Slowly, as if fighting against the pull of the ocean, you turn your head. You know he is behind you. The water parts around you, thick and heavy, slowing your movements as if the very sea itself is trying to stop you.

Don’t look.

The words echo in your mind, louder now, edged with desperation. But it’s too late. You’re already searching, eyes scanning the dark water, desperate to catch a glimpse of him. The one who’s been pulling you deeper, holding you close, whispering words of praise so sweetly that you’re afraid you’re going to fall apart.

You reach out, and you feel your hand trembling as it cuts through the water. And then you see him—just a shadow at first, a silhouette drifting through the water, a figure submerged in the hues of the darkness. He’s close, so close, but still just out of reach. You squint, straining to make out the details, but the sea keeps him shrouded in darkness.

You cannot see him.

The moment your fingers brush his form, a jolt of electricity shoots through you, a pulse of energy that sets your nerves alight, a type which makes the heat in your belly intensify.

He’s solid, real, but he doesn’t move. Just hovers there, watching you with an intensity that makes you want to squirm endlessly.

The figure moves closer, the water parting around him, and your pulse quickens. You can’t make out his face — yet again — but you can see the outline of him now, clearer than before. Broad shoulders, a lithe, sinewy body tapering to a narrow waist. His movements are smooth, fluid, as he floats, his arms very delicately holding your waist.

When did he get so close?

And then you see them—the scales.

They glimmer faintly beneath the water, catching the light in shades of deep violet and silver, fading into skin as he draws closer. The scales ripple down his torso, shifting into skin that is smooth and supple, as though he exists somewhere between the human world and something far more ancient. His long hair drifts around him, dark as midnight, curling into waves that fall across his bare chest — though the details remain elusive, just out of reach, like a blurry portrait.

You feel his hand— which feels slightly slimy and rough in texture, move up your waist, stroking your skin. His touch is cold, electrifying — and you feel your sanity leave your soul when his knuckles brush against the swell of your breasts.

Your pulse spikes, and you suck in a breath. You cannot go this far, even if your body is screaming to him to end what he’s started. His hands keep on stroking the exposed skin of your waist, delicately and tenderly, like he’s working you to the oblivion of endless pleasure, because why the hell is this arousing you so much?

You’re already breathless by the time you scramble to get a hold of his wrist which feels rather cold to touch before it gets too far away beyond your control.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans into your touch, his skin warm and soft beneath your fingertips, though you can still feel the faint ridges of scales beneath the surface. Your heart hammers in your chest, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. He feels real. He feels alive. You are exposed and vulnerable in his hold.

The ocean swells around you, and the hum in your ears grows louder, more insistent. He shifts, his body turning towards you, and finally — finally — you see his face.

Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, plump, soft lips which are curved in the faintest of smiles. His eyes are unbelievably dark, pupils abnormally wide and endless as the sea — lock onto yours, and you feel like you’re drowning all over again, and yet they feel like they’re glowing like the scales on his skin, a blunt, gentle glow. They draw you in, pulling you deeper into a whirlpool of emotion you can’t name, can’t understand, don’t want to understand. There is something very familiar about him which you cannot exactly pinpoint. But before you can even think of something else, you feel his thumb brush against the peak of your nipple.

Gods.

You moan, a high pitched one which you didn’t know you were capable of making, hands flying to his arms, leaning in submission. Your eyes close themselves as you feel a spark of pleasure travel straight to your clit with each flick of his fingers, and you nearly tremble in his hold.

This can’t be happening.

But the pleasure, it’s so intense — you are torn between your own desire, your own curiosity. It’s just too much for you, and a needy whine escapes your lips when you feel him pinch your nipples gently, twisting the bud in his hold. You squirm, feeling your centre pulse and ache with need, and you hear a small chuckle from his side.

You’re just so close to succumbing to this pleasure. You’re almost ready to voice out your inner thoughts, your need for him, but your body freezes when you hear him.

“Will you run away?”

The question hangs between you, low and velvety, his tone both teasing and somewhat serious. Your eyes fly open as your brain finally acknowledges the voice, his words wrapping around your heart like a vice. You open your mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. Your throat is tight, your lungs burning as though the air has been stolen from you.

He cocks his head, the faintest hint of confusion flickering in his gaze. His hand reaches for you, fingers grazing your arm as though testing your reaction, unsure of your response. But there is something else in his gaze, something that stirs a memory long buried beneath the surface.

Him.

It’s him.

You know him. You’ve always known him.

The realisation crashes into you like a wave, and your breath hitches. You gasp, twisting in his hold as bells ring in your head again. You cannot be doing this. You feel his hands move from your chest to your shoulders, a small tap on your blade as a sign of concern, interrogation. His touch is oddly warm, gentle, but there’s a hesitation in the way he holds you now, a question in his eyes.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know why you’re pulling away. His brows furrow, and you can see it in his eyes—he thinks you don’t want him. He thinks you’re afraid of him.

“Will you run away again, like you did tonight?”

Huh?

The question sharpens, the confusion giving way to something more desperate, more exposed. His grip tightens, but not in a way that traps you, but makes you feel oddly seen. His hands caress your shoulder blades, as though he’s pleading with you, silently asking you to stay, to tell him that he isn’t the reason for your fear.

But the truth is — he isn’t. Not entirely.

Your heart races, your mind swirling as fragments of memories begin to unfold. You see flashes of a different ocean, a younger version of yourself pulling someone from the depths. Water in your lungs, panic in your chest, eyes burning — and a boy — struggling to breathe. Your hands shaking, his eyes wide with fear, and your heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

And then . . . . nothing.

Silence.

But now, here he is again.

You twist in his grip, again, afraid of the lack of your words, the silence which stretches forever alongside the soft waves of the ocean, and his hauntingly pitch obsidian eyes — your body reacting on instinct, and the moment you do, his expression crumbles.

His confusion turns to hurt.

He pulls back, just a fraction, his gaze clouding with uncertainty. He doesn’t understand. He thinks you don’t want him. He thinks you’re running from him . . . again. His lips stretch to a snarl, and you catch a glimpse of death lining the inside of his mouth.

The water grows heavier around you, your eyes widening as you beat the water around you as you feel like you’re drowning. Being pulled down all of a sudden. The stars overhead dim all of their light as the weight of the ocean presses you down as his voice echoes once more, softer now, filled with a quiet kind of sorrow.

“So you are going to run away.”

Your lungs burn, your vision blurs, and the ocean swells around you, pulling you deeper into its embrace as you feel yourself immersed, despite your attempts of resistance. The ocean feels like a thousand knives stabbing you all around, unlike the soft blanket of comfort you felt a few moments ago.

The siren’s eyes are the last thing you see, his endless gaze filled with a longing that tugs at something deep inside you — something you’ve kept hidden for far too long.

He doesn’t even attempt to save you as everything goes black.

And then you wake.

It’s all so dark once again. Except, there’s no ocean around you, and you’re sitting on your bed in the middle of the room.

It takes you sometime to adjust to the darkness in your room — the moon is barely visible through the slits of your closed windows, and yet it feels like some sort of hallucination — almost as if your heart is going to burst. Your throat is cracked up as you gulp down on your own saliva, feeling each second passing by killing your throat as the moisture travels down your throat.

Your skin is damp with sweat, hair sticking on your face like some sort of icky school glue. And for a moment, you can still feel the ocean around you, his touch lingering on your skin.

When you recover a bit, you notice that there’s an undeniable discomfort in between your legs — your underwear sticking to your core, soiled, and slick coating your inner thighs as you cringe.

You had a wet dream. Like a fucking teenager. Or, a mixture of something arousing and horror. Was there any specific label to it? Possibly not.

You feel the wrath of shame wash over you as you duck your head down. Why him and why exactly. . .

But it’s gone—just a dream, a memory that slips through your fingers like sand, confusing you all again the more you think of it with each passing second. There are a flurry of questions in your mind which feels way too overwhelming to answer, ponder about, and you feel a splitting headache slowly spreading in the back of your head.

Yet, a question stands out the most amongst all. His voice, low and haunting, still echoes in your mind.

Will you run away again, just like tonight ?

The sea has always been your solace.

It was a vast, open space that offered more comfort than the people crowding your life ever did, or ever could. You sit at the edge of the beach, far enough from the others that their voices are nothing but distant clatters, but close enough that you still feel the spray of the waves on your skin. It feels soothing — yet warm as you bask in the slightly hot weather. The sun is high in the sky, yet all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of the ocean, like a quiet lullaby which rocks your body to a peaceful slumber. You draw idle patterns in the sand, your fingers trailing through the grains as your mind drifts, far from where you are, far from everything.

You’ve never liked being here, atleast, not with them.

The smiles, the laughter, the way everyone seems to fit in so seamlessly—everyone except for you. No matter how hard you’ve tried, you just couldn’t. The latest magazine in your school library had that little “self care corner”, which was fascinating, but absurd to you at first, but it’s been a matter of a few weeks since you’ve been following it. It says that you should be grateful for your blessings and try to improve yourself first before you justify why you feel so wronged and hurt. “It’s a hard pill to swallow”, were the exact words, and you do realise that heck yes, they were.

You had tried so many ways you could improve yourself, with some help from the limited internet access you’re provided from your computer. It said that regular journalling, walking, or activities which overall help you in reflecting on yourself and your thoughts assist in healing. But all that it ever did was make you feel like a bitter fool who had nothing to do but to complain all the damn time, without even putting in the effort to do anything.

So you’d tried putting in the effort. You’d tried mingling in with your friends and classmates. You’d even tried to actually be in the same room as your parents and be involved in whatever they were.

In the end, all that you were met was a cold, dead end.

You felt like you were pretending to be someone who you could never be. You were quite literally pushing yourself off the edge of the ground trying to fit in while others — he — shines without effort. Jungkook has always been at the centre of things, his laughter louder, his smile brighter, his presence bigger than yours could ever be. You just felt like another blurred character in the background who acts like a prop to enhance the overall photo.

And you hated it, hated how you couldn’t stop noticing him, couldn’t stop being reminded of all the ways you fell short.

You kicked the spare pebble nearby you, frustrated at having him in the centre of your thoughts again. One of the many things that the small self care centre had taught you was that nothing other than your own thoughts can hurt you as much as others, and it’s solely your own thoughts which can bring you happiness. So you try and keep your chin up high, trying to think of things which aren’t the constant nagging and pleading of your own parents about how you are no longer a star student and nothing can help you improve now, reminding you why you’re content to stay in the background itself.

But the ocean never judged you. It never asked anything of you. It just was — vast, open, endless, inviting. You can feel the familiar tug in your chest, the pull toward the water, a place where you could lose yourself if only for a moment, and forget everything which pesters you so much.

It’s that pull that keeps you grounded as you sit alone. That, and the nagging feeling that something is off. At first, you don’t pay much attention to it.

Why would you?

You’re used to being ignored, used to being an afterthought. But there’s just something in the air which feels odd, something unsettling that has your senses prickling, your chest tightening. You tell yourself that it’s nothing. You’re just anxious, that’s all. You don’t need to be involved, don’t need to care. Let them handle it. You’re done trying to be a part of something that always leaves you feeling more isolated.

And then, you hear it.

A splash. Sharp and out of place. It’s followed by a frantic noise, like someone struggling, thrashing against the waves. You freeze, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. You tell yourself it’s not your problem, that it’s probably nothing.

But deep down, you know better. Something is wrong.

Your heart leaps into your throat. You rise to your feet before you can even think ; your eyes dart across the water, scanning the waves, searching for the source. And that’s when you see him.

Jungkook.

He’s far from the shore, too far. His arms are flailing, desperately trying to keep himself afloat. The water pulls him under, and for a terrifying second, he disappears beneath the surface. Your eyes pop out, your pulse spiking up violently as you feel your chest tightening. For another moment, you see his head poke out of the violent waves, his arms still struggling, and in another, you lose sight of him. It feels like your whole body has been frozen, your limbs refusing to move despite your mind screaming for otherwise.

Your body moves before your mind can catch up. You’re on your feet, the sand slipping under your soles as you sprint toward the shore. You should hate him. You do hate him— or at least, you’ve convinced yourself of that.

But none of that matters right now. Not when his head breaks the surface again, his eyes wide with fear. He looks at you, a flicker of something — hope, maybe — crossing his face even in the middle of his panic and terror.

You hate that look, hate that it stirs something inside you, something that makes you pause for just a second. But you don’t let yourself think about it.

You don’t have time for that.

You dive into the water, the cold shock of it hitting you like a slap to the face, but you don’t stop. The current is strong, pulling you back with each stroke, but you push against it, swimming toward him with everything you have. You hadn’t realised that it’s been that long since you’ve been engaged in any other physical vigorous activity, or is it just the fact that the current is way too strong that the resistance it offers to you nearly stops you from gliding forward.

The water is blurry, your eyes stinging with the saline as you swin forward to locate him.

When you reach him, his body feels heavier than you expected, his limbs weak and movements uncoordinated. He’s coughing, choking on seawater, his breaths ragged and desperate. For a second, his weight drags you down, and you both sink slightly under the water. Panic rises in your chest, but you force it down.

You’re not going to let him drown. Not today.

With every fibre of strength left in your being, you push yourself forward. The moment your hands hold his arm, you pull him close. You feel a strong sense of electricity run through your whole arm, but you ignore it. You hook your arm under his, pulling him closer to you, and you start swimming back to shore. Every stroke feels like a battle against the ocean, but you don’t stop. His body presses against yours, his breathing uneven as he clings to you, and despite everything — despite how much you want to hate him — you don’t let go.

What’s more important is to save him, and that’s all what matters now. His weight feels heavy in your arms as you drag him toward the shore, your calves crying with the stretch and your arms cramping with exerted strength already lost, but that’s not your priority.

“I got you”, is all that you can offer as a silent statement in your head, your main motive being taking him to the shore safely.

By the time your feet touch the sand, your muscles are screaming, but you don’t care. You haul him out of the water, your breaths coming in sharp, painful gasps. The waves crash behind you, but all you can hear is the sound of Jungkook’s coughs, his chest heaving as he gulps down a mouthful of air.

You collapse onto the sand next to him, your arms trembling from the effort. For a moment, neither of you say anything.

He’s still recovering, his eyes closed as he lies on his back, his chest rising and falling unevenly. You feel the thrum of your own exhaustion settle in, but more than that, you feel that of the silence between you.

After quite some time, he’s just silent as you are, sitting up in a somewhat upward position as you. The sun fades away to shadows, and the waves feel stronger as cool winds blow from the shore, touching your feet in a gentle fuzzy wash. The clouds overhead dim further as you crane your neck up, indicating rain.

You’d nearly lost him.

What could’ve happened if you hadn’t heard him back then?

Your heart clenches at the thought and you feel even more exhausted mentally than physically thinking of the probable possibilities of your thoughts. You look at him — his profile silent and calm as he watches the waves dance in the distance. He looks deep in thoughts, still a bit ragged.

Your heart skips a beat out of nowhere.

And then, without thinking, you reach out and pull him into a hug.

It’s not something you planned, not something you would ever admit to doing if anyone asked.

But at that moment, it felt right.

His body is warm against yours, smelling like the soft saline ocean, still damp, still buzzing. And despite the lingering taste of salt on your lips and the sting of exhaustion in your muscles, you hold him tight. Your heart pounds in your chest as your brain threatens you to process something scary, as scary as a life without him. But with him in your arms, you feel better.

Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s something else. You don’t know, and you’re too tired to care.

Before you can feel anything more, though, the sound of running footsteps breaks through the quiet. Your parents. His parents. They come rushing over, calling his name, their voices frantic and full of worry.

“Jungkook!” It’s your mother. You watch her as she runs to the boy, panic settled in her features with dark, teary eyes as she grabs him by his shoulders, checking him for any signs of injuries. You watch silently as her tears stream down her eyes, shaking.

She doesn’t even spare you a glance.

“Your dad saw you struggling in the sea. Oh, my dear child, we rushed to you right there and then! Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Jungkook’s parents fuss over him, their hands gentle as they check him over, making sure he’s okay. Your own parents linger nearby, but as usual, it’s him who gets all the attention. You stand there, dripping wet and still trying to catch your breath, but it’s like you don’t even exist.

“I think he needs to see a doctor! His skin is way too cold to touch!”

Oh.

You let go of him, pulling back just as they all hover around him, some sobbing, some worried, and once again, you find yourself shoved into the background.

It’s Mr. Jeon who finally acknowledges you, his eyes warm with gratitude as he hands you a towel. Oh. You’re caught quite off guard, you’re being honest — not when you feel his affectionate gaze at you and a warm hand pat your shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says softly, his voice filled with sincerity. “You saved him,” his voice is full of kindness. Like the kind which always feels like a far echo to you. His eyes were always gentle, the kind which made you feel oddly at ease. “We owe you a lot, child.”

“It’s nothing,” You nod, but there’s no satisfaction in it, even if you’d try to feign some. You did what you had to do, and yet, it feels like nothing has changed. There’s a churning feeling in your tummy, one that makes you feel fidgety and anxious again, like all the emotions you hate mixed into one. Selfishness, greed, envy. Afterall, he was in danger. He deserves to be treated and taken care of; you were just a rescue.

However, it just feels so. . . you cannot name it. You’re still the one left behind, still the one who doesn’t quite blend in.

As you watch them lead Jungkook away, his movements clumsy and sputtering, you can’t help but feel the familiar sting of resentment rising in your chest. He’s alive, he’s okay—and yet, you can’t shake the feeling that no matter what you do, you’ll always be the one on the outside looking in, trying to blend in, like how oil does with water — but is it ever possible?

The feeling in your stomach is so ugly that you physically have to fight the urge to kick the sand.

You turn to face the sea once again, lost in the ocean of your own thoughts as the sky growls with thunder.

But what you don’t notice, is the way his eyes follow you as he’s led away. There’s a flicker in them, a quiet gratitude, a longing that he wanted to show you. He wants to thank you, to reach out and pull you back into the hug you’d given him so freely, so sincerely that he’d felt like his world had stopped for a few minutes. But the words stick in his throat, each step feeling like a tug away from you.

You don’t see the way his gaze lingers over his shoulder as he looks at your retreating figure. How he watches you with something deeper.

Something silent, before the tide of people pulls him away from you once again.

The kitchen feels too quiet this morning.

The sound of coffee dripping into the carafe snaps you out of your thoughts, its steady rhythm grounding you in the early morning quiet. The aroma of brewed coffee does little to clear the fog of your tired brain, because once again, you’d failed to get even an ounce of sleep. All you could do was toss around endlessly in the bed. The sheets felt warm, the pillows felt warm, and everything inside your thoughts were so warm you felt like you were getting grilled in your own thoughts.

With no BBQ sauce, though.

But finally, finally when your eyelids had felt too heavy to be kept open, your body clock had decided that it was time to get up.

You sit at the counter, gaze drawn to the espresso stone — an indulgence you’d bought in a phase of believing that rituals like brewing coffee would help settle the storm of your mind. But right now, it does little to nothing.

You’d always preferred instant coffee anyways. Easy, quick, and effortless. Call you lazy or whatever, but let’s be real, who the fuck has the allat energy to do that stuff when it’s the first thing you need in the morning?

(Some real coffee lovers might be giving you the stink eye, but well.)

You absolutely respect others who have, though. But you’re okay with warm water and a sachet of instant coffee. It doesnt taste quite as authentic, but it does work.

Or maybe you were just habituated.

What surprises you is that your parents were awake, but they didn’t come to wake you up this time. Not like before, when the first sound of life in the house was your mom’s footsteps hurrying up to your room. Now when you woke up, it felt like you weren’t even present in the house — perhaps you just expected much more than you should have.

The rich, dark liquid pools into the pot as you stare down at the counter, a knot of emotions tying in your chest. It’s strange, the way time has moved here — everything looks the same, but it feels unfamiliar. The tension that used to live in these walls, seeping through the cracks of their arguments and filling the spaces between your breaths, has softened.

For once, they're not fighting.

You don’t know what to make of that.

You close your eyes against the wave of discomfort that rises in your chest, refusing to let yourself spiral again, but it lingers, just like the faint bitterness of over-brewed coffee.

The morning light is soft, creeping through the windows, and you let your fingers trace idle circles on the countertop, waiting for the espresso to finish. Something about the silence feels unnerving. Not the comfortable, soothing kind though, but the kind that crawls into your bones and makes you hyper-aware of everything — it suddenly dawns on you that you weren’t awakened by that alarm of your phone.

Your phone.

A flood of memories flash right in front of your eyes, remembering him, holding it in his hands while you trembled like a fool and fled from him, again.

You’re so stupid.

You close your eyes. Fuck. Those eyes, those eyes. You were never successful to run away from them, even if he was in a state where he didn’t recognise you. They made you feel exposed, like a deer caught in headlights.

And suddenly, that touch, which is still so prominent in your senses, washes over you. The dream — his touch—lingers like a shadow on your skin, and you’re ashamed of the warmth it stirred in you. Confused, even. Your fingertips twitch, an involuntary reaction to the memory of the way the siren’s — Jungkook’s — hands had roamed over your body in the dream. The way his voice had sunk into your bones, asking, Will you run away?

The question was more than a dream. It was a reminder. And it makes your stomach churn.

You feel a shiver run down your spine.

No. You shake your head, you definitely will go insane if you think about it anymore. You try to shake it off, breathing out a sigh. It’s just a dream, you tell yourself. Get over it. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, inhaling deeply as if the scent could calm the knot in your stomach. There's no running from your thoughts this morning — no distractions, no excuses, and certainly no phone to hide behind. It hits you that without it, you’re forced to confront the very things you’ve been avoiding.

The what-ifs, the what-nows.

You just hope that the bitter coffee would ground you, but it doesn’t.

You take a sip, but it’s scalding, and the sudden burn against your lips yanks you from whatever you were lost in. You wince and place the cup back on the counter, feeling oddly betrayed by something as simple as a morning routine. Without your phone, you’re left feeling vulnerable, like your connection to the outside world has been severed.

You are definitely not a chronically online person, but a few instagram reels certainly do not feel as shitty as the coffee you’ve just made yourself.

You sigh. You wish that you did not rely on your phone for nearly every detail and necessities needed, and you seriously wish you had written down all those log in passwords and passkeys in a diary or something like that. They contain email IDs which you genuinely do not remember, and those unfinished drafts of that novel which you were working in. . .

Argh. You already feel the slight throb develop in the back of your head. There’s a sting behind your eyes, which you blink away. What the fuck ? You cannot lose your shit over such a mundane thing. You’re an adult, and you have enough cash to buy yourself a new phone. (What stings you is the fact that you definitely didn’t need one, but you are petty enough to not get the. . . err, lost one back.)

Anyways, you’re lucky enough to have a laptop with you, and if you can remember correctly, you do have your important e-mails registered in it and hopefully, you can do enough to not lose all your precious details.

(You feel silly as hell.)

But a small part of you trusts that Jungkook wouldn't mess with your details, right? He wouldn’t snoop through your life. . . would he?

You shake your head, pushing the thought away. There’s no point in obsessing over it. Trust him, you tell yourself, even if it’s easier said than done.

— — — —

As you settle down in the living room, laptop perched on your knees, you try to throw yourself into work, your fingers moving swiftly across the keys.

So far, you’ve been successful in logging out of all the devices and recovering your passwords, and you thank the technology for that. Although, those small manuscripts are something which you feel like are in the point of no return. The soft hum of your parents moving about the house barely registers at first, until you glance up and see them together, not at each other’s throats like they usually are.

They’re seated together, your father’s profile hidden behind the newspaper he’s so absorbed in reading, and your mother silently sipping on her tea.

How long have they been like this?

A flicker of surprise ripples through you, followed by an unfamiliar feeling you can’t quite place. They’ve been civil for the past few hours. No shouting, no being on each other’s throats anymore. Just... quiet, almost peaceful.

The same kind of quiet that you once craved for as a child.

You shift in your seat, a strange discomfort setting in as you observe them. It’s unsettling — this lack of chaos between them, and you wonder if they’re simply pretending for your sake. Ha. As if they would actually care.

You push the thought aside, not wanting to linger on memories of their constant arguments, of how they never seemed to notice you slipping through the cracks while they tore each other apart. Now, it feels like they've forgotten those days, moved on without you. But you haven't — If they didn’t bother then, why now when you are now just a temporary guest here?

The past has always found a way of sneaking up on you.

Suddenly, your father calls out your name, breaking the silence. His eyes are casted directly on you, his reading glasses slipping down a bit from his nose as he folds the newspaper he’d been reading to keep it back on the table. “The Jeons have been asking about you,” he says, his voice casual but pointed. Your hands freeze over the keyboard, and your heart skips a beat. “They’re very enthusiastic on hearing that you’re back.”

You force yourself to breathe, but the air feels thick in your lungs. Of course, they are, you think, trying to keep your expression neutral. They have always had maintained the image of that perfect neighbour next door, and this is no exception. However, a plethora of words rises to your throat, unsolicited. Is Jungkook with them?

The question burns on the tip of your tongue, and for a moment, you nearly let it slip. But before you can, your mother re-enters the room, carrying a tray — the rich, earthy scent of doenjang-jjigae fills the room, cutting through the tension like a warm breeze. You hastily cough, swallowing the words back, silently grateful for the interruption.

Although you’re now looking down at your laptop, you feel your father’s eyes flicker towards you, and the weight of his narrowed gaze, knowing he hasn’t missed the hesitation in your response. You are well experienced in this sensing emotions from your parents, and you know your father is suspicious. Let him be. But he says nothing more, choosing instead to focus on taking off his glasses and stretching a bit, preparing himself for his first nourishment of the day.

The silence stretches between you again, but at least for now, he doesn’t press the issue.

You exhale softly, your heart calming from the near slip-up.

A miss is as good as a mile.

That old fear of speaking in front of your father —cof saying the wrong thing, of upsetting the him — surges briefly, but you realize it’s not fear anymore. Not really. You’re no longer scared of him like you were as a child. His glare doesn’t topple you over the edge, and it barely has the same effect it did some few years ago.

You’re just not interested in talking to him, in engaging in a conversation you know won’t lead anywhere.

You can only offer a tight smile to your father as a response.

However , his words swirl around in your head, stirring up old emotions you thought you’d buried. It’s like some sort of a bitter nostalgia ; you’d run from him once already, bolted out of the cafe without looking back. And now, with this reminder that he’s close, that meeting him is inevitable, you feel a wave of fear rise inside you.

Fear, and something else.

Excitement ?

The idea sends a shiver down your spine. Why would you feel excited? You don't understand it. You’re supposed to hate him, aren’t you? For being perfect, for being everything you weren’t. For caring, even when you didn’t want him to. For not recognising you. Why? Why?

But there’s that small, rebellious spark inside you, one that flares at the thought of seeing him again. Those memories of seeing him so close creeps up your neurons like an surge of electricity, and you feel your heart pick up it’s speed again. Despite the fear, despite the confusion, you can’t deny the tug of anticipation. That sort which confuses you so much, that you feel like you’re someone really crazy.

No. You push the feeling down, gripping the edge of the table until your knuckles turn white. You shouldn’t be excited. You should be running again, like that voice in your head keeps whispering, urging you to flee before it’s too late.

Run away. Before he gets too close, before he sees you like this.

But you won’t.

Not this time.

You’re done running.

Even if your heart is racing, even if you’re terrified of what will happen when you see him again. You’ve been running for so long, without ever getting to catch a break — and you do not want to keep running away anymore. You are no longer a teenager, and you have to learn to face your challenges, although, this one is something which rather than being a challenge, feels like something which your whole life has revolved around so far.

You have let yourself suffer for consequences which you never were a part of. You have blamed your misery on someone, who was just as misunderstood as you were. Perhaps, that’s where the list of your flaws begins.

You won’t let yourself fall apart again. You are strong enough to face the storms which threaten to sweep you away. You’ve spent too long building these walls around yourself, and you won’t let him tear them down.

Not yet.

Your bottom lip gets a break from the non-stop nibbling upon hearing the empty bowls clink on the table, your mother chatting idly as she serves the food, and you nod along, though your thoughts are still tangled elsewhere completely.

You should feel relieved, thankful for the quick distraction, but instead, you feel like a thin thread is holding everything together, and it’s just a matter of time before it all unravels.

But when the first morsel of the warm strew hits your tastebuds, it was then when you realised that everything else can wait, but the food cannnot.

You were literally starving.

— — — —

Some things are easier to forget, even if they don’t deserve to be.

The park is quiet, the sound of leaves rustling in the soft breeze filling the humble air. It somehow feels like a place from another world — quiet, peaceful, as if it’s untouched by the dilemma that you’re trying to avoid. It’s funny, how this same peace stretched in between the coats of your house, yet you felt suffocated there, almost as if you weren’t meant to share that with your parents.

You sit on a weathered bench, legs curled beneath, pulling the collar of your coat closer as the cool, crisp autumn air brushes against your skin. Auburn leaves fall in slow spirals, collecting at your feet, a reminder of how everything changes — even when you’re standing still, despite how it felt like nothing had changed.

Perhaps, it was just you, or your home.

It felt fuzzy. Like the fuzz which collects at the rim of a carbonated drink when you shake it too hard. It was raining and was hot enough to feel sweat trickle down your spine just yesterday, and now. . . you feel like it’s about time you treat yourself with some mooncakes.

Speaking of which, you think red bean paste ones are slightly overrated, but you enjoy the taste as much if someone offered them to you for free.

You absently flick through the pages of a book you found tucked in a small “self-care” corner of a bookstore. The name of the corner had absent mindedly brought a smile to your lips, amazed at how this word was used so openly now, compared to that small section neatly tucked at the corner of that magazine you used to be so fascinated with.

The book. . . well, it’s not a bestseller, and it’s not something you’d normally pick up, (neither did anyone seem to, given the layer of dust the shopkeeper had to sweep away before handing it to you,) and you’ll be slightly embarrassed to admit that the name of the corner solely made you buy that book.

Well. . . now, you’re just thumbing the corner of a slightly dog-eared page idly, zoned out.

You turn the pages, but the words don’t really . . . stick. How could they, when your mind keeps wandering back to how everything feels so . . . lost? Like you’re floating aimlessly, without a map, without a clue as to where you’re supposed to be. Life has been a series of steps you weren’t ready to take, choices you weren’t prepared to make ; yet, you kept on running till you either bonked your head on the dead end or just chose the wrong path where you had to bear with the terrible consequences.

It sucks how even your gut feeling sometimes betrays you.

And all of it, every bit, feels like a puzzle that’s been missing pieces for longer than you’d care to admit.

You know why you’re here — not just in this park, pretending to care about a book on self-care, but why you’re avoiding the bigger thing. You’re avoiding them. The Jeons. The meeting that’s looming over you is like a storm you can’t run from. You knew your father did want to press over the topic after breakfast, but it was you who dodged it. You’ve been running long enough to know that much. But today… today, you’re trying to take your time, trying to convince yourself that maybe this is the moment you stop.

Stop running, stop pretending that running away would fix you and your problems.

But it’s hard. Hard to stop, hard to breathe, when every step forward feels like it’s pushing you closer to the one thing you’ve been trying to escape.

Your eyes flick down to the open book in your arms. Right.

You wanted to take your time, to clear your mind, and so may it be so. You’re not even a page down, when your mind registers a small paragraph.

Your eyes scan over the words again.

“Healing isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about living with it, the scars not a sign of weakness, but survival. Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting—it’s choosing peace over pain.”

Your fingers tighten on the edges of the page ; the self-care corner — the memories, the dream which you unlocked — everything you’ve been trying to run from, to “heal,” just feels . . . unfinished. And maybe that's because there’s no real way to let go of what still owns parts of you.

“Let it go,” it reads. As if it’s speaking directly to you. Let go of the things that have been holding you back. Your childhood , the nights you spent wondering if things would ever change. All the times you wondered what it would’ve been like, if you’d tried a bit harder. If you were a bit more perfect.

A deep breath.

You shake your head, trying to focus on the book again. It’s helping you realise something — you deserve to heal from your trauma, even if you weren’t the one causing it.

You close the book, your hand hovering as if touching the cover could give you answers you’re not ready to face.

You let out a shaky exhale as you close your eyes.

Someone sits down beside you.

The weight shifts slightly on the bench. At first, you don’t pay much attention to it, lost in the haze of your own thoughts. It’s just another stranger. Who’s passing through this quiet park, like the leaves that have been falling, spiralling down without asking for permission.

But then, there’s a subtle tug, a familiar feeling in the air that makes you want to turn your head. Maybe you’re just as curious to see, to subtly eyeball if they’re enjoying the calm of the fall too.

You hesitate, staring down at the words. For a moment, you think maybe you should keep staring. But your curiosity gets the better of you.

You glance over and pause. Dark eyes meet yours, and it takes a second before the recognition sets in.

“Oppa?”

Yoongi.

Your eyes lift from the page, and there he is, looking almost too casual, like he belongs in this quiet moment. You notice his glow-up immediately — the way his features have matured, how his hair — darker than how your memory recalls, falls effortlessly across his forehead, styled beautifully to part in the middle. There’s just this quiet intensity in his cat-like, sharp eyes.

Yoongi, as you know, is Jungkook’s elder cousin on his mother’s side. He’s always had this quiet, reserved aura about him. Back then, he was already on the brink of adulthood, 18, and intimidating in a way only someone as mysterious as him could be. Maybe it’s that confidence in the way he still holds himself, the way he seems so sure of everything around him.

He would seem to be very distant at the first glance to anyone, but you know he’s anything but that, given that you always felt like he was that older brother you’ve never had.

And it’s no exception when instantly, his wide, gummy smile breaks through. It’s the same one that used to make you feel at ease back then. A smile so cute, rare, and warm, it could melt the deepest of glaciers to exist. Without warning, he reaches over and ruffles your hair affectionately, the way he always used to. You blink, a little stunned.

He wasn’t exactly known to be the physically affectionate boy, back then, though. . .

“How are you doing?” he asks, his voice low, careful. Somehow you feel like it’s grown even deeper with a very prominent rasp. You can tell he’s not asking the surface-level question. He’s asking how you’re really doing, but without pushing you to say more than you’re ready for. And for that, you feel grateful.

Yoongi always knows what to say, and what not to.

“I’m . . . okay,” you manage to reply, though the word feels heavier than it should. Your voice sounds peculiar to you, but you guess that’s alright. What’s even the point of lying, though? “Just trying to figure some things out.”

He hums thoughtfully, nodding. Leaning back on the bench, his eyes scan over the park as if giving you time to find your words. “That’s good. Figuring things out is important.”

You nod, feeling a little relieved that he doesn’t bring up the fact that you’ve been gone for so long. He’s always had a way of avoiding the obvious, instead focusing on what matters now. You think back to how, in the earlier stages of his career, he always seemed to have his head on straight. If you’re not wrong, you’ve heard some seniors even gosip about how he was known to be the “campus bad boy”, which often confused you. How can a person so warm be called so?

The mixtape he released back then was proof of that, though — a reflection of everything he’d held back until he was ready to speak. His emotions came out through his art, something he was so passionate about, something you admired him for.

Anger, resentment, and hope.

You remember how those emotions warped themselves in his music, his first mixtape he released. Core hip-hop music, all produced by himself solely.

“I saw your mixtape,” you blurted out, not knowing why you’re bringing it up now. “It was… amazing.” You just wanted to let him know, although it feels like you’re a bit too late. It’s been nearly about six. . . maybe seven years, but each time you plug in, you feel like the memories are just as fresh as they were.

He chuckles softly, the sound a little shy despite the confidence he wears so well. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure anyone really listened.”

“What do you mean?” you gawk at him, wide eyed. “Is Min PD, the very famous AgustD saying this by himself?”

He smiles again, a soft laugh escaping him as he rubs his hands together. His skin seems flawless, you notice.

“I mean, of course. I appreciate my fans always, but I feel like the mainstream nowadays is pop music rather than old school hip-hop.”

You nod, licking your lips. Shit. You should’ve brought your lip balm around. “I do understand people indulging in trends, but I do believe that there are people who enjoy hip-hop just as much. For me, it’s like a whiff of fresh air. And I assure you — that your music feels just the same. I, myself as a fan, agree.”

His eyes softened — but they were never pointed to begin with. But before he can say more, there’s a flicker of something playful in them — a hint that makes your heart skip a beat. He taps his phone absentmindedly, then glances over at you again, that quiet smirk tugging at his lips.

As if he’s thinking something else.

“I sure am happy to know that there are others who share the same sentiments as me.”

His phone buzzes in his hand.

“Oh, right…" His tone is too calm, and you already know something's up before he even finishes. “I may have invited someone.”

You blink. “Invited someone?” Your voice comes out slower than you intend, the curiosity now gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. Who?

But Yoongi doesn’t give you time to ask more. He stands up in that lazy, casual way of his, stretching like this is just another day, looking more like a cat stretching after their afternoon nap than a human being. His hand comes down to ruffle your hair again, the affectionate gesture almost pulling a smile from you despite the growing curiosity in your chest. He doesn’t answer you.

Instead, he just smiles that wide, gummy smile one more time before shrugging. “I'll see you soon, okay?”

You watch his retreating figure appear smaller and smaller in the distance as he walks away, hands in his pockets, relaxed and slow.

You’ve always known that Yoongi’s energy was different.

It’s not something you actively think about, but it lingers at the edges of your memories now that you’ve seen him again after a long time. He’s always been on the softer side, quieter — the kind of presence that fades into the background unless you’re really paying attention. Where Jungkook burned bright, a whirlwind of energy and easy charm, Yoongi was like the stillness after a storm — steady, unfazed, but undeniably there.

It’s funny, because despite those differences, Jungkook and Yoongi were close.

You saw it back then, how Jungkook would practically cling to him, always teasing him, always pushing at his boundaries whenever they both used to be together. Yoongi, for his part, would act annoyed, shrugging off Jungkook’s arm or swatting at him with that deadpan expression of his. But you knew better. You’d watched enough to see that he never really minded. Jungkook could be relentless with his affection.

Yoongi pretended to dislike it, there was always that hint of a smile lurking beneath his protests, amongst Jungkook’s giggles.

Sometimes, watching them together made something tighten in your chest — not quite jealousy, but something close. It wasn’t that you wanted what they had, but you couldn’t help feeling envious of how easy it seemed for them. The way Jungkook would wear Yoongi down with his stubborn warmth, and how Yoongi would eventually crumble, letting Jungkook in even if he’d never admit it.

That kind of bond was something you’d always wondered about — if you’d ever have someone like that, someone who wouldn’t mind your presence no matter how much you tried to push them away.

It’s an odd feeling.

Later that evening, you sit in the quiet of your room, the familiar isolation wrapping around you like a protective cloak. You’ve been actively hiding up here after you got back from the park, avoiding too much interaction. Not because anyone cared to ask where you were or what you were doing. It was more because you felt like you needed some time alone, yet, you feel like you’re alone. Your parents barely noticed, too caught up in their own world. Your mother had the formality to ask why won’t you join them for lunch, and thankfully they did not pry any further.

At least you got to have some quality time with yourself while you had the fancy lunch, which you would admit was a bit heavy on your wallet.

It made your hiding feel almost useless, but somehow, staying in your room brought you a small, bitter comfort.

You rub your eyes, feeling the strain on them for continuously typing for an hour. Your neck hurts, and your fingers feel frozen. You’re trying your best to remake the lost manuscript you’d drafted, and you don’t think this new version is anything close to that.

Sighing, you open your laptop again. It’s truly so tiring — but you guess you were a bit productive today, and that’s okay. Your finger hovers over the doc file, contemplating if you should continue any further — but ah, you’re just so tired. Even just thinking of typing a few hundred words would give you a headache. So you just let it go and log into Instagram — the only way you can connect since your phone is still missing.

A notification catches your eye. 1 new notification.

? Eh. . .?

Your notifications are always empty. Just once or twice from instagram that a celebrity has posted and you gotta catch up, which you don’t. Or a reel suggestion. Or people to follow, so this new notification brings a frown to your brows. What could it be?

Your heart jumps slightly when you see the sender.

dboy93_ : 2 new messages

Is that . . . — no way. He’s still using that same old instagram ID which he was forced to make as a dare back when you were in highschool? No way. Couldn’t be. You click on it, curiosity pushing through the haze of everything else.

dboy93_: Yo. This is Min Yoongi (edited)

dboy93_ : Sorry for leaving so suddenly earlier. Something came up

You stare at the message for a second, a slow smile hanging on your lips, then slowly type back.

you: it’s fine

you: ur still using this old ID of yours? 💀

Your eyebrows touch your hairline when you see the typing bubble bounce up immediately at the corner. You did not expect him to reply this soon. . .

dboy93_ : Ya who’s gonna bother making a new one anyway

dboy93_ : I was hoping that you won’t be mad at me for leaving that soon.

you : it’s fine, i understand

dboy93_ : Let’s meet again. I’m thinking of a café this time?

You raise an eyebrow at his suggestion. Is he suggesting a—

dboy93_ : More time to catch up, plus we have some friends here for holidays too

you : ah, so like a reunion party ?

you : sounds good yo. count me in

dboy93_ : Will send you the location soon then

you : but when?

dboy93_ : Today, evening at 7?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a while. Keeping yourself occupied sounds kind of very nice, especially when you’re being promised a good time with a few more faces. It’s not like you’re the busiest person, anyway.

you : super. i’ll be there !!

dboy93_ : Oh and btw, can I get your number? Instagram’s a pain to use for texting

You let out a soft laugh. That’s Yoongi for you. Direct and practical, no hesitation. But what exactly would you tell him? That my phone is with your little brother right now?

you: imma give it to you once i get it back

you : i don’t have it with me right now

dboy93_ : 👍

Well, you don’t know what kind of reaction you were expecting from him, but you don’t know what to make of a thumbs up either.

— — — —

The evening feels lighter.

You’re sitting in that same, slightly odd café you were sitting in roughly 24 hours ago —the warmth inside 134340 contrasts with the cool autumn breeze slipping through the café door, hurling you to an unexpected sense of peace.

Very contradicting to your emotions yesterday.

For once, your thoughts don’t feel as heavy. It’s funny how something as simple as an Instagram text from Yoongi earlier can spark a little joy in your chest. You feel light; especially after that power nap turned to a full nap of three hours. You woke up with a growling stomach and a refreshed mind — it somehow felt like you haven’t felt this free since so long, that you don’t remember when was the last time.

No worries, no stress, no voices inside your head.

You’d sat there in your bed, zoned out on nothing particular. It was only when the alarm clock rang, indicating it was already 6 PM.

You hadn’t put much thought into what you were wearing today, but somehow, it feels like you got it just right.

The oversized cream sweater falls gently over your frame, its soft fabric comforting against your skin. It’s the kind of comfort you didn’t know you needed, the loose sleeves almost covering your hands completely as you absentmindedly tug at them. Paired with a long plaid skirt, whose deep shades of burgundy and brown had caught your attention in your wardrobe, the fabric swaying around your ankles.

You hadn’t planned this. None of it, really.

The tan ankle boots are more practical than anything else, but something about the way they click against the pavement felt just right. You don’t mind the way they match the season’s colours, almost blending in with the fallen leaves scattered at the cafe’s entrance.

You’d even added a light touch of makeup — nothing extravagant, just enough to brighten your eyes and bring a bit of life to your face. A swipe of mascara, a hint of blush, and a subtle nude lip colour that complements the cosy, neutral tones of your outfit. A quick brush to your hair and some setting spray was enough to bring out its natural volume.

You felt good.

Maybe for the first time in a while, you feel like you’re not hiding from the world.

For once, the reflection in the cafe window looking back at you doesn’t seem so far away from who you are. You feel. . . light. Almost like the crisp air itself, fresh and unbothered.

It feels good.

It’s been a while since you felt like this. After your conversation with Yoongi, you weren’t sure if you were ready to step back into a world that once felt so close yet now feels like a lifetime away. But somehow, the lightness in your chest said yes before your mind could overthink it.

Maybe, deep down, you’re starting to believe that this reunion could be good for you.

A small start to something. . .better.

You glance around the café. A soft smile pulls at your lips. It’s not crowded—just a few people scattered around, huddled over books or laptops. Familiar, but not too familiar. It’s quiet enough that yo don’t feel overwhelmed, and for thr first time in days, you allow yourself to just . . . exist.

No pressure. No expectations. Just here.

Your teeth pull at your inner cheek at the small pulsing thought in your head, that your phone is still not with you. The lack of your phone made you realise so many things within less than 24 hours, and you’re trying to not let that small voice gnaw your brain. The idea of him having it — his hands on something that’s been so close to you — feels strange, unsettling even.

You wonder if he’s seen anything, read anything, though the rational part of you knows it’s unlikely.

Still, the absence of your phone leaves an odd emptiness.

Which, you think, is just as good as bad as it can be. Without your phone, you can observe things better. You’d been reading physical copies of books, observing the pattern of how dew forms on grass blades, or even the faintest of noises which tingle your ears right now. Your thoughts never let you actually be present in the moment, always worrying about the future or regretting whatever you’ve done in the past.

No wonder why nostalgia for you feels painful.

But here, with the faint smell of fresh coffee and the sound of pages turning softly in the background, there’s space to breathe. You can feel the thrum of blood in your veins, the soft warmth of your sweater, the smiles on the faces of the baristas as they talk within themselves.

The soft clink of a spoon from a nearby table draws your attention. A few people are scattered about, engrossed in their own worlds — reading books, working on laptops, or chatting quietly. It’s peaceful, and for a moment, it feels like you’ve stepped out of your own life, finding solace in this tiny bubble away from everything.

You absently glance toward the door, the light chatter of passing people blending with the soft music playing inside. You’re early, but that’s fine.

It gives you time to yourself.

— — — —

The café door chimes.

Your eyes immediately dart to the entrace, tilting your head to the side to get a better view. Perhaps they’re here. You glance at the small wall clock adjacent to your table, and it reads ten past seven.

Although it feels like it’s been some time since you’re here, but you don’t mind at all, especially with the small notepad and pen you’ve got on your table.

You’ll never ever be bored as long as you’ve got a paper and pen within your reach.

The first person you spot is Yoongi, his familiar, understated presence immediately calming. He’s dressed casually, in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, his usual laid-back style that somehow makes him blend into every setting, yet stand out at the same time. It’s like he carries his own layer of calm with him, an aura you’ve always admired.

Behind him, a small group of friends follows, out of which some you recognise nearly immediately — despite the course of time. Jieun, her short wavy hair neat and tidy, wearing a comfortable grey sweater, giving her a kind of homely warmth. You’ve known her as Yoongi’s senior, the sweet cinnamon roll. She waves as soon as her eyes land on you, her smile bright and genuine.

It’s been nearly decades since you’ve seen her, and it surprises you that she actually remembers you.

“____ , I didn’t know I’d be seeing you today!” Jieun exclaims, wrapping you in a quick, warm hug. Her perfume is light, floral — the kind that reminds you of spring even in the middle of autumn. “It’s been forever, hasn’t it? How have you been? Oh my, your hair is shorter than how I remember!”

“I’m good,” you manage to let out a small chuckle, returning the hug, feeling a bit overwhelmed by her energy. Of course, you were about sixteen when you last met her. “It needed some trimming. You look super cosy, by the way.”

“Please, I just rolled out of bed as soon as Yoongi told me,” Jieun says with a playful eye roll, though you can tell she appreciates the compliment. “But you, girl. If anyone is looking cosy, that’s you. very autumn-y.” she winks at you, tugging at the fabric on your arms.

You smile, feeling a bit lighter with her friendly banter. Jieun has always had this way of making you feel seen, but not in a bad way. Like she’s genuinely happy to be around you. It’s comforting, even when you don’t really know much about her.

Soobin and Amber join soon after, both nearly squabbling over something. Soobin has grown much taller than you recall, and has that same, cocky grin that you remember from old times. He isn’t that younger than you, though you’ll say that you do know him a bit better.

Amber, on the other hand, is quieter, more reserved, but her eyes light up when she sees you, and that’s enough to make you feel welcomed.

“Someone needs to explain to this guy that he still owes me from last time,” Amber says with a mock-serious tone as she puts her bag down, pointing at him. “You’re not getting away with it this time—”

“What did I even miss?” you ask, curiosity piqued.

“Ping-pong match,” Soobin grumbles, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “And I don’t lose that easily. Amber’s just cheating.”

“I did not cheat!” she pokes her tongue out at him. “you just suck at it.”

Soobin crosses his arms over his chest, raising a brow at her. “Oh, really? That does not take away the fact that you’re short—”

“What does ping pong gotta do with height—”

“Alright kids, enough bickering.” Yoongi’s voice is deep as he pulls out the chairs for them to sit, his tone hinting at boredom, but that small smile which hangs on his lips tell a different story. Yoongi is the last to sit down, taking the seat next to you with his usual, relaxed ease.

You notice only now that your cheeks hurt from smiling so much non stop. He throws a knowing glance your way, as if to say, I told you so.

“I didn’t know you all still hung out,” you say, genuinely surprised as you glance at the familiar faces, memories of late-night study sessions and frequent game sessions surfacing. “Feels like it’s been years.”

“Not as often as we used to,” Jieun admits, picking up the menu book excitedly. “Life kind of got in the way for a while. But we try to meet up when we can, honestly. But you, Miss Vanishing Act, you need to show up more often.”

You make an embarrassed noise at the back of your throat, but you can’t help but laugh softly. “Yeah, I’ve been... around. Just not here.” You have missed out on a lot in your years of running away, and perhaps this regret would settle down sometime later.

“Good to see you’re still alive, noona.” Soobin teases, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Hyung here told us you’d be joining today, which was like a bomb drop for all of us. I’d believed in winning a lottery more than you coming back. Trust me, I was nearly convinced into thinking that he’s pranking us.”

“That’s Yoongi’s fault,” you reply, rolling your eyes, nudging him with your elbow. “He dragged me out of hibernation.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Well, I didn’t drag you anywhere. Just gave you a little nudge.”

By the time the barista returns with your orders, Yoongi looks a bit too amused at a conversation turned argument at which Amber is losing despite Jieun backing her up. They are nearly arguing about the best ramen places in town, and eventually, Soobin claims victory based solely on the fact that he knows the owner of one of the shops. Jieun listens with a bemused smile, her face acting as the subtitles to her thoughts inside her head, while Amber looks like a second away from throwing hands on the guy.

You are too busy to pass your own opinions enjoying their show.

“By the way,” Yoongi suddenly says, his voice cutting through the chatter after taking a quick glance at his phone. “One of our friends is running late.”

Frankly, right now, you’re not too concerned. You’re here, with people who’ve known you for years, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can let yourself relax. You cannot be bothered when you’re actually enjoying yourself after everything.

“Well, that’s their fault. Missing some nice beef between friends.” Amber adds, giggling soon after taking a sip at her own joke.

However, you don’t catch on that look the younger lad throws at the older.

Amber taps you lightly on the shoulder. “So, are you gonna tell us what you’ve been up to, Missy?”

“Hell yeah, spill the tea,” Jieun adds, leaning forward with a glint in her eyes, excited. “What’s been keeping you so busy?”

“You’re no longer sleepy now that you’ve got tea to listen to, huh?” Your eyes are narrowed at her, but you dont mean any real bite behind it.

You take a deep breath, ready to dive into whatever story you feel like sharing.

For once, the world outside this little café can wait.

You’ve been laughing, genuinely laughing, for the first time in what feels like ages.

(You hate how old it makes you sound, but that’s true. Well, partially true, because it felt like you’d almost forgotten what laughing was for a while.)

The café is lit with conversation, laughter weaving in and out of the cosy hum. Amber is now dramatically recounting a disastrous karaoke night, her hands flailing as she tries to reenact Soobin’s epic failure to hit the high notes, the man in the question trying his best to convince everyone at the table that something so horrible as enacted did not happen. You’re laughing so hard you almost forget the strange sense of unease that’s been creeping up on you.

But there’s something unsettling in the back of your mind. A feeling you can’t quite shake off, a prickling touch.

You glance at Yoongi, who is watching the others with quiet amusement. But every now and then, you notice his eyes flickering to the entrance, a fleeting glance that makes your stomach churn slightly. He’s done that way too many times by now for it to be a simple glance.

Why does it feel like he knows something you don’t?

You shift in your seat, brushing off the feeling. Maybe it’s just being back here, surrounded by familiar faces after so much time has passed. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re trying so hard to be present, to let yourself enjoy this moment, even when there’s a part of ypu still trying to tug you to where you once were.

But that feeling in your gut doesn’t go away.

The café door chimes again.

You don’t look at first. You’re too focused on keeping the conversation going, on pretending you’re not hyper-aware of every sound, every movement around you. Jieun is asking you something about your recent work, her voice bright and curious, but your attention is already drifting, already far away by now.

The air shifts, like a current pulling you toward something.

Or someone.

You glance up, and your heart stumbles.

Jungkook.

oh.

He’s standing by the door, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you.

Your heart drops to your ass.

The world seems to blur for a second, everything fading except for him, and the heat of his gaze.

He strides toward your table easily, almost as if it’s something he does everyday. His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, his black leather jacket snug around his frame. He looks like he belongs anywhere he goes, and yet right now, it feels like he’s stepping into a space you’ve tried to keep sealed off.

The conversation around you falters. Jieun stops mid-sentence, her eyes darting between you and Jungkook with a slight frown.

Soobin is the first to break the silence.

“Look who decided to show up,” he quips, though his voice sounds distant in your ears. “You’re half an hour late, hyung.”

You can’t tear your gaze away from Jungkook, even if you feel like your nerves go haywire. It’s like he’s pulling you in, even though every instinct in your body is screaming for you to look away, to pretend this isn’t happening.

Is this really happening?

No. No. This cant’t be happening, can it be—

Jungkook’s eyes flicker briefly to Yoongi, and there’s something in them. Something you can’t quite understand. But when his gaze returns to you, it’s sharper, more focused, almost. . . . fierce. Almost like he’s found the last piece of his missing puzzle.

You nearly flinch.

He doesn’t sit. He stands just behind the empty chair across from you, his hands in his pockets, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel like your heart is refusing to beat anymore.

“I think I might have something that belongs to you.”

His tattooed hand slips into his jacket, pulling out your phone — the same one which you dropped down yesterday.

But it’s not the phone that sends a chill down your spine.

It’s the way he’s looking at you.

a/n : i’m so sorry, for 1) taking this long to release this part, and 2) the ending 😭 i promise you guys the next part would actually be a bit more interesting, but i wanted this series to have themes of self healing and recovery too. as always, your feedback is always appreciated and fuels me to write more and more. as always, here’s the anonymous feedback box for you !! 🌹💜

#jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook romance #jungkook scenarios #jungkook series #jungkook x reader #bts smut #bts angst #bts romance #jungkook fluff #bts fluff #bts series #bts x reader #bts x you #jungkook x you #jungkook x oc #jungkook imagine #bts imagines #jungkook

127 notes · View notes

justpoliteconversations · 7 days ago

Text

Morning Grind [Chain + Reader]

Adventuring is difficult. Mornings are worse.

Another one for the pile, surprisingly enough!

Masterlist

TW: None.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise. Linked Universe is the fan creation of jojo56830.

---

There's hair piled up in a tangled heap across your face and neck, sticky and damp where it pressed against the flushed heat of your sleep-warmed forehead and cheeks. Oily slick and grimy to the touch. Stale sweat and musk emitting an unpleasantly bitter scent right into your face (sweet too, like overly ripe apples. but unpleasant nonetheless).

The mass of bed head shifted, dragging across your drool sodden face in slow, halting jerks. A groan rasped from the lump the hair begun bundling around, and your eyes opened (sticky and crusted and deeply unhappy) to the sight of Wild turning in his sleep.

Still groggy from interrupted slumber, you stared listlessly at the man's face. Dazed and half conscious. Eyes stinging against the wet press of your (irritating) eyelids and (even more irritating) lashes.

Wild was handsome for sure. Delicate, noble-borne features crafted tenderly around a fine, bold facial structure. Plush lips, high cheekbones and a narrow chin that belied the strong jaw supporting it. And lashes for days. Perhaps the most striking of the Chain, beaten out only by Twilight (who didn't count in your opinion, because the man was a walking fur coat even when Wolfie wasn't present) and Sky (who had the pretty boy role down to an art form and managed to woo over a Goddess' incarnate with it. so he didn't count either).

None of these things caught your attention though.

No. What caught your eye (out of everything. out of all the features a man such as a Link could offer to the world) was the little red bumps lining the underside of his jaw and across one sleep flushed cheek. The ruffled little turf of brow hair twisted in the wrong direction on one side. The uneven stubble shadowing his upper lip and chin and crawling a fine line below his ears.

Your eyes lingered mindlessly on the crack (healed now, but you vaguely remembered how it'd bled and bled when it first happened) on his dry lips, and the white, flaky corners of his mouth.

His breath reeked of onion and vinegar when he breathed (open mouthed and snorting) into your squinty-eyed face. Pulling a frown to your lips as you hazily wondered why it smelt different from dinner the night before.

Wild snorted again. More vinegar and onion (and now garlic too. the garlic was what was different), and your blurry, sleep-deprived eyes narrowed in sudden realization.

You reached out (fighting the cold sting of early morning to do so. the heavy drag of fatigue), put a firm hand on Wild's shoulder and pushed him with all your might (just managing to roll him out of his bedroll).

"You sneaky little bastard! You said there wasn't any more garlic!" You huffed grumpily in betrayal, feeling naught an ounce (well, maybe just a tiny smidge) of pity as Wild whined pathetically and reached tiredly for the warmth of his covers.

Which you pulled away (spitefully). Eyes brimmed with hellfire. "Freeze to death and die, betrayer!"

A groggy groan from Wars, who was unfortunate enough to have been sleeping closest to you both last night (Wind having kept him up late the night prior as well. fitful and energetic, even in his dreams). His hands and pillow sadly unable to block the (rather heartrending) pleas for forgiveness (and his bedroll) from Wild.

At least Wind slept like the dead through it. (Ornery little sea mutt.)

Across the camp, a wild fluff of unruly blonde and pink had bolted upright at the exact same time as your indignant accusion. Wide-(and far too awake to have been sleeping)-eyed and crazed in the steep angle of his brow.

Legend pulled Hyrule upright by the front of his vest (because of course the little wildling slept fully dressed). "Rulie! I fucking knew it!"

Hyrule whined, eyes glued shut with eye gunk and nose stuffy from sleep. Weakly pulling at Legend's clutched hands. "Le~gs~. I'm ti~r~ed~."

If possible, Legend's brows took an even deeper dive. But before he could open his mouth a truly activate rant mode, he was interrupted by a very, very unhappy Sky.

"Stop yelling or I'll give you a reason to be screaming this early."

Dead quiet. The crickets begun their song once more. A bat swooped over head, just skimming the firelight's reach. The camp now a moth less than before.

A sigh of contentment, and Sky eventually drifted back to slumber (no doubt he'd forget all this next he woke).

"Goodness," Red hummed softly, just above a whisper as he chewed on his coffee (if the black, pulpy sludge could be called that). "I thought Blue woke up grumpy."

Across the fire Time chuckled, half-lidded eye watching with fond amusement as Wild finally managed to kiss ass back into your good graces (and his bedroll). And Hyrule managed to get back into Legend's by nuzzling his side and whimpering pathetically until he was forgiven and petted back into light slumber. "When we visit my Hyrule next, I'll let you meet the Beast of Lon Lon Ranch."

Red stopped chewing his coffee and blinked owlishly up at the older man (question clear in his eyes). And Time just smiled, taking a mouth full of coffee and chewing past the bitter grit and sting. Smiling mysteriously into the fire.

Only to choke a few moments later.

"It gets worse the longer you chew." Time whispered in something like horror, staring at the coffee(?) with morbid curiosity.

Red just smiled. "When Vio comes back, I'll have him brew you 'Shadow's Spite'."

Time blinked at him in disbelief, and Red just smiled (mysteriously).

And so begins another morning.

---

I retreat back to the shadows.

#linked universe #linked universe x reader

85 notes · View notes

honeybeezgobzzzzz · 19 days ago

Text

🎃 Kinktober 2024: Ravenous

Ravenous: You have never allowed your boyfriend to touch you when your period comes, in fact, you avoid him. Morpheus has a problem with this and wants to know why.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: Morpheus x AFAB!Reader

Prompt: Bathing

Word Count: ~5.5k

You wander through the ever-shifting landscape of the Dreaming, your feet crunching over crystalline paths that morph beneath your steps. A glowing butterfly flits past, its wings trailing stardust. You pause, taking in the incredible beauty, but there's a knot in your stomach that beauty alone can't untangle.

Morpheus' palace looms in the distance, an architectural marvel of swirling spires and shadowy alcoves. Usually, you'd find yourself pulled toward it, eager to see him. But for the past two nights, you've kept your distance, skirting around the edges of his domain like a thief avoiding a guard.

You know he's noticed. The Dreaming has an uncanny way of reflecting his emotions. Tonight, a thick fog curls around the trees and the sky carries an unsettling shade of indigo.

You make your way to the edge of the Dreaming, where the landscape turns darker and more mysterious. Cain's house stands tall and menacing, shadows clinging to its corners. Abel's house is smaller, cozier, though it exudes a melancholic air.

You knock on Abel's door. The creak of the door echoes in the silence as Abel peeks out, eyes wide with curiosity and a hint of nervousness.

"Y/N? What brings you here at this hour?" he asks, voice soft but tinged with surprise.

"I needed a place to stay for a while," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

Abel opens the door wider, ushering you inside with a welcoming gesture. "Of course, you're always welcome here."

The interior is cluttered with books and oddities, each item telling a story only Abel could narrate. He offers you a seat by the fireplace, its warmth seeping into your bones.

"You know," Abel starts, fidgeting with his hands, "Morpheus has been... different lately. Brooding more than usual."

You nod but say nothing. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words. Finally, Abel speaks again.

"He's been wondering why you avoid him every month. It weighs on him."

A pang of guilt twists in your chest. "I just... need some time alone sometimes," you murmur.

Abel nods slowly, as if understanding more than you say. "We all have our secrets," he says gently.

As you sit by the fireplace, a sharp pain twists in your abdomen. You grimace, pressing a hand against your stomach. Your arm trembles with the effort to hold steady.

Abel notices immediately, his eyes widening with concern. "Are you alright?" His voice carries genuine worry.

"It's just a mortal thing," you manage to say, attempting to brush it off. "Cramping, it'll go away in a couple of days."

Abel's brow furrows, not entirely understanding but empathizing nonetheless. "That sounds unpleasant. Wait here."

He hurries to a small cupboard, rummaging through its contents. You lean back in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the cramps persist, each wave of pain more insistent than the last.

Abel returns with a variety of herbs and begins to prepare some tea. His movements are careful and deliberate, each action imbued with a sense of purpose. He glances at you occasionally, concern etched into his features.

"This should help," he says, setting a kettle over the fire. The water begins to bubble almost instantly in the Dreaming's peculiar way. Abel's hands move deftly, mixing herbs into a small teapot.

"Thank you," you say softly, appreciating his kindness despite your discomfort.

"You're always welcome here," Abel repeats, more firmly this time. He watches as the tea steeps, its aroma filling the room with a soothing scent.

You close your eyes for a moment, focusing on your breathing. The cramps ease slightly as the warm atmosphere of Abel's home envelops you. He pours the tea into a delicate cup and hands it to you with a reassuring smile.

"Drink this," he instructs gently. "It should help ease the pain."

You take the cup and sip slowly, feeling the warmth spread through your body. The tea has a calming effect, and gradually, the cramps begin to subside.

"Thank you," you say again, more earnestly this time.

Abel nods, settling into a chair opposite you. The fire crackles softly between you, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

"Is this why you spend a couple of days avoiding Lord Morpheus every month? Because you don't want him to see you in pain?" The tea cup pauses against your lips.

"Something like that," you quietly murmur, eyes dropping to your clenched fingers resting in your lap.

You sit in silence, the tea's warmth slowly easing your discomfort. Abel sits across from you, his eyes kind but curious. The fire crackles, filling the space between you with its soft, comforting sound.

Your mind drifts, thinking of Morpheus and the tangled emotions that swirl around your relationship with him. Each time the cramps start, you retreat into yourself, unwilling to show this vulnerable side to him. You know it causes him pain, but the thought of him seeing you like this makes you feel weak. Your periods have always been so messy, bloody.

The air suddenly shifts. You feel it before you see it—a ripple in the fabric of the Dreaming. Abel's eyes dart toward the door, and your heart sinks.

Morpheus strides into Abel's home with a fury that makes the shadows tremble. His presence fills the room, making it hard to breathe. The stars in his eyes blaze like distant suns, and you can feel his anger radiating off him in waves.

"Y/N," he says, his voice low but filled with a barely contained storm.

Abel rises quickly, almost knocking over his chair in his haste. "Lord Morpheus," he begins, trying to placate.

"Leave us," Morpheus commands, not taking his eyes off you.

Abel nods hastily and retreats into another room, leaving you alone with the Lord of Dreams. You set your tea down carefully, your hands trembling slightly.

"Morpheus, you can't just kick Abel out of his own home,” you begin, but he cuts you off with a look that silences any words you might have had.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" His voice, cold and laced with an undercurrent of hurt, cuts through the air.

You swallow hard, trying to find the right words. "It's complicated," you finally say, looking down at your hands.

"Complicated? Every month you vanish without a word. Do you think I don't notice? Do you think it doesn't affect me? How you intentionally avoid me?"

"It's messy!" You blurt out, the words tumbling from your mouth before you can stop them. "I'm on my period, okay? And every time we're together, we usually end up having sex. I didn't want you to be turned off by—"

His eyes blaze with an intensity you've never seen before. The stars in his eyes flare red as his expression shifts from intense confusion to anger. He steps closer, his presence almost overwhelming.

"Do you think so little of me?" His voice is a low growl, each word dripping with insulted fury. "That I would be turned off by a naturally occurring event that signifies fertility?"

Before you can respond, the world shifts around you. In an instant, you're no longer in Abel's home but in Morpheus' palace. The sudden change disorients you, and you find yourself lying on a bed with pristine white sheets.

You're naked.

A wave of mortification crashes over you, but Morpheus is far too insulted to care about your embarrassment. His eyes are dark and stormy as he stands at the foot of the bed.

"Do not ever presume to know what I find acceptable," he says, his voice a mixture of command and raw emotion.

Before you can process his words or your surroundings, he's upon you. His movements are swift and deliberate as he parts your thighs and lowers himself between them.

"Morpheus—" Your protest dies in your throat as his tongue flicks through your folds. The shock of it sends a jolt through your entire body.

His touch is skilled and unyielding, his anger fueling every movement. He devours you with a hunger that leaves no room for doubt or hesitation. Each flick of his tongue is a statement, each caress a declaration.

You gasp and writhe beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of his actions. The pristine white sheets crumple beneath you as your body responds to him in ways you can't control. There is no room for embarrassment, no space for hesitation. Morpheus' hands are iron bands on your waist, pinning you to the bed as his mouth works relentlessly against your cramping cunt.

You feel the wetness of your own body, the slick heat of your arousal mingling with the blood of your cycle, and you tense, anticipating revulsion. But it never comes. Instead, his grip tightens, and he delves deeper, his tongue lapping at you with a fervor that sends your thoughts scattering. The taste of iron doesn't deter him; if anything, it seems to spur him on, his movements growing more aggressive, more demanding.

The white sheets are a canvas for the passion unfolding, staining crimson with each passing second. Your hips buck against his face, seeking more, seeking release. Morpheus' eyes, those twin stars, gaze up the length of your body, piercing and unyielding. There is no pity in his eyes, no disgust—only a raw, untamed desire that takes your breath away.

His fingers dig into your hips as he holds you down, the pressure of his touch sending shivers up your spine. You can feel the moisture of your period mingling with the wetness of your arousal, your body responding fiercely to his aggressive dominance.

His tongue is relentless, lapping at your sensitive flesh with a hunger that seems insatiable. Each flick and stroke sends waves of pleasure coursing through your veins, replacing the dull ache of your cramps with an intensity that leaves you gasping for air.

You squirm beneath him, the sensation of his mouth on your cunt overwhelming. But Morpheus is unyielding, his grip firm as he keeps you pinned to the bed. You're powerless to move, your body at the mercy of his skilled tongue and the pleasure it wields.

You're aware of the smeared blood on his face, a stark contrast to his porcelain skin. It's streaked across his cheeks, his chin, even his lips are tinged with red. The sight of it should be grotesque, but it only serves to heighten the raw, primal desire that's taken hold of you both.

The white sheets beneath you are a now mess of red and wetness, a testament to the fervor of his actions. You can't help but marvel at the way he's thrown aside all sense of propriety, his need to claim you, to mark you as his own, outweighing any concern for the physical evidence of your cycle.

The room fills with the sounds of your gasps and the wet noises of his mouth on your cunt. His tongue darts inside you, tasting you deeply, before moving back to your clit, where he sucks and nips at the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Pleasure builds within you, a tightening pressure in your lower belly that threatens to snap with each passing second. You're teetering on the edge, your body wound tight with need.

Morpheus senses how close you are, his movements growing increasingly frenzied. He redoubles his efforts, his tongue lashing against your clit with renewed vigor.

With a final, drawn-out moan, you succumb to the overwhelming pleasure. Your orgasm rips through you, a tempest that sweeps away all thought, all reason. Your body convulses beneath his unyielding touch, waves of ecstasy crashing over you as you ride out the intensity of your release.

Morpheus rises above you, his face smeared with the evidence of your shared passion. His eyes, those distant stars, are alight with a hunger that seems to consume the very air around you. You can feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the lines of your body, marking you as his own.

"This will be the last time you hide away from me when you are on your period," he declares, his voice resonating with the weight of his authority.

Before you can fully process his words, he bends down and sweeps you into his arms. His clothes melt away as if they were never there, leaving him as naked as you are. You can feel the coolness of his skin against your own, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingers in your core.

He carries you effortlessly through the palace, each step a silent promise of what is to come. You find yourself in a room bathed in soft, golden light. At its center is a large bath, steam rising from its surface in tantalizing swirls. The scent of perfume fills the air, soothing and intoxicating in equal measure.

Morpheus steps down into the bath, holding you securely in his arms. The water is the perfect temperature, hot enough to soothe your aching muscles but not so hot as to scald. He lowers you onto his lap, your back pressing against his chest, your body cradled by his.

Under the water, his hands glide over your skin with a tenderness that belies his earlier fervor. He takes his time, washing away the evidence of your cycle with gentle strokes. Each pass of his fingers over your thighs sends ripples of pleasure through you, the sensation heightened by the warm embrace of the water.

You can't help the soft moans that escape your lips as he caresses you, his touch both a comfort and a tease. You're hyper-aware of his hardness pressing against your back, a reminder that he is far from sated.

His lips find the nape of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His teeth graze your earlobe, nipping lightly before soothing the sting with his tongue. He's smearing more of your blood on your body but you don't even care. You shudder in his arms, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that leaves you breathless.

His hands continue their exploration, fingers tracing patterns on your inner thighs. Each touch sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins, your arousal building once again under his skillful manipulation.

The water laps at your skin as he shifts beneath you, his own need evident in the way his breath hitches when you unconsciously grind against him. His fingers delve between your legs, stroking your sensitive flesh with a maddening slowness that has you panting for more.

His fingers slide through your folds, slick with your arousal and the remnants of your cycle. The water around you turns a delicate shade of pink before evaporating as he continues to stroke you, his touch both gentle and insistent.

"You will never hide from me again," he murmurs against your ear, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. "I will have you, all of you, whenever and however I please."

His fingers dip inside you, curling in a way that has you gasping for air. You can feel the stretch as he adds another finger, your body yielding to his relentless invasion. Each thrust of his hand is a reminder of his dominance, his ownership over your pleasure.

"Look at you," he breathes, his lips brushing against your neck. "So responsive, so eager for my touch. You're mine, Y/N. Every part of you belongs to me."

Your hands clutch at his arms, your nails digging into his skin as you ride the waves of pleasure that crash over you. The water sloshes around you, the sound mingling with your desperate whimpers and the wet noises of his fingers pumping in and out of your cunt.

"Morpheus," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please..."

"Please what?" he teases, his fingers slowing to a torturous pace. "Tell me what you want, Y/N."

You can't form the words, your mind too clouded with desire. Instead, you grind against his hand, seeking the friction that will send you over the edge.

He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your back. "So impatient," he chides, his fingers resuming their relentless rhythm. "But I suppose I can indulge you... just this once."

His thumb finds your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with a precision that leaves you breathless. The dual sensations of his fingers inside you and his thumb on your clit are too much to bear, and you feel the familiar tightening in your lower belly as your orgasm builds.

"Come for me, Y/N," he commands, his voice resonating with the weight of his authority. "Let me feel you shatter in my arms."

His words are your undoing. With a cry that echoes off the walls of the bathing chamber, you succumb to the pleasure that courses through your veins. Your body convulses around his fingers, the intensity of your release leaving you boneless and gasping for air.

As the aftershocks ripple through you, Morpheus withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his lips. You watch, entranced, as he licks your bloody release from his skin, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Delicious," he purrs, his gaze filled with a hunger that makes your heart race. His hands grip your hips, lifting you effortlessly above his lap and closer to his chest. He positions you above his hardened erection, the tip of his cock prodding against your entrance in demanding need.

"This is just the beginning," he promises, his voice a low rumble that sends a thrill of anticipation coursing through you. "I'm going to take you, over and over again, until you understand that there is nowhere you can hide from me. You are mine, Y/N. And I will claim you, in every way possible."

With that, he thrusts upward, sheathing him cock inside you in one swift motion. The sensation of being filled so completely takes your breath away, and you can't help but cry out, your voice echoing off the walls of the chamber.

He sets a punishing pace, each thrust of his hips driving you higher and higher. The water around you splashes with the force of his movements, the sound mingling with your cries of pleasure and the wet slap of skin against skin.

"Morpheus," you moan, your body trembling with the force of his onslaught. "I can't... it's too much..."

"You can," he insists, his voice harsh with need. "And you will. You will take everything I give you, and you will beg for more, for your indiscretion again me."

The water in the bath churns around you, the once-calm surface now a tempest of white-capped waves as Morpheus' hips piston beneath you. His cock plunges in and out of your body with a relentless intensity that leaves you gasping for air. Each powerful thrust steals the breath from your lungs, your cries of pleasure echoing off the tiled walls of the chamber.

You can feel the erotic friction of his cock as it drags against your inner walls, the slick glide of him coated in the blood and tissue of your uterus. The scent of your favorite perfume mingles with the metallic tang of blood, an intoxicating blend that seems to heighten the raw, primal urgency of Morpheus' claim on you.

His hands are like iron bands around your waist, holding you in place as he takes what he wants, what he needs. You can feel the coolness of his skin where it meets yours, a stark contrast to the heat that radiates from his body. His breath is hot against your neck, each harsh exhalation sending shivers down your spine.

You are powerless to do anything but take the punishing rhythm he sets with a sob, impaled on his cock as he drives into you again and again. The water around you is a frothy pink from the evidence of your shared passion, the visual testament to his dominance over you for only mere moments before being carried away by magic.

"You belong to me," he growls in your ear. "Every part of you is mine to claim, mine to pleasure, mine to punish."

His words shatter any remaining resistance you might have harbored and your cunt clenches like a vice around his cock. You surrender to him completely, your body yielding to his relentless demand. You can feel the tension in you straining for release, threatening to snap with each punishing thrust of his cock.

Your hands clutch at the edges of the bath, your fingers scrabbling for purchase against the slick tile. The sensation of being so utterly at his mercy is both terrifying and exhilarating, a potent combination that sends your senses spiraling out of control. And the thoughts of your period cramps far, far away.

The sound of your bodies moving together fills the room, a symphony of wet slaps and desperate moans. Not to mention pleased grunts. You can hear the splash of water as it spills over the sides of the bath, the droplets hitting the floor in a staccato rhythm that matches the frenzied tempo of Morpheus' hips.

Your back arches off his chest as he hits a particularly deep angle, the tip of his cock brushing against that secret spot within you that sends stars exploding behind your eyelids. You cry out, the intensity of the sensation nearly too much to bear.

"Morpheus," you wail, your fingers digging into whatever you can find. Flesh, tile, hair.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice a harsh whisper in your ear. "Give in to it, Y/N. Let go and let me feel you come undone around my cock."

His words are the final push you need. With a scream that echoes off the walls, you shatter in his arms, your body convulsing around his cock as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. The force of your orgasm triggers his own, and with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his seed.

You gasp while slumped within Morpheus' arms, your head leaning back to rest on his shoulder. The steam from the bath swirled around you, mingling with the lingering scent of perfume and the faint tang of blood. Your chest heaves with each ragged breath, your body trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Morpheus hold you securely, his grip firm yet gentle. But you knew he isn't finished with you. He is never one to let a slight go unpunished, and in his eyes, your attempt to hide from him during your cycle was an affront he wouldn't easily forgive.

His breath is hot against your ear as he whispers, "You thought you could escape me? That I would let you hide away when I desire you most?"

You try to form a response, but all that escapes your lips is a choked moan as his hands began to move again. One hand slides to cup your breast, fingers teasing and pinching your sensitive nipple. The other hand moves lower, fingers brushing against your clit with maddening slowness.

"You belong to me," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that draws squirms from your body. "And I will remind you of that until you can think of nothing else."

His cock is still hard inside you, a constant reminder of his unyielding need. You can feel him pulsing within you, each throb sending ripples of pleasure through your already sensitized body.

His hands return to your waist, lifting you effortlessly from his lap. The water around you is frothy white, no longer tinged by your blood. He rises from his seat and positions you so that you're bent over the side of the large bath, your hands braced against the cool tile. Your lip quivers and you whimper knowing what is coming next.

He is a passionate lover, but also very, very petty.

You feel his fingers trace the curve of your ass before he gives it a sharp smack, the sound echoing off the walls of the chamber. You can't help but yelp, the sting of his hand a stark contrast to the pleasure that still courses through your veins. Your nails scrape the bath tiles as your cunt clenches.

Your breathing quickens as Morpheus' hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. The anticipation builds within you, a delicious tension that coils in your lower belly. You are acutely aware of the cool air on your skin, the remnants of the bathwater dripping from your body in a steady rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart.

He positions himself behind you, the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance. You feel a momentary stretch as he pushes forward, your body yielding to his relentless advance. He fills you completely, his cock buried to the hilt inside your cunt. A low moan escapes your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls of the chamber.

His thrusts start off slow and measured, each one sending waves of pleasure rippling through your body. The water in the bath sloshes around you, the once-calm surface now a churning storm of white-capped waves. You can hear the wet sounds of your bodies moving together, the erotic symphony punctuated by your desperate moans and Morpheus' answering grunts.

"Hold it," he commands, his voice a low growl that resonates with the weight of his authority. "Do not dare to find your release until I give you permission."

You can feel the tension in your body build, your muscles straining as you fight against the rising tide of your orgasm. Each powerful thrust of his cock pushes you closer and closer to the edge, the exquisite friction threatening to shatter your resolve.

Your fingers clutch at the edge of the bath, your knuckles white from the force of your grip. The coolness of the tile is a stark contrast to the heat that radiates from your body. You can feel the sweat beading on your forehead, the droplets trickling down your face and mingling with the water that splashes around you.

Your cunt clenches around his cock, the sensation of being filled so completely overwhelming your senses. You can feel every ridge and vein of his hardened length as he drives into you again and again. The sound of your bodies slapping together fills the room, a testament to the raw, primal fucking that he is subjecting you to.

"Please," you beg, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please, I can't..."

"You can," he insists, his voice harsh with need. "And you will. You will hold your orgasm until I decide you've earned the right."

His hand moves to your clit, fingers circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with maddening precision. The pleasure is almost too much to bear, the tight coil of tension in your belly winding tighter and tighter with each passing second.

You sob in ecstasy, your body trembling with the effort it takes to hold back the inevitable. The water around you turns frothy and pink once more, a visual testament to the brutality of his claim on you. Your cries of pleasure echo off the walls, the sound mingling with the wet slap of skin against skin and the relentless splash of water against the sides of the bath.

His cock plunges in and out of your body with a relentless intensity, each thrust driving you higher and higher. You can feel the pressure building within you, a delicious ache that threatens to consume you entirely.

"Morpheus," you moan, your voice a plea for release. "Please!"

"Not yet," he growls, his fingers working your clit with a ruthless efficiency. "You will wait for my command. You will surrender to me completely, or you will not come at all."

The tension within you is almost unbearable, a tightly wound spring that threatens to snap with each punishing thrust of his cock. You can feel the beginnings of your orgasm stirring deep within your cunt, a fiery ball of need that claws its way to the surface.

But you know you must wait. You must endure the sweet torment of his dominance, the relentless push and pull of pleasure and denial. You must hold your orgasm in check until he deems you worthy of release.

And so, you bite your lip and force yourself to breathe through the overwhelming sensations that flood your body. You focus on the rhythm of his thrusts, the feel of his cock moving within you, the sound of his voice as he commands you to obey.

You are his to command, his to pleasure, his to punish. And you would endure a thousand agonies if it meant earning his approval, his affection, his adoration.

With a final, desperate sob, you cling to the edge of the bath and wait for his command. The tension within you builds to a fever pitch, each passing second a sweet agony that threatens to unravel your very soul.

"Now," he says, his voice a harsh whisper in your ear. "Come for me, Y/N. Let go and let me feel you shatter around my cock."

With his permission granted, you let yourself fall over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave. Your body convulses around his cock, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. You cry out, your voice echoing off the walls of the chamber as you surrender to the ecstasy that courses through your veins.

His own release follows swiftly on the heels of yours, his cock pulsing within you as he fills you with his seed. You can feel the heat of his orgasm as it spills into your body, the sensation sending aftershocks of pleasure rippling through your cunt.

As your body finally relaxes, the intensity of the experience leaving you completely spent, your knees give out beneath you. But Morpheus is there, his strong arms catching you before you can collapse against cold tile. He lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as he steps out of the bath.

Water cascades down your bodies, the droplets tracing the contours of your skin as he carries you to a plush chaise lounge set against the far wall of the chamber. The fabric is soft beneath you, a stark contrast to the hardness of his body as he settles beside you.

His hands move over you with a gentle touch, washing away the remnants of your lovemaking with a warm, wet cloth. You can hear the soft rustle of the cloth against your skin, feel it's gentle caresses on your over sensitized body.

Morpheus' movements are slow, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin as he cleans you. His touch is both tender and possessive, a silent declaration of his claim on you.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes, your gaze drifting over the sharp planes of his face. His hair is damp, the inky strands clinging to his forehead. His eyes, normally so distant and unreadable, are soft with affection as he looks down at you.

His lips curve into a gentle smile as he catches you watching him. "You are exquisite," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates deep within your chest. "Even more so when you are thoroughly ravished and sated."

You can't help but moan at his words, the heat creeping up your cheeks a stark contrast to the coolness of your skin.

"No thanks to you," you moan out. "Was this really necessary?" His smile widens at your response, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

"Indeed it was, beloved," he murmurs, continuing his ministrations, his hands moving lower to cleanse your most intimate areas. The cloth is warm against your sensitive flesh, the sensation sending ripples of pleasure through your body. You can't help but squirm beneath his touch, your cunt clenching reflexively at the erotic stimulation.

His fingers brush against your clit, the barest of touches that sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through your veins. You gasp, your hips arching off the chaise in response to his touch. His smile takes on a wicked edge as he repeats the motion, his fingers teasing and tormenting you with maddening precision.

"Morpheus," you whimper, your body already responding to his touch despite your recent climax.

"Shh," he soothes, his voice a soft whisper in your ear. "I am simply ensuring that you are clean and comfortable. There is no need for such eagerness... yet. I am not so cruel to not allow you to recover."

His words send a shiver down your spine, the promise of what is to come both exciting and terrifying. You cringe inside, realizing that you are in for it tonight. But for now, you relax into his touch, allowing him to care for you in the aftermath of his irate passion.

His hands move over you with a reverence that takes your breath away, each touch a testament to his love and desire for you. You can feel the tension draining from your body, replaced by a languid sense of contentment that seeps into your very bones.

As he finishes his task, he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Rest now, my beloved," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "You have pleased me greatly this night."

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter, "you made your point."

Date Published: 10/22/24

Last Edit: 10/22/24

Morpheus Masterlist

Kinktober 2024

#morpheus x reader #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless x reader #dream the endless #sandman x reader #morpheus #dream of the endless #the sandman #lord morpheus #dream the endless x reader #kinktober 2024

52 notes · View notes

domainedewinter · 4 months ago

Text

The Price of Fire 1/4

The fire that shines under the moon

Summary: Aemond meets a mysterious silver-haired girl on the beach while facing Vhagar. Solving mysteries is an intellectual game he loves to play and what a magnificent mystery he now has in his hands.. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, hm?

Warnings: DUBCON, TYPICAL TARGARYEN INCEST, profanity, innuendo, he/him pronouns, you pronoun, fingering, oral m receiving, oral f receiving, misogyny, toxic behaviour, Dom!Aemond, begging, underage HOTD style, nsfw.. (coming soon, I will indicate the chapters containing smut with a 🔥)

Rating: 18+, MDNI

English is not my first language

If your life has always been beautiful, bathed in opulence and pleasure, your birth remains a mystery nonetheless. As you look at yourself this evening in the tall mirror of the room where you are staying during this journey, this thought crosses your mind once again.

You were still just a baby, a newborn, the day a man you know nothing about except that he was unpleasant to look at and had difficulty walking, offered you to your father with a lot of gold to leave the continent in the greatest secrecy. A wealthy and respected Dornishman, a Martell, who raised you as his own daughter, integrating you into his powerful family upon his return to Dorne and taking care to protect you as if the sky might one day open to take you back. When he couldn't sleep, he would look up at that same sky, scanning the horizon for a threat of which you knew nothing. Yet, with every dream of dragons, clouds, and storms that you shared with your father, he became increasingly vigilant.

It took a lot of persuasion to convince him to let you accompany him to the royal city, the same one he had always warned you about. But he had no choice, always preferring to know you were with him or with trusted people, like the family you had arrived at a few days earlier. And it was not without regret that your father had to leave for a week-long trip, leaving you alone here with your uncle and aunt who treated you like a diamond to be hidden from others' eyes. You never went out, and if you had to meet other people, it was always with a scarf to hide your hair, eyes downcast, so as not to reveal the lovely color of your eyes.

But tonight, awakened by yet another dream of growling, fire and the noise of wings flapping, you look at yourself, still sweaty, in the mirror. Your hair is long, slightly wavy, and moon-colored, as much as your eyes are a pale indigo, asking for answer you're craving to discover. You need to get some air, to be alone, far from this golden prison your father left you in. Gathering your courage, you climb out the bedroom window with grace and agility before slipping into the streets, guided only by your instinct and the sound of the waves calling you.

The sun has set for a while, but the night is surprisingly clear, the moon almost illuminating as if it were dawn. The crowded streets turn into alleys, then paths before your bare feet in Dornish-style sandals - like the rest of your outfit; mustard-colored pants slit at the thigh and a burgundy drape revealing your shoulders - touch the sand still warm from the day. You smile, sighing softly with pleasure and relief to be away from everything and everyone, until a strange noise, a purr or rather, a growl, draws you down to the sea.

It is not a rock, as you first thought, that stands there, but something alive. And enormous. As you approach, hand outstretched, curiosity getting the better of you, a huge eye opens not far from you, making you gasp in surprise. And it is not the only thing that opens; an huge maw with the smell of sulfur parts, an unknown but dangerous light emerging from its depths.

“Vhagar! No!”

The voice of a man makes you look up, waking you from the stupor that had paralyzed you upon seeing the creature open its maw before you, and not just any creature: a dragon.

“Who are you and why were you trying to attack my dragon? Do you seek death, little girl? Because Vhagar was about to grant your prayers!” says the voice again, a silhouette stepping between the monster and you, drawing your attention. This silhouette is none other than the prince to whom this dragon belongs, and you know this because your father has taught you. You know the princes and princesses of the great houses, the useful names, literature, philosophy, and religion too.

Tilting his head slightly to the side at your silence, the prince before you seems to be losing patience as you search for his name in your memory. You can see it in his one-eyed gaze, fixed on you. Not knowing what to do, and still somewhat shaken, you turn on your heels and start running, but the flight is short-lived for, after hearing footsteps behind you, you feel a grip on your arm, forcing you to stop your run and turn so quickly that you lose balance and fall backward. The sand cushions your fall, a gasp of surprise and pain escaping your lips as you find yourself pinned to the beach by him. You're not afraid and respond with courage, your thin eyebrows furrow and your gaze attempting to be threatening, even though the man questioning you doesn’t seem frightened at all.

“That is very rude, turning your back on a prince and refusing to obey, hm? Perhaps you are truly suicidal...”

He almost seems angry that you are so reckless, but you only struggle more, apparently unimpress by him.

"I wasn't trying to hurt your dragon, I just raised my hand to touch it, so let me go!" you reply with rage, kicking and wiggling your hips to free yourself, but Aemond holds on and has a clear physical superiority over you; the rigorous training he engaged in daily since the accident had sculpted his body fiercely and effectively.

However, despite all his hours of training with Cole and all the fighters he now beat, nothing had prepared him for such audacity from a woman, let alone one so young and in a definitely delicate position.

"Prince Aemond..." you murmur, your voice suddenly losing its courage as you recognize the man who has literally fallen on you.

It is his single eye that helped you regain your senses and memory. Under other circumstances, you would have been quicker to remember, but the sight of a dragon and the confrontation with a man, alone in the middle of nowhere, had made you lose your composure more than you would like to admit.

Out of all the people living in this great city, you had to stumble upon a prince, and not just any prince; one of the king's sons, the one whose dark rumors reached Dorne. Being terribly close to him, you cannot ignore his hair of the same color as yours, and his eye, his only eye, which stared at you with the same violet gleam.

Your father would be terribly furious and scared if he learned about this. It shouldn't happen; you need to leave and disappear as quickly as possible, return to your chamber, and not come out until his return.

Just for a moment, you think you might be scared - not only of Aemond Targaryen, but of the consequences of your encounter. But the thought doesn’t have time to take root before the prince lifts you to better pin you against the ground again, wanting to bring you back to reality.

"You seem to know who I am but refuse to tell me who you are." The prince growls, the coldness of his fine features turning darker. He obviously isn’t used to being refused, let alone by a young girl lost on the beach daring to resist him. "Answer me, it's an order!"

You don’t know what you risk by refusing to obey a prince, but the mere idea of your father’s reaction or being recognized fills you with more fear. Trying to sit up, you growl in frustration. "Get off me! I swear I wasn't going to do anything, so let me go!"

Wanting to tip the odds in your favor and taking advantage of the element of surprise, you quickly lift your knee, managing to hit him, probably not hard enough to hurt but enough to surprise him. If he thinks he could intimidate you, he doesn’t know you because when Aemond’s eye widens in surprise, you quickly turn your head and bite his forearm as hard as you can, tasting the warm metallic flavor of his blood against your lips.

Vhagar growls in concert with his rider, who releases you with a hiss of pain, as if he has just put his hand in molten lava. Astonishment paints the prince's features, and it’s the moment you choose to stand up, finally finding yourself on your feet before him. But Aemond Targaryen is quick and just as swiftly on his feet, his dagger in hand. Both of you face each other, in an attack or defense position, no one could really tell.

The only thing you want is to flee. Run as fast as possible, as far as possible. Do not look back. Forget this evening, the dragon. Forget the prince and the fear.

You have not learned to fight, and now that the moon reflects the prince’s deadly blade, you know the fight is lost from the start. Yet, that’s not the only thing the moon and the fight have uncovered; your scarf is negligently stretched out at your feet, in the sand, revealing your entire hair and leaving no doubt about your astonishing resemblance.

At this sight, the prince lowers his weapon slightly, fascinated by what he sees; not only by your similar traits but by you, just you. He looks at you as he has never looked at anyone, a new gleam born in his eye. “It seems we started off on the wrong foot. Will you stop struggling or trying to flee? On my side, I promise not to use this,” he says, showing you his dagger, “against you.”

The options are unfortunately limited for you, but curiosity wins over your reflections, abandoning all common sense. The worst is already done; Aemond Targaryen has seen how much you resemble him so, why to refuse? You nod gently and stand up completely, letting your hands hang at your sides as he approaches cautiously, scrutinizing every part of you his lilac eye can land on.

“What is your name?”

“Roxaene.”

"Judging by your clothes, your posture and your intact features, you come from a house with, at least a last name I imagine."

“Martell.” You finally add, a sigh of frustration escaping your lungs at having had to reveal so much to him.

His fine eyebrows furrow for just a moment, creating a line between his two eyes. “The Dornish women have quite different physical characteristics in my last memories; they are known to be magnificent and captivating and although I definitely don't question the beauty of your face - and what else I can see...” he says, letting his eye run along your body, your skin offered on your shoulders, seeing the paleness of your thigh and your bare arms. “..it seems obvious to me that if you live in Dorne, you are not originally from there. Isn’t that right?”

Uncomfortable, you swallow, your gaze unable to fix on anything, uncertain. You bite your lip for a moment and look at him again, not wanting to appear frightened or hesitant. “There are some shadows around my early days of life...”

Aemond murmurs in approval, circling you like a bird with prey, like a dragon before attacking, and it’s when he is behind you that you shiver as his blade appears in front of your eyes, just far enough for both your reflections to appear. “Shadows or not, you cannot deny what you see, can you?”

Feeling him so close to you, almost glued to your back, makes you tense, but you remain stoic. Of course, you see how your resemblance is unsettling, of course, you see the similarities that make you who you are. But your father never wanted to tell you more, so even if you wanted to, you couldn’t reveal more to the prince.

“Yes... but I’m afraid I have nothing else to tell you.” In a last moment of courage, you turn your head towards him, your gaze meeting his. “In fact, I was hoping that by coming to this city, I would be the one to get some answers.”

He remains motionless, staring at you while listening to you and yet, even if your words have reached his mind, the prince cannot help but smell the scent of orange blossom from Dorne's gardens filling his nostrils as he inhales you like a succulent meal to taste, pressing his chest closer to your back to feel the warmth. At that moment, the young prince knows that he will never want to let you go again. Aemond Targaryen loves to plan, think, decode, understand. Solving mysteries is an intellectual game he loves to play and what a magnificent mystery he now has in his hands.

Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Without a doubt, you respond proudly and courageously to the dogma of your house, but this, instead of curbing the curiosity and desire of Prince Aemond, only increases his desire to unravel your mystery. To make you bow, bend and break for him.

#aemond smut #house targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #aemond x oc #aegon smut #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x you #aegon x you

69 notes · View notes

hedwig221b · 1 year ago

Text

Breathing heavily, Derek turned around and marched out of the room, trying to rein in his wolf. He knew he lost control over his appearance: the skin on his face tickled with growing fur, sharp points of deadly fangs dug into his lower lip.

Derek had to see him. Right now, to make sure none of them got to him, to see for himself that Stiles was safe and whole. That the boy was his, still.

Not a day has gone without him dreaming of Stiles. He was a constant presence in the wolf’s mind, driving him insane with want and longing.

No, Derek would never leave him, never give him over to another’s dirty hands. He’ll fight for the boy till death. Tear apart anyone who had the misfortune of touching him.

The door opened after three loud thuds. Derek didn’t have any space for guilt in his heart at waking the undoubtedly tired Stiles up, all of it taken by irresistible want.

Stiles’ eyes were wide open in surprise and just a tiny bit of wariness. His hands were clutching the soft white nightgown, keeping it closed over his naked chest. Derek’s gleaming red eyes followed the tantalizing length of his neck, stopping at the sight of his bare collarbones, peeking out of the gown. A pink sleepy blush adorned his cheeks, cupping his soft half-opened lips.

They ought to have the sweetest taste.

Both of them stared at each other in silence. Stiles was probably too shocked that Derek approached him again at such a late hour, nonetheless; Derek, however, lost any train of thought upon seeing this exquisite being, so teasing in his innocent softness and naïve trust. Anger left him all at once, leaving him breathless at the sight of the angel.

“Don’t open the door so readily,” Derek’s mutter was akin to a rumble. “You’re too beautiful for that.”

Stiles’ breath hitched and his heart started its quick rabbit pace again. He frowned a bit as if Derek’s compliment somehow offended him; he probably didn’t even realize his lips formed into the cutest pout. The most delicious prey was in front of Derek, and he couldn’t even have a taste. Not yet.

He wanted to kiss the tips of Stiles’ long fingers, bite into the soft insides of his thighs, leave marks all over his neck and trace the helpful path of his moles leading to his devastating lips to kiss and claim and take.

But Derek couldn’t do that for fear of spooking him. It was too early. But how could he possibly leave him right now?

Derek gently took Stiles’ slack hand, his heart stuttering at the sight of it, small in comparison to his wolf’s one. Miraculously, Stiles didn’t pull away. Derek lifted his soft hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then on the inside of his wrist, before inhaling.

The bright red of his eyes reflected in Stiles’ soft brown ones. The blush on Stiles’ pretty face deepened and traveled down, calling to Derek’s predatory instincts to follow, to lick and bite.

“I know you don’t trust me,” Derek grunted. When Stiles inhaled to retort, Derek caught his chin and pressed a finger against his lips, making the boy freeze in place, eyes impossibly wide. The wolf in him howled at the sharp scent of arousal emanating from his body. “Don’t argue. I expected it. Wolves don’t trust easily, too. I just wanted you to know that… I’m sorry. I was selfish and didn’t see what was in front of me. You don’t need to worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

It was a thought that grew in his mind, spread to his heart and took root there, reincorporating into a deep desire and a vital need. Derek will take care of him and his little pup, he’ll bring the hearts of his enemies and put them at the boy’s feet. He’ll court and he’ll conquer.

“Lock the door,” he said, forcing himself to step away. “Don’t open until the sun rises.”

Once again, Stiles said nothing. He blinked as if coming out of a stupor, then gave a tiny nod, before slowly closing the door, casting inquisitive glances at Derek. The door shut with a soft thud; a heavy lock slid into place with an unpleasant scrape.

Derek leaned towards the door, knowing that Stiles was probably leaning on it to eavesdrop. Curious kitten.

“Good boy,” he murmured and laughed soundlessly at the shy squeak on the other side, followed by hastily retreating footfalls.

The smile felt unfamiliar on Derek’s ferine face, and he lost it quite quickly. This precious boy made it so easy to feel joy again, almost uncomfortably so.

If only Stiles chose to never leave his side, the wolf would bring him the freedom he craved. It will be his final courting gift. Stiles had no idea what he got himself into by allowing Derek’s name to fall from his lips that fateful day a year ago. He would soon learn the true power of being under the wolf’s protection and possession.

He’ll never have to fear and pretend ever again. His sweet boy. His Stiles.

Read the whole story on ao3

220 notes · View notes

jovialmoonprincess · 11 months ago

Text

AU: Journey to Redemption (Part 3)

First Part. / The Winter Ball / Champagne Problems

Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader

Summary: Y/N, a young idealist in Panem, dreams of making a difference in a post-war society. As the winner of the prestigious Plinth Prize is about to be announced, a mysterious woman unveils a grim fate for Coriolanus Snow, Y/N's nemesis. Offered a chance to alter destiny, Y/N must navigate her conflicting emotions and intervene in pivotal moments to prevent Snow's descent into darkness. The story unfolds against the backdrop of complex relationships, past connections, and the challenges of a changing world, as Y/N grapples with the responsibility of shaping an unexpected destiny and challenging the very fabric of fate.

Warning(s): None, enemy to lovers, back in time, destiny, Snow being in love, Snow being Snow, possible grammar and spelling mistakes

A/N: First Fic EVER, dont be mean pls. Also Im not a english native speaker, sorry for any spelling errors. Feedback is appreciated! Follow or like (or both) for part 4!

The last dance before the Plinth Award engulfed Y/N in a whirlwind of emotions that transported her to a distant past. She didn't expect to see Coryo at the party, as he had become a dedicated student and rarely attended social events. Nonetheless, she decided to seize the opportunity to approach him before the games, especially after glimpsing Snow's future in the hands of the mysterious woman.

Her gaze found Coryo on the other side of the room, and her heart raced. He looked different from the last time she saw him, unhinged while shooting birds in the forest. Y/N knew that if there was a chance to change the grim fate she foresaw, she would do everything in her power to save the boy. With determination, she headed towards him. Her dress, not as dazzling as four years ago, was a simple one, reflecting her current situation. Y/N no longer wanted to blend in with those people; she wanted to stand out. Her dress lacked sparkle, a simple white dress with loose sleeves. As she approached, she focused intensely on Coryo. "Y/N?" The sweetness of the sound of her name contrasted with the not-so-friendly expression in his eyes. He seemed surprised and perhaps confused by her presence.

"I thought you didn't like social situations," Y/N teased, initiating the typical banter between the two.

"I could say the same about you," Coryo retorted, displaying the familiar banter between them.

"Coryo, I wanted to wish you luck at the Plinth Award. I know how hard you fight for it." Y/N curtsied with her dress, trying to show sincerity. However, suspicion lingered in Coryo's eyes. The past few years had been marked by fights and tense interactions between the two.

It was at this moment that Clemensia Dovecote appeared next to Snow, intertwining her arm with his. An inconvenient presence that added more tension to the encounter.

"What are you doing here? Trying to win a crumb from your future president?"

"Clemensia, I don't remember addressing you," Y/N cut in, trying to maintain composure.

"Do you really think you look good today?" Clemensia mocked, laughing ironically. "You may have money, but wow, you need a stylist." Y/N, experienced in dealing with unpleasant criticisms, laughed, making it clear that such comments did not affect her.

"It seems like you're practicing to be a fashion critic now, Clemensia."

"Clemensia," Coriolanus was trying to prevent what would happen next.

"I'm just surprised that someone like you is trying to stand out. Usually, you're so... invisible," Clemensia continued, her voice dripping with superiority.

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "Well, it's good to change things up once in a while. And as for you, Clemensia, what brought you to the ball? Isn't it more fun spending your parents' money on ugly bags?" The provocation hit Clemensia, but she kept her composure.

"Just enjoying what life in the Capital has to offer. Unlike some around here who seem not to fit into such luxury." Clemensia's words were sharp, and Y/N knew she was just trying to undermine her confidence. However, she wouldn't let it shake her.

"Ah, I understand. Sometimes it's hard for some people to grasp that there's more to life than just appearances and superficialities."

Clemensia cast a disdainful look at Y/N before shrugging. "Each to their own, right? Good luck trying to get Coriolanus's attention." With that, the girl "accidentally" bumped into a waiter serving someone nearby. Three glasses of champagne landed on the white dress, leaving Y/N with a mix of feelings, from anger to the determination not to be shaken by empty provocations.

The brief interlude with Clemensia was not what Y/N expected for the night; now she was unsettled, wet, and smelling of alcohol.

It was then that Sejanus Plinth approached, interrupting the tense moment. Her plan to approach Snow that night was thwarted, but Sejanus's friendly presence brought unexpected relief.

"Y/N, you look beautiful," Sejanus complimented with a gentle smile and a small handkerchief that would at least help reduce the dress's dampness. She returned the smile, grateful for the friendly gesture.

"Dance with me?" Sejanus invited. Y/N silently agreed, accepting the offer, defeated. The awkward moment with Clemensia and the initial frustration were temporarily forgotten as she engaged in a relaxed dance among friends.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"It's impossible for you to be okay after what happened," Sejanus directed a compassionate look. "Who needs fashion designers when you can have an accidental stylist like Clemensia?" Y/N laughed. The echo, however, reverberated in Snow's thoughts, casting shadows over what once seemed like a complication-free night. The ball now became a complex piece of an enigma that only time would unravel.

"I don't want to ruin your outfit; it looks expensive." The girl sighed, trying to keep her distance.

"Yours does too, and Clemensia didn't think twice before trying to destroy it," Sejanus brought her closer during the dance. Y/N smiled; the altruism in the boy was evident. Even with a lot of money, he always tried to be fair and helpful to everyone around him.

While they danced, the shared glances and conspiratorial smiles between Sejanus and Y/N did not go unnoticed. Snow, watching from afar, felt an uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach. The sight of Y/N in Sejanus's arms, laughing freely, triggered a strange and unsettling sensation. In the midst of the dance, Sejanus guided Y/N with graceful skill. The lightness of the moment contrasted with the complexity of emotions unfolding in Snow's mind. He wondered if the smile Y/N shared with Sejanus was different from the one she offered him.

As the music came to an end, Sejanus and Y/N exchanged a thankful glance and bid farewell with a polite gesture. Snow, observing the friendly closeness between the two, felt a twinge of uncertainty and discomfort.

Y/N returned to the secluded spot, and Sejanus stepped away to greet other guests. Snow, determined to overcome the uncomfortable feeling enveloping him, approached Y/N with a forced attempt at indifference.

"Apparently, you found an excellent dance partner," he commented, his eyes concealing a tension he himself tried to understand. Y/N looked at him, a playful smile playing on her lips.

"Sejanus is a great friend. You should try dancing with him." Far from calming Snow, the response only heightened his uncertainty. The remainder of the night passed with a tense atmosphere between them, and while Y/N and Sejanus shared moments of friendship, Snow pondered the complexities of his own emotions and what the future held for him and for the girl who, even while dancing with another, remained at the center of his thoughts.

After the dance and greeting everyone, Y/N decided to leave the ballroom. She sat on a bench outside, taking off her tight shoes. She realized it was the same garden as four years ago, where her lips and Snow's touched for the first time.

"Thanks for what you said about the Plinth Award." Once again, Snow startled the girl.

"You're welcome."

"I'm sorry about the dress; it'll probably stain."

"Since when do you know about laundry?" Y/N teased.

"Tigris made me learn the hard way," Snow laughed.

"What Clemensia did wasn't cool; I'm sorry." The boy seemed sincere. A white rose on his chest drew attention in his black suit. "You look beautiful." Y/N was angry with him. Looking at him like this and knowing what would come next was driving her crazy. Coryo seemed lost; maybe there was no salvation for him despite everything.

"I know your trick," she teased, laughing. She knew, above all, that Coryo used his charm to persuade everyone. And he did it very well. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Snow didn't understand where the girl was going.

"You're impossible to decipher, as if you don't want people to know what you really feel."

"Showing emotions is a sign of weakness." It was one of the things Coryo's father always said, and they repeated it to him as a child. "Feeling is a weakness. I don't allow myself to feel anything other than the feelings that keep me going." His gaze seemed somewhat dark.

Y/N looked at the starry mantle above them.

"Showing emotions makes you human, Coryo," Y/N said. "Humanity means understanding your own feelings. We need to cherish

the good emotions and keep the people who make us feel good close by, you know?" It was as if she wanted the boy to be shaped by her words. She knew it wouldn't be that easy. But it would be a good start.

"Do you have any dreams? Something you would like to make come true?"

"I'm not sure. I wish I could give a better life to the Snows. Clean our name, return to the prestige we had before the destruction of District 13. I also want to give a better future to Tigris and our Grandmother." At this point, the boy was already by her side, leaning on the railing that separated the area they were in from the small artificial stream below. "I also wish I could choose what and how much I eat." Coryo was sincere; Y/N could tell. The poverty of the Snows was not evident, Coryo disguised it well. But Tigris complained to the girl years before about how the Snow family was becoming increasingly impoverished. Whenever Y/N went to her friend's house, she brought something to eat as a silent gesture of sympathy, but she knew that she would make her friend very grateful. She couldn't and didn't want to seem sorry or supporting the friend's family. Because people would notice, and it would generate more problems than solutions. Y/N didn't know her own family's reaction either.

"It's a lot for someone who claims not to feel," Y/N teased, her eyes reflecting a playful challenge.

Coryo's lips curved into an ironic smile. "Maybe I just need the right inspiration."

Y/N laughed, feeling a surprisingly lightness in their conversation. "Inspiration, huh? If you had the chance to shape the future, how would it be?"

He stared at the starry sky, pondering her question. "Power is the answer, control over everything. But maybe... maybe a Panem where people don't have to fight for survival, where the Capitol doesn't dictate our lives." Y/N wondered if he was talking about his own survival or about the districts.

Y/N's eyes softened, witnessing a glimpse of vulnerability beneath Coryo's facade. "That sounds like a dream worth pursuing."

"And you? In this ideal Panem, what would be your role?" He asked curiously.

"I would be a storyteller," Y/N replied, laughing. "I would weave narratives of hope, resilience, and... love. I would show the world that compassion can be our greatest strength."

A genuine smile lit up Coryo's face, and for that brief moment, the differences between them dissipated. The distant music from the ballroom served as a backdrop for their conversation, a symphony accompanying the unspoken connection.

"You would do well in that role. Even though I think it would be a waste of potential since you're the SECOND-best student at the Academy," Coryo admitted, with a playful tone.

The white rose on his lapel seemed to capture the moonlight, its petals reflecting the vulnerability in his eyes. The tension that once filled the air now transformed into a shared understanding.

They were very close to each other; Y/N could smell the boy's perfume. She noticed every detail of his face to try to capture that moment in her memory. Her fingers stretched out and reached for the rose on his lapel. She detached it easily.

"Which one of us is going to steal some sweets for us to eat while we talk?"

"Do you have pockets in your dress?" The boy teased, enjoying the moment, as she placed the stolen rose on the strap of her white dress.

"No, exactly because of that, it will have to be you."

Coryo laughed as he nodded. Without saying anything else, he turned his back to the girl and disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Alone, Y/N wondered if the boy would come back. She was sure it was a perfect opening for him to return to the ball. She looked at the small fish swimming fast in the artificial stream below the railing. Even they were trapped. Even their freedom was controlled by the Capitol.

"Y/N."

"Coryo."

"Do you still like chocolate?" The boy asked, taking a plastic package with something like a small tart from his pocket.

"They make these especially for stealing, how can that be?" The girl amused herself while opening the small package.

As the night unfolded, the two found themselves immersed in a conversation that transcended the limitations of their tumultuous history. The garden, witness to their first kiss and now witness to their shared dreams, became a sanctuary of possibilities. And in the midst of the starry serenity, a connection, delicate but profound, began to blossom, challenging preconceived notions of their roles in a world on the brink of change. The night continued, filled with moments that defied expectations and revealed the complexity of their feelings. Y/N and Coryo's story was far from over, but in that moment, they chose to enjoy the dance under the stars, building together a new chapter of hope and possibility in a world about to change.

______________________________

Just wanted to drop a quick note to say a massive thank you for all the love, likes, comments, and follows on my story. <3

Taglist: @shari-berri @h-l-vlovesvintage @tea-bobba @daenerysqueenofhearts

Again: REQUESTS and TAGLIST ARE OPEN!!!!!

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #president snow #the hunger games #coriolanus x reader #enemy to lovers #angst #angst with a happy ending #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x reader #fem reader #hunger games au #fluff #tigris snow #thg #snow #tom blyth #coriolanus x fem!reader

109 notes · View notes

alphabetboyluvr · 1 year ago

Text

throttle - jjk | seven

one/ two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - oof. goes without saying, it's angsty, graphic depictions of violence, physical and verbal fight between jk + joon, they are VILE to one another, drug usage (mostly snorting coke), alcohol, clubbing, taking things too far, insinuations of dangerous driving, illegal boxing rings, blood, one mention of the dark knight, one harvey dent quote, disgustingly sweet daydreams from jk, lewd references to sex, political dynamics, no smut, important plot points

PLEASE take note of the warnings. The fight is nasty, and both jk + nj use the women one another care about as weapons. Both men take things too far in a bid to make the other angry. The women -the oc and nj's sis- are objectified, degraded, spoken about sexually and yeah, just really unpleasant. These characters are career criminals. They are NOT nice people. Please consider your own limits before reading - I've actually edited this to make it a little more palatable and it's still not very nice.

word count - 13.5k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

Metal clatters against the concrete floor of Kang's boxing club as soon as Jungkook opens his locker.

He's yanked it open with such ferocity that one of the bolts has fallen to the floor. Just a small one; a washer that helps to keep a hinge in place, but an inconvenience nonetheless. He stops. Sighs. Looks down at it for a moment, tells it to stop being a little bitch, and then rummages around in his locker for the black jumper he left in there a week prior.

His t-shirt drags against his skin as he sheds himself of it, still damp. The fabric slaps against the floor, echoing his mistakes around him, reverbing in the empty room. They bounce from wall to wall. Taunting him.

If he picks his shirt up off the floor, there'll be a stain of red on the ground.

Jimin's locker, once pristine, crumples beneath Jungkook's fist, overwhelmed by an unavoidable truth:

Jeon Jungkook destroys.

His touch impacts. Makes impressions. Leaves marks. There's no straightening out the door, he thinks. It'll always be rumpled by the indent of his knuckles. Disfigured. Broken.

Jungkook has been a hurricane for as long as he can remember; a facilitator of misfortune for those around him. He engulfs the best of people and spits them out again when they're at their worst.

If he really wants to, he can pinpoint the exact date and time he transcended from human to meteorological system. He's been upgraded recently - was once a tropical storm, is now a typhoon.

Destruction is just who he is. More fool him for thinking that clouds could break, and sun could shine.

Perhaps it's why things always worked so well between you both when the skies were dark, nightfall hiding who he was from plain sight. Any unpleasantries could be chalked up to bad dreams.

He rids himself of the clothes dampened by the commitment he made to you, a little red stain drying around the nape of his neck.

Despite his best attempts to lock it in, there's still dye leaking from strands of his hair, only serving to further remind him that you were never meant to be permanent.

You'll wash away with the spring rains that are set to fall in the coming months, and all he'll be able to do is watch as you drain into the gutter with the rest of his best-laid plans.

For a moment, he considers running. Wind cracks the back door open, light from a streetlamp pooling in. Dust dances in the orange beam, free and unrestricted by the confines of life. It's a freedom he'll never know, not really. He has choices he can make. Liberties he can take. He isn't really as trapped as he thinks he is - but the mind is a heavy prison for those who have shackled themselves to a predestined fate that doesn't exist.

It's not like he doesn't know this. He's aware that the only thing in the world that's stopping him is himself - but his feet are bolted to the floor with screws branded with the names of the people he loves: his mother, his father, one for each of the boys.

They're wound tight, twisted through his flesh and bones. He's tied to Daegu by everything he loves, and the promises he made to ensure that he'll never forget them.

But there's a missing screw, and it's threaded right through his heart. There's a name on it he wishes he'd never learnt, messy, and carved out in a hurry because he didn't have the time to properly process the way he felt until it was too late.

It pinches as he moves, scrapes against his spinal column, etches the letters into his bone.

You might not be permanent, but the mark you leave is as indelible as the ink on his skin.

He laughs when he thinks of you. Laughs in a way that isn't really a laugh. It's full of scorn, and loathing, and longing. The kind of laugh that settles in his stomach like acid that will surely burn away at his soft tissue. He'll disintegrate from the inside out before he ever has the chance to make amends.

Jungkook is pulled, all rather abruptly, from his thoughts when the entryway door slams open. His heart lifts in his chest, that damn nail scraping away at even more of his bone as it does so, body temperature rising and falling all within the same second.

"Here he is," Jimin greets him like a long lost friend. He only saw him, what? Five? Six days ago, maybe? "Where the hell have you been? And Christ, the hell happened to your hair?"

"Home," he says, eyes vacant, no trace of a lie. Of course, it isn't a lie - but it is a half-truth. He ignores the question about his hair. "Went to check on dad."

"How is he?"

"Same old," Jungkook shrugs, not needing to explain the situation. Jimin grew up with Jungkook. Knows the intricacies of his family history. He doesn't pry, and is rewarded with unfiltered access to the most private details of Jungkook's personal life.

Well, almost unfiltered.

Jimin doesn't know about you. He guesses. Notices. Clocks the way that Jungkook sometimes smells far sweeter, far more feminine, after a night of unexplained absence from the boxing club. Watches the way Jungkook keeps his phone on silent, but presses the lock screen far more frequently than usual to check for new messages. Can tell whenever there is a message waiting, because of the way Jungkook's cheeks twitch, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips, of which he refuses to let form.

It's adolescent, how Jungkook thinks he's able to hide his affections.

Jimin might not know for sure that it's you, but he knows his best friend well enough to know that it's someone. There's been no mention of a girl, not since Namjoon forced him into the ring after he found out about Naejeon, so he figures that it must be someone new.

Someone worth keeping secret.

Someone a lot like you.

When he looks over towards his locker, a deep-rooted sigh escapes his lips. "Really? Couldn't have fucked up your own?"

"Accident," Jungkook lies. "I'll swap our doors over."

Jungkook is good at solving problems, but is so quick - so logical - he doesn't often consider that perhaps the problem isn't the issue; it's the circumstances that led to the problem which need fixing instead.

"'S'fine," Jimin shrugs, as he opens it up with a creak and tosses his bag inside it. Not much care is given, because he's already dressed and ready to go. Always early, always punctual, he follows the orders given to him with very few questions asked. "How are you feeling?"

Pretty fucking awful.

"Yeah, fine," Jungkook dismisses, but is painfully aware of how short he's being. He doesn't wanna talk, doesn't wanna give Jimin any ammunition to weaponize against him (not that he would), but knows he's being too aloof. Jimin will start asking questions. "Just wanna get it over and done with, yanno?"

Jimin laughs. "Why such a hurry? Not like it's an in and out job. May as well take our time with it."

Jungkook doesn't reply as he pulls the hoodie over his head, and waltzes up to one of the tattered punching bags.

He begins to bounce on his feet, hands unbound as they tap against the leather. "Just don't understand Jin. Why'd he decide now or never? Couldn't we have time to prep?"

"Beats me," Jimin shrugs, back resting against the cool metal of the lockers. "But we've been prepping for months, Kookie. Been ready since the start of the year, it's months since we said we were gonna do this. Think he's just fed up of waiting."

The younger of the pair grunts a reply as his knuckles slap against the weighted bag.

"Aren't you?" Jimin adds on. "Aren't you tired of waiting, too? Always having to go to that damn gas station. Bet you'll be thankful when this is all over."

He knows he won't be. Knows that Jungkook goes to the gas station far more often than he lets on - has trailed him a couple of times just to confirm.

It hasn't gone unnoticed by Jungkook, mind you. He's never confronted Jimin about it, but it is why he's started parking a little further away from the gas station. Jimin's caught on about that, too.

"Mhmm," Jungkook grunts, not paying any attention to his friend, squaring up to the bag once more.

"Save your energy. Might need it later."

"Better fuckin' not," Jungkook husks beneath his breath as his fist begins to tap against the bag, the sound of flesh against leather saturating the air. Jimin doesn't hear him as he whispers, "listen to me, C. Please just fucking listen."

It's useless. No amount of manifestation on his part will ever make a difference to the choices you make. You're a woman of your own convictions; a bull trapped in a ring who doesn't take too kindly to that stupid fucking red flag. Especially not when Jungkook's been so careless, waving it around, taunting you, encouraging you.

This mess is one of his own making - and he knows this.

He tried to clean it up.

He really did.

But now your bathroom tiles are stained in red dye, and as hard as he may try, his attempts to clean will be as fruitless as that robotic arm that keeps leaking hydraulic fluid no matter how many times it tries to scoop it up.

You had watched a video about it with him in the sanctuary of his bed, deceptively chilly sunlight peeking through ashy clouds, the musk of his early morning embrace keeping you glued to his side. 'Can't help myself' the installation is called, and Jungkook thinks of it now as the rear door of the club opens up.

The rest of the boys file in, Namjoon first and then Jin a few moments later. The air is heavy around them, yet none of them seem to give a fuck. Jungkook thinks they're treating this like a fucking jolly. Why don't they care about what they're about to do? Aren't they worried about what could go wrong?

The answers are no, and not really - the same answers he'd have given a few months ago, too.

He started this all with nothing to lose, everything to gain.

Kinda feels like you handed him an Uno reverse card the moment he stepped foot in that bloody gas station.

"Two cars," Jin begins to instruct as they gather around on the old beat-up sofas in the corner of the room. He's sat on an old oil drum, taking command of the situation like it's what he was born to do. "Kook, you drive the main car, Jimin be ready in back up."

They both nod, Jimin's eyes on their leader, Jungkook's on the floor. His bottom lip is clamped beneath his teeth, which are softly nibbling away like some sort of coping mechanism.

No one notices his state of distress. You would have done, he thinks - but you're not here.

And Jungkook really hopes it stays that way.

There's stoicism in how he stands; a single strand of seaweed still yet to be plucked by the Haenyeo women of Jeju. Wonders if they'll come back for him. Knows they won't. Knows it's too late. He'll be subject to a life of solitude; swaying to a soundtrack that emits at 52 hertz.

So enthralled with his woe is me parade, Jungkook doesn't realise that Jin watches him with intent. He notices that there's something off about his gaze, how he's refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

Jungkook's always been a bit of a liar, always been fairly good at it too, but he's never been without his tells; his eyes.

Always his eyes.

Windows to the soul, some say. It scares him. Doesn't let anyone look in them for too long, for fear of them finding out there's something sinister hidden behind them.

"Kang wants this done asap. Elections are coming up and if we don't strike now, it'll be too late," Jin begins to explain, hoping it will stem the questions that he knows Jimin is dying to ask. "We need to get the mayor distracted, off his game. Have him fretting over his family, not thinking about the polls, but equally not able to share his troubles with the public. The mayor will want the situation resolved quickly, which means we can probably put our demand up, ask for a higher price - and all the while, it will give Kang an advantage in the polls."

Jungkook rolls his eyes so hard he can almost hear them turn. He really does hate politics.

"How much are we talking?" Namjoon asks, because the money is all he's really here for. Doesn't like the mayor, doesn't care for politics, doesn't really care for anything. Just money. "For the girl? Was 150mil, wasn't it? 150 million won?"

"Was," Jin nods. "Kang reckons we can go for 180, easy. Maybe even 200."

"180, five-way split," Namjoon begins to muse. "That's, what? 36mil each?"

And it's stupid, because the money used to excite Jungkook. Oh, if only you'd have heard the conversations they've had about what they'd spend it on, how they could blow it all in a single weekend. Yet despite the higher margin, the bigger gain, Jungkook scoffs.

"36 mil. We're doing this shit for 36 fucking mil. You know how long we're risking behind bars for this if it goes tits up? How long they put you away for for abduction? Blackmail? All for the sake of 36 fucking million."

It's on par with what he should be earning annually. Before he met you, before any of this, it's what would have been on his end of year tax return, or near enough. So much has been lost to you; time, energy, brain capacity. Finances are the least of his worries these days.

If he'd have just worked a little bit harder, put in some more hours, he could have kept on top of the repayments he's been making to the loan sharks who circle in the shallow waters of Busan, just waiting to sink their teeth into his father. He could have been back home, been present. Stopped all of this mess, all of this nonsense. He wouldn't know you. Wouldn't feel like his ribs are splintering whenever he thinks of you. In fact, he never would think of you.

Can't imagine it, now. His brain is a spongy mess of badly sung 80's songs and crying cat memes. Corrupted by you; preserved in such a way by his own desire to keep you around. He surrounds the memories of you in salt to keep the demons away, despite the fact it dries out the very essence of him. His brain will shrivel and rot, and all that will be left is you.

"It's not gonna go tits up, though, is it, Kook?" Namjoon pushes back almost immediately.

"It's not," Jin answers for him. "We get in, get the girl, get out. That's the hard part. Everything else is easy."

Jungkook's jaw is tense as he looks at Jin - and then he's looking away again.

"Look, Kook, if you're not up to this, then say so - but you're the one who came to us hell bent on taking her father down. You're the one who came up with this whole plan, you're the fucking mastermind - but we've got Kang on our backs now and we have to deliver. Either you're in," Jin shrugs. "Or you're out. Your choice."

"I'm in," Jungkook almost spits in retaliation. "I'm fucking in."

"Good. So go start the car. We're running late."

He pauses. Bites down on his lip, and nods. Does as he's told because it's the only way he can leave the room without raising suspicions.

He doesn't breathe again until he's in his car.

His engine hums as it basks in midnight lunar light, predatory in the way his headlights stalk out the shadows. He turns them off, thinks he won't need them. The roads are quiet. If he gets pulled over, he'll feign naivety. 'Oh, sorry officer. I'll turn them on.' He doesn't wanna be seen. Doesn't want to announce the way he's coming into your neighbourhood. Doesn't want you looking for him like a lighthouse. Wants you to crash. It'll be easier, that way.

꾹: i can explain everything. just trust me.

꾹: go to yoongis. i need you safe.

꾹: give me a little time. i'll tell you everything, c. please just go to yoongis and let me know you're okay xx

His messages drop in your chat feed. They never deliver.

He's joined in the car by Jin, and then it's go time.

The drive is silent, and Jungkook sort of just blanks it out. Doesn't remember how he got from A to B, but before he knows it, he's on your street. Outside your apartment block. Wishing for a sinkhole to open up and swallow his beloved car, with him still inside it.

He's been told to sit, wait. Cut the radio, keep the engine going. Jin and Namjoon are doing their job. Breaking and entering; stealing the only thing of any value in your shoebox apartment.

The idea of you looking at them, brows contorted, heart nice and bloody on your sleeve, plays on loop in his head. He wonders if you'll comply. Know you'll most likely fight.

Jungkook sits and stews in hushed cacoethes. He desires only you; the most forbidden of all the fruits. There's an ache in his chest, and a heat pricking at his skin. Poison, he thinks. That damn fruit. Damn you.

He needs to see you. Needs to know you're okay. Needs you in his passenger seat as you escape the city, forget it all, leave it all behind.

Ashtray mind and tobacco-stained eyes; there's nothing in his heart but the residue of things that will kill him. His lungs are all covered in the tar of you, too. Not like they matter. He left them with yours. Hasn't been able to breathe since he left your apartment, he doesn't think.

The road ahead is clear.

Dark and wide, it's lit only by street lamps, and the occasional neon light, that will no doubt lead late-night revellers to karaoke rooms. They're all basement level; a passage to the underworld of sin that swells beneath the belly of the metropolis. Impiety laces the streets of a city marred by cult churches, no closer to God than the shit beneath their shoes.

He doesn't believe in God, and certainly doesn't believe in the burning red crosses that sit atop the cult houses. They defile Buk-gu in debauchery; at home with the heathens, obscuring the ordinary.

He does, however, consider asking for forgiveness; repenting his sins. He'd be suited to a confessional; the glare of impure light pouring through the slats, disfiguring the face you've grown to adore, like the shadows of a prison grate.

He hates this place.

Hates why he's here, hates why he's stayed, and - funnily enough - hates that there's no longer any reason for him to stay. Not once his business is done.

He wonders if this could have played out differently. Maybe if he'd have been honest with you from the start, it wouldn't have come to this. You could have played along, maybe. Did what was asked of you willingly.

The door opens with a rough crack, far too much force being put on its old hinges. "Woah, woah- careful," he shrieks, drawn away from thoughts of you for a split second.

That is, until, he sees the look on Jin's face.

It's unfamiliar. Teeth bared. Snarling, almost. Eyes hard, jaw tense.

Oh, fuck.

"Drive," Jin hisses. "Fucking drive."

But he doesn't.

And he won't.

Not until he knows you're okay.

"The girl?"

"Don't act fucking dumb, Jungkook," Jin spits as he slams the door shut, imprisoning them both.

"I don't know wha-"

"Driv-"

"Where's the girl?" Jungkook snarls right back.

"Not fuckin' there!"

This is bad, he thinks. Real fucking bad.

But then he's overwhelmed with how fucking good it feels. You weren't there. You listened to him. You trusted him. He could laugh. Could cry. Might do both.

Not yet, though. He's still wearing his lies well. They sit atop the crown of his skull with pride. Liar of the year, 2022. Jeon Jungkook.

"Why isn't she there, huh?" Jin barks, spit gathering in the corners of his mouth. And then he's shouting. Shouting so loud that the whole fucking neighbourhood will wake up. "Again? Every fucking time Jungkook, she's just never where you say she will be. But you know what is where she should be? Huh? A bathroom stained in red fucking hair dye. Flannel shirts we both know damn well belong to you. Tell me, Kook, why didn't you want us to do it tonight, huh? Scared we'd catch you two at it?"

"You've lost your fucking mind, Jin. I don't know the ins and outs of her life."

"Oh, but on the contrary," Jin scathes as he slaps a receipt on the dash. It's branded. Jungkook thought he'd left it in the restaurant; that little pizza place in Busan. Hadn't realised you squirrelled away momentoes like that. Is still learning about you, apparently.

It's Jungkook's card number along the bottom of it. Jin won't know that.

But he's got eyes. Can read. Your handwriting adorns the top corner, right above the date and location. Jungkook feels sick.

Dinner with JK <3

"No?" Jin presses. "So you don't know who JK is? Don't know why the fuck she was in Busan when you were? Don't know why she's drawing fucking hearts next to his initials, huh? Somethings not adding up, JK."

"I've never been good at maths," Jungkook retorts, tone flat.

"You ain't no good at lying, either," Jin growls, crumpling the receipt and throwing it at Jungkook. It hits his chest, right where his heart used to be. Sinking back into the passenger seat, Jin curses. Shakes his head. Sighs.

"Just fucking drive, Jungkook. Just fuckin' drive."

────────────

Daegu tarmac is always a little harder in the winter. Jungkook prefers it, for there's less pull against his wheels as he hurtles down the streets.

He's vaguely aware of the fact he needs to check the wear on the inner treads of his tyres. They're pulling even less than usual, and he knows that he needs to adjust the tracking, but it's been the last thing on his mind lately.

Jin instructs him in the direction of the boxing club, and Jungkook almost refuses. Almost takes a left by the bridge to bomb up towards Palgongsan. He wants to see the city. Escape it. Look down on it; on you. Keep watch. Keep you safe.

It's an impossible task though, so he does as he's told - and quickly, too. He runs not one, but two reds. The streets are clear, marred by darkness of a midnight sky, so he's not concerned about getting caught - and if anything, it would probably do him a favour.

A night behind bars would be preferable to a night in the ring with Namjoon.

He's childish, and a grade-A dick when he wants to be, but Jungkook's no stranger to the way it feels when Namjoon's knuckles kiss his cheek.

A fight has been brewing ever since the last, Namjoon displeased with how Jin intervened, but Jungkook has fucked it now.

Even Jin is pissed at him - and rightly so. He's done exactly what he's been accused of.

He's betrayed them.

Been disloyal. Abused their trust.

Done things he said he never would.

"We in this?"

"In this shit for life."

Seems stupid now when Jungkook replays the memories back. He never should have promised the rest of his life. It was never feasible. He, himself, had seen how quickly life could change within the blink of an eye; but more importantly, how the change could be so slow, so gradual that he didn't even notice until it was too late.

It had happened with his mother; her illness slowly but surely taking hold until she was a shadow of herself. It had happened with his ex; her withdrawal from him so incremental that he didn't even notice the evenings she spent with Taehyung instead of him.

More recently, it's happened with you.

He should have known better. Hell, he did know better. Knew what would happen if he let himself get a little bit too comfortable.

There was a reason why he's been single for so long; why he never lets anyone get too close.

See, Jeon Jungkook is just as romantic as he always has been.

His heart has been broken, and misery has ravaged his veins, but he still believes that there's a life out there for him that doesn't involve any of those things. He believes that he could have a happy ending.

And it's foolish.

Foolish because nobody gets one of those. Foolish because people like him certainly don't.

Foolish because only fools fall - and lord knows he's been in the gutter ever since he met you.

It wasn't one of those first-sights, heart-palpitations, heavy-breathing types of situation, but it was something more than nothing - and when you're so used to drought, even the slightest spark can light the brightest fires. You had surged through him like a wild blaze, burning deep red, akin to the dye that stains his hair.

And now his bones are charred; irrevocably scarred by a girl who only ever sought to heal him.

So yeah, maybe he was a fool, but so were you for ever thinking he could be healed in the first fuckin' place.

Jungkook barely has the chance to shut his car off before Jin barks at him to get inside. Says that he's fucking lucky Joon didn't catch up with them.

He scoffs a laugh. "I'm lucky? I'm lucky? Joon's fucking lucky I haven't sparked him out before now. He's been on his high horse for far too fucking long."

"Yeah, and not without reason, Kook. The fuck have you been playing at, huh?" Jin asks, with genuine bewilderment, once they're inside Old Man Kang's boxing club. The air is cold, but the tension between the two men, who were once more like brothers, is even more so.

If Jungkook were to answer honestly, he'd say he doesn't know. Would probably cry a little bit, too. Maybe a lot. He's not really sure at this point.

He's not sure of anything. Not sure about his loyalties, about his motives. Not even how he feels about you.

The only thing Jungkook is sure of, is that Namjoon is going to be gunning for blood the second he storms through the door, and that he'd really rather not be here when it happens.

"I can fix this. Let me go and look for her, alrigh-"

"No."

"If anyone is gonna fin-"

"You've done enough, Kook."

"Jin, please-"

"Enough."

"But I-"

"You've done enough," he repeats firmly now, his eyes unable to grace Jungkook with mercy. He can't fucking look at him. Not after everything; not after all of it. They'd planned this together. Been in this shit together. A team. They had always had the same goals, the same motivations, and Jungkook had just thrown it all to the wayside.

He's never cared much for 'bros before hoes,' or any of that bullshit, but Jin thought there was an understanding between them. A common goal. Common ground.

Thought their friendship went beyond business.

He's known the kid for years. Watched him grow. Practically raised him after his dad couldn't afford to feed them anymore, his mother's life savings spaffed at the bookies every Sunday, then every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... He'd been Jungkook's parent when the poor kid may as well have lost both.

And this is how he repays him?

Jungkook tenses his jaw. Presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Nods. Curses as he lashes out at the pole marking the corner of the boxing ring. Yells a little as his bare fist cracks against the padded wood.

Jin just walks to the sofas in the corner of the room. Sinks into one of them, defeated. There's no point in arguing, not right now. Not while his head is all fucked up and his vision is marred by a shade of red that matches Jungkook's hair.

The steel of the fire exit door screeches as it scrapes against the pavement, too heavy for the hinges it's on. An easy fix which none of them have gotten round to doing yet. Too busy. Minds have been elsewhere - but Namjoon's mind is only on one thing as he hurtles toward Jungkook.

"You mother fucker," Namjoon spits, his fists rough as they grab onto the neckline of Jungkook's shirt. The friction burns a little, but nothing really hurts Jungkook. Not when it already feels like his heart has been cut straight from his chest with a craft knife.

He wants to hurt, though. Wants physical pain to match his mental torment.

"Joon," Jimin calls from the entryway, trying to draw him back, but it's futile. Bad blood needs to be drained in order to keep a body healthy, after all - and this band of brothers is dying. They need something - anything - to replenish their health.

It's a shame that Jungkook's on a suicide mission, really.

"Nah," Jungkook smirks, but his eyes are void of any humour. In fact, he's deadly serious as he says, "it was your sister I fucked, remember?"

He's barely finished mocking his former friend before a fist meets his face. The crack of Namjoon's knuckles against his skin echoes into the room, reverberating from wall to wall, like a chilling laugh sounding from the shadows.

"Is that all you've got?" Jungkook laughs, despite the fact a small red bead is forming on his bottom lip. It swells and drips, like the scarlet water that ran from his hair earlier that afternoon. He knows he shouldn't keep going, but he doesn't really care. Namjoon has a short fuse, and Jungkook feels like blowing up. "Even Naejeon liked it rougher than that."

For all his stupidity, the boy's got a sharp tongue about him. Knows just the right thing to say to get what he wants - this time, it's another punch to his face. His cheek. Gonna bruise like a fuckin' bitch.

Namjoon still has a grip on his collar and pushes him now, until his legs are pressed against the base of the ring, back against the ropes.

"Say another fucking word about my sister and I'll rip your fucking tongue out."

Jungkook laughs. Namjoon just makes it so fucking easy.

"Don't be like that, Joonie," he coos, the smile on his face borderline psychotic. "Naejeon reckons it's the only thing that ever made her cum."

When Namjoon punches him this time, he doesn't give Jungkook the chance to interrupt with any more quick remarks about his little sister. He was pissed at Jungkook for shagging her, pissed at Jungkook for ghosting her, but everything Jungkook's done since then only serves to make it so much worse.

"You," he spits, only pausing his words to land another punch against Jungkook's cheek. "Stupid" - another punch - "fucking" - again - "twat."

He grabs Jungkook's collar with both of his hands now, forcing him to stand up straight, face pink from Namjoon's knuckles smearing his blood all over it.

"You couldn't keep your dick in your pants, could you? First my fucking sister and then that fucking whore? Her of all people?"

Jungkook is laughing again. Sniffs back the blood dripping from his nose. Jin is sitting with his head in his hands, pretending like it isn't happening. Jimin can't take his eyes off it. It's like a car crash; a head-on collision between two boy racers, who always take it too fucking far.

"I can give you a comparison if you like?"

"Kookie-" Jimin tries to interject, but is silenced by Namjoon who snaps his head around to look at the most innocent of the bunch.

"Nah," Namjoon laughs. "Let him talk. Let him spew his bullshit."

And then he faces Jungkook again. Gets closer. Gets real close. Close enough that Jungkook can smell the cigarette he smoked half an hour ago.

His breath is hot against Jungkook's skin. Intrusive. Unwelcome.

Namjoon knows this. Knows that Jungkook hates people breathing on him. Hates it so much that Namjoon used to sneak up on him and breathe on his neck, specifically to get a reaction out of him. Used to find it funny.

He doesn't know that Jungkook never hated your soft sighs against his skin. Not against the crook of his neck during early morning embraces, not into his lips when the build of your climax got so intense that you couldn't focus on kissing him anymore. He doesn't know that Jungkook would do anything to hear the way you breathe as you sleep right about now; shallow and a little stuttered. His favourite sound. His very own metronome.

Namjoon doesn't know you were different. Wouldn't really matter even if he did know. Wouldn't change a single damn thing about the betrayal he feels. In his eyes, it's just one thing after a-fucking-nother with Jungkook. Kid's a liability.

"How long you been fucking her, huh?" Namjoon speaks quietly, breath warm against Jungkook's ear. It's hushed enough that none of the others can hear. Probably for the best. "How long have you been sinking your cock into your mother's corpse?"

"My mother's corpse?" Jungkook almost chokes, legitimately in a state of shock over what's just left Namjoon's mouth. It's probably worse than the stench of his ashtray breath.

"What?" He laughs. It's bitter. "Her daddy's the reason your mum's dead, isn't she? She's the reason. So you're fucking your dead mum by proxy, aren't you? There'd be no corpse if it wasn't for her."

It's good. Jungkook's gotta hand it to him. It's pretty fucking savage. He's not sure of the legitimacy of such a claim, not sure it makes any fucking sense, but the shock value? Yeah, Namjoon has him stumped.

Part of him knows he shouldn't bite. Part of him knows that Namjoon is only after a fight.

In fact, all of him knows this - but Namjoon's breath is all clammy on his cheek, and it makes his skin crawl in a way that rivals nails on a blackboard.

He doesn't wanna react. Doesn't wanna lash out. Doesn't wanna make this a fair fight, but he can't fucking help it as his head lunges forward, smashing against Namjoon's nose with a crack.

"Kook," Jimin tries again, sterner this time, but Jin shakes his head and tells him, 'let the kids have their squabble.'

"This has nothing to do with my mother," Jungkook spits as he stands up straighter now, taller.

"Oh, but on the contrary," Namjoon says, his posture slightly cowered from the impact of Jungkook's skull cracking against his own. He's feeling for blood with the back of his hand, eyes narrow. "It has everything to do with your mother. She's the reason you're here. She's the reason you wanted to take that bitch out in the first fuckin' place."

The worst part is he's right. Jungkook knows he's right.

"So?" He says before he spits, crimson phlegm hitting the concrete floor with a slap, red with blood from the inside of his cheek. "So what? So what if I fucked her?"

Namjoon's not even really concerned about the fact Jungkook's been fucking you.

If Jungkook had fucked you and not let it sway his judgement, Namjoon probably would have congratulated him for getting his dick wet and the job done well. Issue is, Jungkook started fucking with you with heart and thinking with his dick.

"Coulda fucked any whore in the city. I know you know where to find them."

"True. Did find your sister, didn't I?"

It's not Jungkook's finest hour. It's not been his finest few months, if he's being realistic - except for the fact it has been. The time he's spent with you, at least.

The training sessions he'd cram between leaving you in his bed and heading to work were always his best.

The days at work when he knew he'd be heading to your gas station afterwards were always his most productive. His area manager had been eyeing him up for a fucking promotion. His good, honest work is better because of you.

He doesn't understand why, he doesn't understand how - he just knows if he hadn't constantly had this huge guilt weighing down on him constantly, that maybe he'd have known what happiness felt like again.

He hates the circumstances that lead him to you. Hates the reality of your relationship. Hates that he's pretty sure you don't even have one, now.

But he loves that he met you. Loves that he got to experience you. Loves that you gave him hope where he'd only ever seen hardship.

It's useless now, of course. Down the fucking drain. Should have trained to be a plumber instead, he thinks. Maybe he'd have been able to salvage things.

He's an electrician though, and all he's done is keep you in the dark, until he blinded you with a spotlight. He's short-circuted everything now. Fried the motherboard. Destroyed everything you once were together. He knows there's no salvaging it.

But he's also questioning if there was ever anything there to begin with. Questions whether or not you really liked him, or just the way you perceived him - but it was no different from any normal scenario. No one shows their bad cards first. You're drawn in by the best, and learn to adore the worst, too.

For a long time, you thought that his worst card was the fact he used a 2-in-1 shampoo and shower gel. Used to tease him about it.

And now he's thinking of the way you laugh and he wants to fucking cry.

Joon can see it. See the shift behind Jungkook's eyes. Thinks he's won. Pushes Jungkook away from him. Spits on the ground. Walks away.

"You're pathetic, Jeon. Good for nothing waste of fuckin' sperm. Thank fuck you ghosted Naejeon. Thank fuck. Could think of nothing worse than sharing a bloodline with a coward like you."

Jimin breathes for the first time in what feels like hours, hoping that this is it. It's done now. Jin remains as he was, but reclines into the sofa as Namjoon saunters to meet him. He throws himself down into a chair and sighs.

"What now, boss?"

Good fucking question, Jin thinks. The plan is fucked. Jungkook knows there's no way it can be rectified. You know too much now. Know what to expect, even if not when to expect it. You don't know his motives, you just know they're not as pure as you once thought. Know that it's safer to hate him.

He wonders if you already do.

He turns to face the ring; holds on to the ropes, lets his body lean forward, heaving a little. All of this feels like a nightmare. The kind that loop, and replay again and again until insanity is the only logical explanation.

But maybe he is insane.

Insane for thinking that this could ever work. Insane for thinking that maybe he'd be able to mastermind a plan in which everyone got a happy ending. Insane for letting you into his home, insane for letting you into his sheets, insane for letting you into a part of his brain reserved for memories of his family before it all went wrong.

You're there now, though. It's permanent. The way you make him feel is something he'll never be able to shake, and he knows damn well that he's ruined for the rest of his life.

"Without the girl, we have nothing," Jin sighs. "The girl was our meal ticket. We needed her to get the Mayor's attention. Need her to make this whole thing work. Without her, there's no leverage. Nothing to work with."

"Hear that, Kook? We've got nothing," Namjoon taunts. "A little bit of sour pussy worth it, huh? Maybe I should just fuck her. See what all the hype is about. See if it's worth it. How'd she like it, huh? She like it rough?"

"Can the pair of you just stop?" Jimin snaps now. "You're like a pair of twelve-year-olds."

Namjoon ignores him. Sinks further into the tattered leather chair. Crosses his legs, and hooks an ankle upon his knee. Smirks.

"Bet she's a dumb slut with a rack like that," he says instead. "Her titwanks must be pretty fucking good, right?"

He knows - much to Jungkook's dismay - that Jungkook is a tittie guy. They've had enough conversations about it. Vulgar shit. Objectifying. Laddish banter, that was really just juvenile shit they both knew better than to say.

"That's what got you, isn't it, Kook?" Namjoon laughs. "Her tits? Your mommy issues are showing."

Jungkook's blood is burning as red as his hair, but he tries not to let it show.

"Not really," Jungkook lies, and they all fuckin' know it. "Her tits were good, but I can live without them. I mean, Naejeon's flat as a fuckin' pancake - and I fucked her for long enough, didn't I? Might see if she's free later, actually."

It's like they're playing a game of table football, each one of them trying to get one up on the other. It's Namjoon's turn, now.

"You never answered, Kook. How does she like it? Is she the kind of bitch that likes it rough? Likes it when you make them cry? She'd be good at that, I reckon. Crying. How long do you think it would take to get her crying?"

The thought of it makes Jungkook sick. Makes him want to cry. He's still leaning against the ropes, but it's mainly to stop him from falling down. His head feels like it's gonna fucking cave in.

"I dunno man," Jungkook shrugs, but he's a little breathless. Knows he sounds weak. Knows he has to go extra hard with the next insult flung Namjoon's way. "Given how tight your sister was, how much I had to stretch her little pussy out-"

"Shut the fuck up."

"I'm guessing that size runs in the family - so I don't imagine you've got much to make CC cry with, to be honest."

He says it before he realises - but the rest of them do. Notice it immediately.

"Sorry, who?"

"The fuck did you just call her?"

There's silence. Jungkook doesn't speak. Not till the question is repeated, this time by their leader. Jin's voice is stern as he asks, "What did you call her, Jungkook?"

"Nothin'. Doesn't matter. Just a dumb fuckin' nickname."

"A nickname?"

"Yeah, a dumb one. What does it matter?"

"How deep does it run?" Jin asks, genuinely concerned for Jungkook. This is so much worse than just hooking up. "This little affair you've been having? How fuckin' deep does it go?"

"Doesn't. Doesn't run deep, doesn't run anywhere. It's nothing," he spits. "She's nothing."

Saying it out loud makes him feel like a piece of shit.

You're everything.

"I'm sure she finds the lying all very endearing, Kook, but cut it out," Jin scolds him. "We're in this together. Just be fuckin' honest with us. We know you told her to run. You chose her over us. The least you can do is tell us how invested you are. How invested she was. Let us know what we're dealing with, here."

"Can't invest in something that you know will never give you a return," Jungkook says as if that makes a difference. He always knew the pair of you were doomed.

"She's not a financial investment," Jin debates. "And yeah, you can."

"But she is a financial investment."

"Joon. Not now."

"Well, I mean, she was," Namjoon adds a little mindlessly. "She isn't now. Golden balls has screwed it all up for us."

"I haven't."

Namjoon laughs. Looks at Jungkook as if he knows every fib he's ever told. Perceptive and well aware of Jungkook's tendency to tell white lies, there's no fooling him.

"You've been shafting the plans for months," Namjoon says with certainty. "The first raid? Tell me that you didn't have anything to do with it."

But he can't. And he doesn't want to lie anymore, so he remains silent.

"See, I told you," Namjoon nearly fucking yells. He'd gotten into much trouble for picking a fight with Jungkook after the raid, only to go and be proven right. "I fucking told you. You all told me I was overreacting but I fucking knew it."

His rant is ignored as the rest of them process what's been divulged by Jungkook.

"Ever since then?" Jimin asks quietly. His tenderness is noticed. Appreciated.

And so Jungkook nods. "Didn't know her back then. Not really. I just... I was getting cold feet. I'd never really understood that there was another human on the other end of the plan, yanno? I didn't want us to do something we couldn't take back. She could have been useful to us."

"Not sure Jungkook's personal cum-dump would have been useful to 'us' as a collective - unless you were planning on sharing?"

"Namjoon, will you ever just shut the fuck up?"

Jungkook ignores it. He knows Namjoon is just trying to get a rise out of him at this point. His face is aching enough now. They've had their fun.

None of them feel aggression towards him anymore. Not really.

They're scared, more than anything, knowing they have Kang to answer to if they don't deliver on their promise, and none of them enjoy the prospect of that too much.

"Things spiralled. I didn't mean for them to-"

"Ah, but you never do, do you?" Namjoon interrupts, but again, Jungkook ignores it.

"She wasn't there on the night of the raid, 'cause I was standing her up on a date downtown. Thought I'd try and figure some other plan out, but when I saw her next I panicked. Was trying to keep her on side."

He's downplaying it, granted. They're all vaguely aware they aren't getting the whole truth, but a half-truth is better than none at all.

"We ended up going out a week or so later. Both drank a little too much and - well, I mean, I don't need to teach you about the birds and the bees, do I? Pretty sure you know how the rest of it goes." There's a murmur amongst the boys, collectively agreeing not to ask more. "Things got out of hand. I panicked. I didn't know what to do."

"It's not an excuse," Jin says. "No fucking excuse at all, Kook. Your panic has fucked us all over. I hope you know how to fix this fuckin' mess, 'cause Kang is gonna have our balls for breakfast if we don't deliver. We signed a contract."

"Not exactly legally binding, is it?"

"Since when has anything Kang's ever done been in keeping with the law?" Jin asks, but the question is rhetorical. They all know the answer.

The cash counting machines in the back office, and the hostess noraebangs are a dead giveaway. Old Man Kang is bad news. Such bad news that Jin even fears having this discussion in the boxing club... just in case.

"Go home. I don't wanna talk about it anymore. Don't even wanna look at any of you, right now," Jin almost laughs, but they know he isn't actually joking. He's deadly serious. "We'll meet at mine tomorrow. I don't want Kang getting wind of this. Kook, clean up your blood, then get gone. Jimin, clear away the chair for the girl. Won't be needing it now. Joon, just get gone. I'll see you tomorrow. 9 am sharp. We'll figure it out."

He looks at Jungkook, and shakes his head. What a fucking mess that boy has made.

"We'll figure it out," he repeats, before adding, "together."

They all do as they're told. Jungkook is the last to leave, his hands a little stained in his own blood by the time he's done. He ignores the tightness of the skin on his palms as he drives, heading in the direction of home.

Jungkook's apartment is cold. He'd left the bathroom door open before leaving for Busan, and winter wind howls into the apartment as soon as he steps foot through the door. He doesn't close it. Just heads into his bedroom-turned-living area, flicks on the ondol and falls face-first into his bed.

He regrets it as soon as he picks up the scent of you on his sheets. You've not slept in them for the best part of a week, and yet you're still there. It's too late to put a washload on - his neighbour will bang on the ceiling with the handle of her broom again like she did the last time you'd had morning sex - but he can't stay like this. Can't stay suffocated by you.

He sits up. Sniff back a sob, and kicks off his shoes. "Stupid fucking prick," he laments, then catches sight of himself in his mirror. Sees his hair. It fucking stings. So fucking red. Looks like a fresh wound. He supposes it is; the remnants of his heart that were torn from his chest the second your eyes turned hard.

It had been dark in your room, but he could see the lights of your kitchen reflect with more variance as water began to grace your lashline. He'd made you cry and he couldn't even so much as give you a fucking hug to make it any better.

There's no enthusiasm in his steps as he skulks toward his bathroom. Doesn't bother stripping his clothes off. Just flicks the light on, twists the tap and sits on the floor as the shower chokes into action. The water is freezing as he sits, legs pulled up to his chest, arms hugging around his knees.

Slowly but surely it warms up, even if his heart doesn't. He doesn't even know what his aim is. Perhaps he's trying to recreate the last place he felt happiness - back in your shower, with you - or maybe he's hoping the water will wash away the remnants of you from his hair.

He's a warning light; a red flag that screams 'stay away.' He wishes he could. Would rather be with anyone but himself right now.

But there's a comfort to be found in the fact that he knows you're a walking red flag, too.

Eventually, he stands. Discards his clothes - he'll sort them in the morning - and rinses his hair through. His shampoo bubbles up all pretty and pink, but it isn't enough to reverse what he's done. Your relationship has stained him for all to see.

He deliberately avoids looking in the toothbrush holder. Doesn't want to see your one. Instead, he looks in the mirror as he reaches for his brush - it's thicker than yours, battery-powered, so it's easy to distinguish from touch alone.

It's as he's rummaging around that he notices an inconsistency in his steamed-up mirror.

It's in the bottom left-hand corner, discreet and hidden unless you know where to find it: a thin outline in the shape of a heart.

Jungkook didn't put it there, and there's only one girl who he's ever let stay long enough for a shower to be needed.

He has to grip the basin of his sink to stop himself from keeling over. Thinks he'll be sick. Actually gags a little. Never been so close to it without actually following through.

It's hard to tell what's making him feel this way. The guilt? The hurt? He's not sure. All he knows is that he can't fucking breathe properly. His shower is still pounding down on his spine as he hunches over, painful as the water slaps against his skin. He doesn't realise, but it's tender because your scratch marks are still running down it.

You're in his skin. In his head, his hair, his bed. You're still here, and he can't fucking shake you. You're haunting him. Taunting him.

Except for the fact you're really not. You're doing the opposite. You've gone ghost, yes, but entirely in the opposite direction. Radio silence.

He tries sending a message through to your chat feed, but it remains undelivered. He calls - this number is unavailable - and he calls - this number is unavailable - and he calls and calls and calls - this number in una- this number is- this nu- until he gets so frustrated he throws his phone across the room. Hears a crack. Knows he's fucked his screen. Just another thing to hate himself for.

He considers going to Yoongi's. Gets dressed, puts a coat on. His hair is still damp. He doesn't care. Gets in his car. Drives in fucking laps around the city. Thinks he sees you twice - doesn't see you a single time.

And he won't.

Jeon Jungkook had the luxury of finding you once. You're never gonna give him that again.

See when you left your apartment that evening, you did it on your terms. You packed your bag with the essentials: documents - some forged, some not -, money, and the hard drive that has everything your father wouldn't want in the hands of the wrong people. Up until now, you've been the wrong hands - but it seems like there are far filthier hands in search of it now.

You upturned a few items, made your life look as simple as you could; just a regular girl who had fallen for a no-good piece of shit. You pinned up a few photos. Scribbled some dumb nostalgic shit on a receipt.

And as you sit in the waiting room of the first terminal of Daegu Airport, you smile.

You imagine all the ways that little note could fuck him up. Wonder if they'll notice the shirts of his you left out, but neglect to think about the one you're still wearing. The blue one. Your favourite. Smells like him.

There's no time to dwell on it, mind you. A bell chimes. It's not the one in your stomach - you may as well have swallowed cement with how still it is, now. The bell echoes, and then a voice sounds. "This is the boarding call for flight 711 to Jeju. Please have your passport and boarding pass ready for inspection at gate 3. Flight 711 for Jeju, at gate 3. Thank you."

You sigh. Pretend like you can't smell the scent of his aftershave as you hook your bag over your shoulder, and head in the direction of gate 3. Doesn't really matter where you're going. All that matters is that you are going - and that Jungkook will have no fucking clue where to find you.

And yet part of you hopes he'll show up. Beg you not to board that flight. Tell you he's sorry, and that it's all a huge misunderstanding. Will buy a ticket, fly with you. Stay with you. Make things right on an island that's done no harm to either one of you. Not like the city you're leaving behind.

It's a hope you hold onto, even as you board. Even as the cabin crew begin safety demonstrations. Even as you begin to hurtle down the runway.

Jungkook's not a mind reader though, and so he sits, body all hunched up and crooked by your apartment door, waiting for you to come home. He's aware it's a little creepy. Knows you won't be happy to see him - but he doesn't want to fucking stalk you. He just wants to know you're safe. Wants this nightmare to be over.

He's woken the next morning, back in agony from his position, by the ajumma who lives across the hallway. He asks if she's seen you. She tells him it's none of his business, and to get gone.

Good old Eunhee. You've always liked her. She's always hated your boyfriends. It's a win-win.

Jungkook leaves his number with Eunhee, but she bins it as soon as she's inside her apartment. She knows if you want to call Jungkook, you will. She's old enough to know what men are like. Wise enough to know he's probably been up to no good. The ones who grovel always have been.

He walks home, just so he has an excuse to walk back to your area later to pick up his car. Forgets he's supposed to be at Jin's for 9 until Namjoon drives past him.

He expects Namjoon to hurtle off, but to his surprise, he pulls over. Tells Jungkook to get in. Doesn't speak to him the entire way there, but still gets him there ahead of schedule.

There are three cars outside Jin's apartment by the time they arrive. Jin's sleek Merc, Jimin's red Mx5, and a car that Jungkook hadn't expected to see: a Rolls Royce. Blacked out. De-badged. Discreet, but screaming importance. The plates are illegal. Decoys. The kinda shit used by criminals - which is fitting, Jungkook supposes.

"Shitting hell," Namjoon hisses beneath his breath as he pulls his keys from the ignition. "Looks like we've got a date with the Devil himself."

Jungkook laughs. "Don't think the Devil wears Cuban heels."

Namjoon smiles, too. Knows smiling won't be an option once they're inside Jin's apartment.

"C'mon," he says as he encourages Jungkook out of the car. Neither of them really wants to go, but both know their arrival will have been noted. Any slackness will have to be accounted for. Better men have lost fingers for less than tardiness. It's not worth the aggro. "Time to go face the wrath of Old Man Kang."

────────────

When Jin arrives at the boxing club that evening, Jungkook's skin is already glistening beneath the frosty glow of exposed lightbulbs. They're LED, providing no warmth to the shell of a room he's in - but Jungkook's been going at it for so long - been going at it so hard - that steam wafts from his body.

There's something stern in the way Jin is looking at him, as if he's willing for him to slow down.

Jungkook doesn't even so much as look in Jin's direction. His gaze is wasted, much like all of Jungkook's efforts of the past few months.

If he's being honest, Jin is surprised to see him at the club. He hadn't expected to see the kid for at least a day or two after Jungkook had stormed out of his place earlier that morning.

With a face of thunder, jaw tense, his jugular vein throbbing beneath his honey skin, he'd been royally pissed.

Credit where it was due, Jungkook had just about managed to hold it together for long enough to see Old Man Kang out the door - but only just.

He'd sat as quiet as a broken record player in Jin's apartment, leg jittering, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. Had barely even looked at their boss. Didn't want to. Didn't trust his misplaced anger.

See, Jungkook has a thing for shifting blame; everything is always someone else's fault. Him losing you? Well, it couldn't possibly be his fault. Had to be Kang's. After all, he was the one who'd sent Jungkook on the first stakeout of GS25.

Maybe not the second one, though. That was all Jungkook's doing. As was the third, and the fourth, and - well, I mean, Kang certainly hadn't told Jungkook to ask you out on a date, the silly cunt. Definitely never told him to put his cock in you, either.

He'd got himself into this mess all by himself.

Didn't like that admission, though, so he stayed silently furious with Kang instead.

Which worked out in his favour, actually. Being preemptively pissed at the stupid old fucker meant that Jungkook's visible annoyance was minimal as Kang dropped a fucking bomb on them at Jin's dinner table.

"Forget about the girl for now. There's too much heat around her. That coworker of hers... he knows too much. You let him know too much. The second she's gone, he'll be pointing fingers - and if they land on you? They'll land on the boxing club too, and whose name is printed above the door? Mine. Too much risk."

Kang had been oblivious to the glances being thrown Jungkook's way - but of course he had been.

Again, Kang had nothing to do with Jungkook's quite frankly ridiculous choices. There really was no one to blame but himself.

And that's the worst part of it all: Jungkook knows this.

It doesn't stop the anger from fermenting in his chest though, so fucking torn apart by the fact that if everyone had just listened to him, just given him a little more time, he could have fixed things.

If Jin hadn't been so headstrong - had just given Jungkook one more fucking day - then he could have kept you. Maybe not forever, but for a little bit longer.

And there he goes again, shifting the blame.

The reality of it being his own mistake, his own failures, is too much for him to come to terms with. He'll deal with eventually, but for now, he needs to forget it all. Forget you exist. Forget the look in your eyes when you realised he'd been playing you like a fucking fiddle. Forget the anger that came when you snapped the strings before he could.

He thinks he's only ever felt sorrow once in his life, and it was what dragged him all the way to Daegu in the first place.

He's not sure that he would classify the way he feels right now as sorrow.

It's too strong of a word to associate with such a silly circumstance.

His heart isn't broken. He wasn't in love with you, for christ's sake. Was just fucking you a little too well. Forgot himself in the moments that he found solace in you; forgot who he was, what he was supposed to do.

This is all on him.

And that's what upsets him so much. He's usually good at this.

If his tryst with Namjoon's little sister had taught him anything, it was that it's easy to not care. It's easy to fuck around with the same person for an extended period of time and not catch feelings. Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy.

Was as easy as learning ABC's - except when it came to you, Jungkook found himself stumbling, mixing all the letters together, getting things all jumbled up. He was putting letters in the wrong order, but kept 'U' and 'I' side by side - 'cause even though he knows it's wrong, he likes the way it looks. Likes them together.

"Slow down, Kook." Jin's voice is stern as it bellows across the hollow room. "You'll tear something."

Beneath his breath, Jungkook mutters. "Good. Hope I fuckin' do."

"Heard that."

"Don't give a fuck."

He continues to spar against himself, the only enemy his own mind. There was no winning in this match, much like there was no winning in the life he'd chosen to live over the past couple of months.

"She's just a girl, Kook. There'll be others."

The statement hangs in the air like a rancid stench; foul and lingering for far too long.

Jungkook stops bouncing. Slumps his shoulders. Lets his gloved hands hang gamely by his hips. His laboured breaths fill the silence, but he wishes they wouldn't. Thinks it would preferable if he wasn't breathing altogether.

"I know that," he eventually says, rolling his head to his left shoulder and then his right. He bounces again. Taps his glove against the punching bag once, twice, then hits it with far more aggression than is really necessary. "Don't give a fuck about that. Don't give a fuck about her."

Jin wishes he wouldn't lie. There's no need to. The way Jungkook feels about you is stained into his fucking hair. It's not like it's black, or blue, or anything that could be explained away: it's fucking red.

Red like the blood that keeps him alive, and red like the heart that pumps a little faster whenever you're close by.

Red like the stop signs he charges through whenever he's in a rush to get to you, and red like the car you love to hate.

Red like your cheeks when you've had too much to drink, and red like the wires he'd cut on the night he raided the gas station, to stop the silent alarm from tripping.

Red like the sauce of the dakgalbi he'd shared with you on the first night you'd slept together, and red like his ears when his brother had asked if he was seeing someone new during the trip to Busan.

"You seem... I don't know. You seem a lot like the Jungkook we used to know. Jungkook before everything happened. It's nice. That's all."

He's covered in red, head to toe and - because he doesn't like to ever blame himself - it's all because of you.

It's funny, 'cause reds always been your least favourite colour.

You like green best. Wear black like it's a religion. Always thought that if Jungkook was a colour, he'd be dark brown.

The colour of his eyes, americanos on ice - whisky, too. The indulgence of a chocolate cake, the stability of a thick bonsai trunk. The fur of the dog you'd petted together on Dadaepo beach, and the box of dye you're eyeing up in an Olive Young on an island you didn't know.

And more importantly, an island that doesn't know you.

You put the box back in place, and reach for black instead. The last thing you need is to be reminded of him every single time you look in the mirror.

He doesn't know this, though.

Whenever he thinks of you in the months that follows your departure from Daegu - which is pretty fucking often - he remembers it as it was.

He has intrusive thoughts of your hair, how pretty and red it was, and how he'd never had the chance to live out that little fantasy with you; the one where you'd walk down the street, hand in hand, and people would know.

"Cute."

"Their hair! They must be so in love."

"I wish my boyfriend would do stuff like that with me."

And, in Jungkook's delusions, you'd laugh about it, for you still wouldn't actually be a couple. You'd revel in the fact other people assumed you were, though. There'd be no reason for your lack of commitment; just the excitement of the unknown. The thrill of the chase.

One day though, inevitably, he thought commitment would come.

It'd be in your shared loft apartment, a dog sleeping at the foot of your bed, your initial tattooed on his ring finger after a bet gone wrong. He still wouldn't have asked you to be his girlfriend, but he'd press a kiss against your hair and say 'we should get married.'

You'd be in a courthouse by the end of the week, him in a blazer that didn't really fit him anymore, you in a dress picked up from a vintage store downtown. You'd look beautiful in white, he's sure, but when he pictures it, you're in champagne. Rings are foregone - he imagines there'd be a wait on your smoky quartz stone, due to the short notice of your nuptials - but Hairbo rings would be used in their place.

They'd be worn for the entire drive back to the hotel - the one in Busan where he'd decided that you were 'it' for him - and then he'd eat them off as some haphazard form of foreplay.

Not that he's given it much thought.

Barely even gave thoughts of you the time of day after you left.

He doesn't notice when two days ticks into two weeks.

Doesn't think much of it when two weeks becomes two months.

He'll admit that he thinks about you briefly when your father wins the election.

It's only 'cause Kang makes a big fucking fuss about how it's all Jungkook's fault, and that if he'd have 'just done that one fucking job', then maybe Kang would have won it.

In fact, he's sure he would have won it.

He tells Jungkook that next the time he wants to fuck around with a target - 'cause everyone knows, by that point, what Jungkook had gotten up to in the dark with you (thanks a fuckin' lot, Namjoon) - then he could consider himself a target, too.

He's lucky Kang likes him. Or not so much likes him, but recognises his potential.

Has him in the ring most Thursday nights, fighting scrawny fuckers from the neighbouring clubs, fat cats placing bets on them for sport. He's become quite the fighter. Doesn't see fuck all of the bets placed on him. Gets a 5% cut if he's lucky.

But it's that or face the wrath of Kang, and he knows which he'd rather.

Plus he kind of enjoys it. Likes to fight without consequence. Hasn't been fucking without consequence as of late, so it's a good way to rid himself of his frustrations.

Jimin tries to get him back out there, but every club night turns into Jungkook getting off his tits on god knows what was sold to him in the bathroom. Normally coke. He thinks it's pretty harmless. Just a little buzz. Something to get his heart beating in the same way that you used to.

Because Jin was right. You're just a girl. There'll be others. But while there isn't, he'll get his fix in other ways.

"Slow down," his friends would tell him on the nights he got coked up a little too fast, the house key around his neck dusted in white powder.

"Slow down," his friends would tell him when he was training too hard with fractured knuckles.

"Slow down," Jin would tell Jungkook when he's in the passenger seat, but Jungkook doesn't listen, too busy running reds.

Everyone wants him to slow down, but he doesn't understand it.

Slow down? Spend more time withering away? Spend more time thinking about you?

Slow down? Take longer to get over the fact that he's never gonna get the chance to apologise, never gonna get closure?

Why would the people who care about Jungkook wish that upon him?

And so he speeds up. The coke becomes a cocktail of whatever gets him fucked up fastest. He spends every spare moment training. Jin stops hitching rides from him, 'cause he fears Jungkook is becoming too reckless.

They're all concerned.

It's been months, now.

His hair has grown out and is back to its natural shade. He's filling in his tattoos, numbing his skin, covering the art he once loved. Gets a DUI, and only gets off because the superintendent is a spectator of Jungkook's fights; just another one of Kang's Pawns.

See, Jungkook's fights aren't exactly legal. The money made from them definitely isn't legal.

It's then that he realises he's a part of it now; part of the corruption. The same system that killed his mother, the same evil that he'd wanted to destroy from the inside out.

He thinks about Harvey Dent, and the way you could quote the Dark Knight word for word if you really wanted to. It was something he'd learnt about you by accident.

The film had been playing on his television- the Netflix accompaniment to your 'chill' - and you'd stopped midway through a fucking blowjob to do a god awful impression.

'You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.'

At the time, he'd laughed; pulled you in for a dozen kisses and told you never to do the Harvey Dent voice while holding his cock again. That, and also that from now on, movies were strictly off the table whenever the pair of you hung out - only for him to snuggle up with you the next night, watching the Dark Knight Rises because you'd been too sleepy after work to do anything but nap.

The quote haunts him now.

He knows he's lived too long.

It's a Sunday - three months after you'd left - when he finds himself thinking about you again. Your father is launching a new campaign. Some bullshit about healthy family activities. Is opening more parks. A grand opening is being televised.

He doesn't watch it, 'cause why the fuck would he? Avoids that fucker like the plague. Has no idea how your father helped create someone so fucking perfect.

Then again, he supposed it does make sense. Your dad had ruined his life, and you'd ruined his ability to live one without you. Maybe the apple didn't fall too far from the tree.

Jimin is the first to enter the club that night. Keeps a safe distance from Jungkook. Doesn't think he's coked up, but hasn't been happy with him as of late. Is withholding his friendship until the stupid kid gets a fucking grip.

Tonight is different, though.

"Hey," he hums, slinking down into the sofa beside Jungkook. "How you doing, man?"

Jungkook shrugs. "Same old, same old. You?"

His question is met with a near identical answer. Jimin glances towards Jungkook as he sniffs, rubbing the tip of his nose.

"Clean," Jungkook tells him. It's been about a week since he last did gear. Didn't like the way it was fucking with his head. Was trying to cut back. "Just habit."

It's an answer Jimin accepts but doesn't necessarily believe.

Not after the broadcast today.

"You watch it?" He asks, nervous of Jungkook's reaction. The TV is playing on mute in the corner, and Jimin can't take his eyes off it.

"Nope."

Jungkook doesn't even need to ask what he's on about, for he knows. Of course he knows - just like Jimin should know that there'd be no way in hell he'd have been watching. His answer is met with a nod. Jimin nibbles on his bottom lip. Can't look at his friend.

"Kook, there's somethin-"

The sound of the side door opening interrupts Jimin, screeching against the floor because none of them had fixed the hinges yet. It's Namjoon, out of breath and a little flustered. Jin follows in behind him, completely stoic.

"Did he see? Did he fucking see?" He's looking at Jimin, but he's asking about Jungkook.

"See what?" Jungkook asks right back, not enjoying the wild beast look in Namjoon's eyes.

"Oh, Jesus."

"Joon," Jimin warns him, knowing that this was not the kind of thing Jungkook needed to hear so abruptly. It needed Jin's touch. Someone calm, someone able to manage a situation without freaking the fuck out like Namjoon was.

"You know and you haven't told him?!"

"Told me what?" Jungkook asks, knowing that whatever it is can't be good. News delivered like this could never be good.

Jimin glances over to Jin for a little guidance, who simply nods towards the TV in return. "Unmute it."

Jungkook's eyes fall on the screen, where a news reporter is talking about the new campaign with such little enthusiasm it's a wonder it ever got aired.

"Don't wanna see it," Jungkook says, despite the fact his heart is fucking racing. Forget the molly, forget the coke, forget the adrenaline that comes in the form of victories in a boxing ring - the anticipation of you outranks all of those. Has his heart resting in his throat. Threatens to choke him. "If she's there, I don't wanna know."

Oh, but it's a lie. Such a big fat glorious lie. His eyes have never been wider, the flickering screen reflecting in them as he watches some journalist try and set the scene. He doesn't recognise the place. Somewhere downtown according to the location stamp, but he can't place it. Can't get in his car and drive there just in case the campaign is still running.

In the top corner, the time reads 2:43PM. It's now gone 9. This was filmed hours and hours ago. Whatever his friends need him to see is long gone.

The camera cuts to your father. Jungkook's blood seems to rise in temperature. There's a ringing in his ears. Your father is spewing some bullshit about the importance of an active family.

Jungkook thinks that must be nice; having a family you can be active with. Shame the prick on the television screen had torn his family apart.

And then he's talking about his own family. His daughters. Plural. About how lucky he is to have them both. How grateful is he to have parented such intelligent, beautiful young women.

The camera pans.

He sees your sister. It's to be expected. She's always there.

But then the camera pans again.

And it's you.

It's fucking you.

3 months gone and then you're back, back in Daegu, back by your fucking father's side - and Jungkook is seeing red again.

Or he's just seeing you. Either or.

He'd somehow forgotten the effect you have on him.

Jungkook stands. Walks away. Paces a little. Takes deep breaths.

And then he crouches. Rests his head in his hands, wants to scream but is entirely silent.

Joon is the first to speak. "Thought you said she didn't agree with her Daddy's politics?"

Jungkook muffles a response. "She told me she didn't."

"Well, she was fuckin' lying."

He didn't think you were. You'd been riding his cock down a Daegu back alley at the time. Would have been pretty hard to lie, he thinks. Too much else going on. He doesn't tell Namjoon this, though. Doesn't want to speak about fucking you. Doesn't want to think about it either, but the mind is a cruel mistress.

"Does it really matter?" Jimin interrupts, knowing how the pair of them like to gun for one another in moments of heightened tension. Now was no time to be fighting. Not when Jungkook would already be fighting against the demons he's been running from ever since you left. "She's back, and she's untouchable."

It's smart. Oh, it's so fucking smart. Jungkook begins to laugh at how much of a clever little fucker you are.

"That's exactly why she's done it," he says. He'd be proud of you, if the circumstances were different, he thinks. "We can't fucking touch her. None of us. Not even me. Especially not me, actually. She isn't letting herself be vulnerable to us. She's protected by a public persona she didn't have before. Smart bitch." He pauses. Lets himself laugh. "Smart fuckin' bitch."

There's a smile as he says it. A little bit of awe, too. Far more sadness, though.

"Smart fuckin' boy."

The voice that echoes into the room has Jungkook frozen. He doesn't react. Thinks it's in his head. Thinks he really has been taking too much gear lately.

But then hears it again, and fucking hell, it hurts.

"What a pair we could have made."

And then there's the click of heels across the concrete floor. Jungkook can't bring himself to look in the direction of the noise - not that he really has a choice as you walk straight past his pathetically crouched body.

He's not the man he once was, you think. Shame.

His eyes are level with your hand, though, where a ring glistens underneath the cold lights of the club as you walk on by.

It's on the same finger he's been keeping spare in his imagination for months. The one reserved for Haribo rings.

You take a seat. Cross your legs. Smile at the dumbstruck faces of the stupid mother fuckers in front of you.

You had expected this reaction from one of them, but it's kind of satisfying to have them all choked out.

"Sorry I'm late, boys," you smile, all pristine and pure. None of them really understand what the fuck is happening. "I hear you were looking for me? Well, consider me found. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

219 notes · View notes

sotogalmo · 2 months ago

Text

4 — 6:40

Luka as Margarita Blankenheim thoughts once again, spawned by @nottoonedin & @rockwgooglyeyes : about the caption with the Luka & Hyuna art ( @aakaneeee / @4listr / @chokkito )

"I told you, there was only one thing I wanted." — and then added with Toon's tags along with Rock's (always amazing) thoughts- being the demon to remind that she was owned before. That everyone she cared for was owned at least- her and her brother.

Owned by aliens, yet both her and her brother weren't made like Luka. Made to fit an alien's liking; in all aspects.

He was made; "treated me like a doll/ In those days where I was only used like a decorative doll"; goes fully well with Luka's story and life. Always a doll, treated and looks like one.

"yes, I'll help you all to rest as the sleep princess, for the sake of ensuring you achieve happiness..." Its always about THEM, them, them, them. Never about himself when we compare it with Hyuna's many "I"s and "me"s, because she believes in the opposite and lives in the opposite; the ""“dark”"" for most of the pets, is where she lives at; since Luka is the most influential one I would think.

His looks, his grades, top 1, winner of season 49. So on; the others want their pets to be like Luka — if you disobey that? No one will know of you. You are forgotten, and misremembered as a monster, I'd believe. If they were to tell tales of humans escaping? I think the aliens would make it seem like the ones who left, are evil ones.

"You’re only after the wealth of a doctor’s daughter

Aside from that I’m happy, nonetheless / You can also forget our promise when we were children

If I can be by your side."

"Sleep with this gift, you’ll sleep well with this gift

Yes I am the sleep princess, for the sake of your happiness…

Everyone carries troubles: My dad, my mom, and the people of this town. For the sake of everyone who can’t sleep at night- i’ll make this gift, a sleeping medicine

Unpleasant reality, unrequited feelings. If inside a dream, these things can be forgotten

Like a baby inside their crib

With your eyes closed, abandon yourself";

(I could never really get this picture out of my head. "like a baby inside their crib, with your eyes closed, abandon yourself" is very fitting for this peice too)

I don't really know how to actually be coherent in this post. Luka as Margarita was more like "haha, dolls🫵". But you know, for the ones who know the ec lore— Luka is also very fitting for Eve Zeveda(Moonlit); considering how both Eve and Margarita are the same-ish

Being experimented on, going insane (I feel like Luka would have spiral moments), being the first (in different ways), etc.

Luka as Margarita shows more of his relationships, with the people around him I'd think,,,

Luka and Margarita, and the whole "sleeping" deal actually. Margarita is a doll (clockworker's doll to be exact), Luka was made like he was a doll- a toy.

Made into Heperu's liking. Into his perfect pet.

Luka cannot flee, for if he does; it's his end. Just as Margarita's was— she gave them a gift (poison), but in the song it seemed not so long lived, and she too- also soon passed because she also received her own gift

His "gift", is always of course, going to be sent to Hyuna first- though, along with his guardian (because subconsciously or not, I just know that he hates his life so much but he's dissociated enough to forget it all until he gets those tests again). Just as it was with Margarita to Kasper and her father

Luka is a doll, Margarita is a doll.

In some way, while Mizi is our POV(ish) character, she is not the first sinner if going by how winners of previous seasons come into the second round of a season.

Then Luka is the first sinner; but he was made in that regard. To be the first

And Hyuna; the difference.

She does not eat the apple. She does not lay down and bare the consequences of being in Alien Stage; she flees.

She runs away.

Because she wants to— because she deserves to live for herself, for the purpose of the others yet also herself.

To live life to the fullest; and not in some cage— in some tube that Luka was made in. A tube that Luka fits in, like a glove

To live bigger, and better.

Not healthy, but better than the alluring Venus fly traps that don't function correctly.

Hyuna is the dark, while she lives in such bliss (a bliss that is humanity without the aliens controlling them) that only others could never think of doing because, in some way, I just know that leaving ANAKT Garden has been told to them before; if they were to leave? Oh, they'll be seen as monsters, or something worse?

I don't really know. But I do know that some of the kids would ask, and then never really get a reply about it.

Luka is the light; but only a pale one. Even though he is bright— he's pale.

A pale yellow-gold— a pale imitation.

Not the truth, but seen as true; just like everything else in the garden "In those days where I was only used like a decorative doll

I was already broken long ago, I wanted to destroy everything

It’s a very efficacious medicine, efficacious up to being able to sleep forever

With this, finally I too will be able to sleep, from the Sleep Princess to Sleeping Princess..."

#time diary(?)#audrey/kellie's time diary #alnst luka #alien stage luka #margarita blankenheim #alien stage hyuna #alnst hyuna #dear lord. all of these posts go off the rails and arent. rhbeubruehsjs #;; tbh sorry for this post. my mind was better hours ago and now im sleep y and just. not coherent at all #imma leave you all with the thought of Hyuna as Kasper Blankenheim #i think i got to religious here. yhm. but anyway. luka as eve and hyuna as lilith

25 notes · View notes

whiskehorange · 2 years ago

Note

A threesome SO x Morticia and Gomez where they comfort their SO as they have a nightmare or night terror, please.

Morticia & Gomez

Gomez is the first to wake up as he's a much lighter sleeper than Morticia, but she wakes up a bit faster after him he he's not quick to shake her awake

Gomez understands how you feel during genuinely unpleasant night terrors are he used to frequently have them as well when Fester first left. While his night terrors might come from dreaming of living in the suburbs and having white clothing, he knows yours, no matter when you're dreaming of, are nonetheless terrifying for your sleeping mind.

Morticia is fast at comforting you as she's used to helping Gomez go back to sleep night after night. She'll shush Gomez and assure him that you'll be fine and to go get a small glass of water and a damp rag

She'll coo and caress your forehead and cheeks, gently talking to you. Telling you that you're right here with them, that you're going to be okay and to wake up, gently.

Her hands are cold but comforting as she wipes away your sweat with the rag Gomez rushed back, gently kissing your forehead before trading places in the bed with Gomez.

He hates seeing you shake and thrash about and he coaxes you to come down and wake up from a particularly bad night, water in hand as you snap awake.

Your eyes looking frantically around as your body jumps one last time from terror as you dart your eyes across the room. Morticia and Gomez usher you to sit up and drink slowly as you gather yourself and steady your breathing

Gomez gently kisses your knuckles as you relax yourself, Morticia wiping away the wet strands of your hair from your face. She kisses your forehead and guides you up to go to the bathroom to take a nice warm shower, dress into new bed clothes and lead you back to bed in hopes for a better sleep

#morticia addams x reader #gomez addams x reader #the addams family #morticia x reader x gomez

473 notes · View notes

thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 7 months ago

Text

Flight of the Sparrow (part 1)

Young!Elendil x reader. This is part one of two.

An arranged marriage fic. Also starring Raumos, the (assistant) Sail Master!

Sexual themes are touched but not elaborated upon.

*****

The Red Wave was easily the most popular of Armenelos’ taverns, at least among the cadets and the young soldiers of the Sea Guard. A simple place just a few minutes walk from the harbour, the rooms on the upper floor smaller than those of many other inns, not to mention the unpleasant smell that sometimes wafted in from the nearby city stables, but the beer was good, the fare good and hearty; perhaps most importantly, the officers of the Sea Guard tacitly knew to stay away from the place, which left their subordinates free to gossip and complain about them without fear of reprisal.

Elendil liked The Red Wave well enough, even though he knew in that moment that all the taverns, and all the beer, in Armenelos wouldn’t have sufficed to raise his spirit. He sat alone at a secluded table, indifferent to the bustling chatter that filled the inn. For the first time in his life he was wearing the Sea Guard uniform, having officially joined the corps after the successful outcome of his Sea Trial, but the joy that had filled his heart in the last two days had now somehow dimmed, just like the satisfaction he should have felt in that moment, knowing he had obtained the commission he had applied for: a spot on the Sapphire, the best ship in Númenor’s fleet, that only admitted one new soldier per year. Having received the highest marks of his troop, being chosen was in principle a mere formality, but the young soldier had nonetheless heaved a sigh of relief when the officer had listed the names of the newly admitted soldiers and the posts they had been assigned to, and he had felt younger and more awkward than ever when meeting his new captain, a respected seaman and commander who, had warned Elendil, expected great things from him.

No reason to feel under pressure, then.

Still, he should have been happy. Relieved, and excited, ready to begin a new chapter of his life and start pursuing the career he had aspired to since he was a little boy. And he was; he was elated, and he couldn’t wait to set sail on the Sapphire, and learn everything he had to know in order to one day earn his own command, a goal he had promised himself he would reach within seven years.

Nevertheless, he did feel a bit dejected, angry and frustrated, all of it because of the short conversation -but could it really be described as such, when that morning Amandil had simply called him in his study shortly before Elendil had to leave for the harbour, gave him the news that had the young soldier feel as if the ground had given way under his feet, and then dismissed him without giving him the chance to reply?- he had had with his father that day, and that was unfair, because of the fact itself and because it ruined what should have been one of the happiest moments of his life. As a son, he had to obey his father’s wishes, no matter how miserable they made him, and he did know the older man was doing it for him, to ensure his future and give him one more chance at life…

… which doesn’t mean I like this. I hate it, and if I could, if it weren’t for the Guard and my dreams within its corps, I would run away and never return…

“Here we go. I think we deserve it, after our first day.” Raumos said, reaching the table and placing two of the largest tankards of beer Elendil had ever seen on its surface; he blinked, momentarily distracted from his gloomy thoughts, and then smiled, amused.

“What would the Sail Master say, seeing his new assistant getting drunk on his first day on the job?”

“I’m not on service right now; and my master would have nothing to complain about, he brought me to another inn yestereve to celebrate I had passed the Trial and let me tell you, that man can drink.” his dearest friend replied as he sat in front of him, his long braided dark hair gently swaying with the movement. Hadn’t it been for Elendil, Raumos would have been the best cadet in their troop -a fact that had fortunately created no animosity between them, given the fact they had been friends since the first day of his training- and he could have aspired to the most prestigious spots among those offered to the new soldiers, but the young man had been set on becoming Sail Master since the first month of their training, and had not bothered to apply for any other role “So, out with it; what is wrong?”

Elendil blinked, sincerely taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You think I have not noticed? You have looked dispirited since early morning, when you have every reason to be happy and satisfied with yourself. What happened to you, my friend? Don’t tell me your captain has dismissed you already.”

Elendil sighed; he had decided to keep the matter to himself, both because he did not want to bother his friend with his problems and because he really did not want to talk about it, but he should have known Raumos would perceive he was upset nonetheless; the young man was almost too perceptive for his own good.

“It is not that; the captain is very strict, but I think he likes me. It… it concerns my father.”

“Is he ill?”

“Fortunately, no. But he has decided it is time for me to get married, and has saved me the bother of finding myself a bride; I am going to be wedded within the end of the month.”

The news had come unexpectedly to Elendil, even though, he reflected now, he should have known this moment would come soon. He was an adult, the scion of one of Númenor’s most noble families, and having officially begun his career in the Sea Guard it was time for him to settle down; it was common for noblemen to find a suitable spouse for their children, and his father probably feared he would become enamoured with a girl of low birth and insist to marry her, maybe after getting her pregnant, and the only solution was bonding him to a woman who had been chosen for him.

Raumos looked at him, clearly taken aback, as Elendil brought the tankard to his lips and took a long drink from it. “Are you serious?”

“Very serious, unfortunately. The marriage contract has already been signed, and I have absolutely no say on the matter; everything has been decided. I… cannot escape it. It will not stop me from serving in the Guard, fortunately, I’ll be free to go gallivanting around the sea as I please, but when I return home she’ll be there, eating at my table and sleeping in my bed. She… my wife.”

For a minute, neither of the two young soldiers spoke, both focused on their thoughts, and their drinks. Elendil felt tears of impotent rage filling his eyes, and he brusquely dried them with his hand, aware that crying wouldn’t help. He knew certain things were to be expected from him, as the heir of a powerful and noble family, but, perhaps naively, he had never thought he would have to worry about getting married. His father had always supported his ambitions within the Sea Guard, and celibacy was common among sailors, especially officers, given the long periods they had to spend away from home; he had been introduced to a few noble ladies since he had come of age, but when he had shown no interest in them beyond a short walk or a dance, the matter had ended there.

Or so he hoped. “I… I don’t understand why I have to do this.” he murmured, looking at his hands “My family doesn’t lack wealth or social connections; and my father has never been an avid man. And still, he has done everything behind my back, knowing I would have never accepted this; he doesn’t care about me, about my life. This marriage will make me miserable, he has to know, and still he gave my hand away! How could he do this to me?!”

The last part he had shouted, loud enough most of the other patrons had turned to look at him; grumbling -this was exactly what he needed, to make a fool of himself in front of dozens of his new comrades- Elendil hid himself behind his tankard, his cheeks burning.

Raumos reflected on the matter for a while, sipping his own drink. Elendil envied him enormously; his family was not unlike any other, his mother worked in a fabric shop and his father was a respected, but not particularly wealthy, shipwright, and he would probably be free to choose his own bride, or not to marry at all if he so desired.

“Well… at least you do not have a woman now, since you would have to break up with her.” the assistant Sail Master gently pointed out in the end.

“Yes, at least.” Elendil repeated darkly, and sighed; he had had his first experiences with the fairer sex, like most men his age, but he had never officially courted anyone and had sworn himself off women for the entire duration of his Sea Guard training, which meant it had been exactly a year and two days since his last kiss “Do you want to know what my father told me? That I was lucky, since I am a soldier in the Sea Guard, and we have a large house; I will simply have to sail as often and for as long as I can, keeping away from home, and sleep in a different set of rooms from hers, so that each of us would be free to live our own life. A heir and a spare, this is what he told me, and then you can do whatever you want; I don’t even think he expects me to remain faithful to her, if I can do it discreetly. You have no idea how… disgusted I felt…”

He sighed; he felt trapped, his life and future and intimacy used as a bargaining chip to amass wealth and influence his family did not need, and he was not interested in. The young soldier lowered his gaze, observing the uniform he had put on for the first time that day, after dreaming about wearing it since he was a child; his career would probably be a source of comfort for him, not to mention a way to escape the home he would soon have to share with his bride, but in that moment even that did not help; even that couldn’t make him feel less scared.

“I know I have much to be happy about now, but my life is going to change forever, and I have always thought that if I ever decided to get married, it would be… well…”

“... for love?”

“Yes.” Elendil admitted, embarrassed despite himself “You can laugh about it if you want.”

Raumos didn’t laugh; he knew what his friend was feeling, and was deeply saddened for him. “Who is the girl?” he asked. “Tell me she’s easy on the eye at least.”

Elendil shrugged; by that time, half of his drink had moved from the tankard to his stomach already, and he was starting to feel the effects. “She is the daughter of another noble family; they moved to the city last year. And I have absolutely no idea of what she looks like, since I am only going to meet her tomorrow.”

It made sense, he thought darkly; the marriage pact had been made without his consent, which meant there was no need for him to see his prospective bride and decide whether he liked her or not.

“Oh, Eru…”

“Exactly my thought. My father considers her suitable, which simply means her reputation is immaculate and she is her father’s only heir; he could barely tell me what colour her hair is. I am destined to spend the rest of my life married to a woman I know absolutely nothing about! This is a nightmare… and I can’t wake up.”

Elendil drank again; he felt pleasantly warm, which meant he was more than a little inebriated already, even though he could usually hold his liquor. “Sorry for boring you with my problems.” he muttered.

“You know you do not have to apologise to me.” Raumos answered affectionately “I… I really wish I could do something to help you, my friend. Are you sure you cannot escape this situation in any way? What if you marry someone of your choice before your father can force you to do the same with this woman? Even just temporarily?”

Elendil sniggered despite himself. “And how would that improve my situation? There is no woman on this island I’d be willing to marry, not in a month and not in a decade.” he pointed out “And if we had this false marriage annulled, my father would once again insist I wed the woman he has chosen. Believe me, I have no way out; if it weren’t for the Sea Guard, and the fact I have just earned a spot on the Sapphire, I would join a merchant caravan, leave and never return.”

“What if you do something so scandalous and inappropriate your bride’s family decides to rescind the contract?”

“Like what?”

“I do not know… go to the palace, take your clothes off and run around where everyone can see you?”

“Raumos…!”

The two friends spent a good hour at the tavern before paying and leaving; their first drink had been more than enough, but in the end Elendil decided a walk on the beach was in order to clear his thoughts and not return home looking, and sounding, like the last of the drunkards. The sun had almost completely disappeared behind the horizon, the first stars peeking in the blue-lavender sky above them; the salt laden wind caressed his hair. He was about to say good-bye to Raumos, who had to take a different path to return to the home of the family he boarded with since he had moved to the city, but his friend was quicker.

“I think I have an idea.”

Elendil smiled tiredly. “Another?”

“Not to save you from your impending marriage, unfortunately; but I have something that will probably raise your mood, and make a smile return to your face.”

“And what would that be?”

The assistant Sail Master simply smiled in return. “I’ll meet you here after the tenth bell.” he said “Do not wear your uniform, and bring a cape with a hood. And some coin.”

“Why? What are you planning?” Elendil asked again, but his friend simply smiled in return.

“You’ll see it.” he answered cryptically “If it is like I was told, we will not regret it.”

Elendil started regretting having left his home only five minutes after meeting Raumos. He was confident his friend was not involved in any shady business, but the assistant Sail Master’s concept of danger was admittedly more flexible than most people’s, and when they had met he had immediately been asked to wear his hood in order to conceal his identity. Whatever Raumos had planned, Elendil decided as he trudged along under the pouring rain that had just started falling, he didn’t want any part in it; he had enough on his plate already, between his impending wedding and his new duties with the Sea Guard. The last thing that he needed -that they both needed- was to get himself in trouble.

The assistant Sail Master remained deaf to his friend’s questions until they reached the city’s large arena, where athletic competitions, mainly chariot races and fights among armed combatants, often took places; Elendil had been there often, sometimes with his father, but no event took place at night, and the imposing building was shrouded in darkness.The streets surrounding the arena were likewise dark and silent; both young men wore a dagger at their belt, like all Sea Guard cadets were instructed to do, but Elendil knew they were the perfect victims for an ambush: alone, unable to call for help, and easy to outnumber.

“Raumos, where are we going?”

“You will see; be patient, we are almost there.” the assistant Sail Master answered once more, a smile on his lips; just like his friend he was drenched, but he seemed to grow more excited the more their mysterious destination approached “Here, now we have to climb over.”

They had passed a few closed shops, then a small inn, and found themselves face to face with the wall that surrounded the grounds of the arena; the gate was closed, and the two friends had to scale it before crossing an empty courtyard. Elendil shivered; whatever awaited them he at least hoped it would be dry, and warm. Resigned to receive no answers to his questions, the young soldier followed his friend until the high walls of the arena were in front of them; Raumos stopped in front of a small door, on the side of the edifice that, Elendil remembered vaguely from his last visit, hosted the stables and a warehouse forbidden to the spectators.

Raumos knocked; for a full minute, the only sound around them was the soft splash of the rain drops on the ground. Then, finally, the door opened, just enough for someone to ask from the inside: “What do you want?”

“We are here for the gathering.”

“Do you have the coin for it?”

Elendil was about to retrieve the coin-purse he had bought with him from home, but Raumos signalled him to stop, and placed two large coins on the outstretched hand that had emerged from the dark; coins that were not of any currency the young soldier had ever seen.

“Enter. Quick.”

The door closed behind them. Elendil looked around; sounds of merriment -laughing, music, voices raised in conversation- came from their right along a torch-lit corridor; they took off their rain-soaked capes, then the armed man who had opened the door to them, backed by two other guards, asked them to hand over their daggers.

“You may go.”

Raumos nodded his thanks, and he and Elendil walked away. Was this some sort of celebration?, the young soldier wondered; all that secrecy and excitement for a feast, no matter how bawdy or exclusive, was more than a little disappointing, but he decided not to look too dissatisfied; after all his friend had brought him there to raise his spirit and distract him from his problems, which he had to appreciate.

“If you recognize someone, pretend not to. And don’t tell anyone.” Raumos instructed in the end, as a large door, behind which the event was clearly taking place, appeared in front of them. Elendil blinked.

“What?”

“Well, you will see this is not a feast like most others; and for this reason, the participants would rather not spread the word too much.”

Elendil bit his lip; he trusted Raumos with his life, but suddenly he wished his friend had not involved both of them with whatever was awaiting behind that door.

“What sort of place is this?” he asked, and the assistant Sail Master smiled, amused.

“The sort you will have to renounce in a month, since I know the sort of man you are.” he answered “But you are not married yet, therefore…”

He pushed the door in front of them, letting the shutter open to a large, semi-circular room, its ceiling low and its walls covered in graffiti. For a moment, Elendil thought he had indeed arrived in the middle of a feast: trays and dishes with foods and beverages-filled amphoras were arranged on two large tables in the middle of the room, and comfortable couches and armchairs filled some of the remaining space; wall-mounted torches lit the room, the air vaguely heavy because of the lack of windows: the room was situated underground, roughly under the arena’s main platform.

Around forty men, as well as a dozen women, were enjoying the food and the company, sitting or standing in small groups or choosing their food and drinks at the tables; animated but friendly conversation filled the room, intertwined with the sweet melody produced by a trio of musicians, two lute-players and an harpist, who occupied a corner of the room. On the wall across from him, partially covered by a tapestry, Elendil saw an arch, presumably leading to another room.

A feast, its venue unexpected but otherwise almost normal, not unlike many other similar gatherings Elendil had attended, if only for a single, not negligible detail…

Most of the attendees were naked.

“This is why I asked you to bring some coin.” Raumos explained a moment later, having also taken his time to observe the scene “The entry is free of charge, but the company is not.”

He looked at Elendil expectantly, curious to ascertain his friend’s reaction, but the young soldier was too flabbergasted to speak.

“Raumos… is this a brothel?” he hissed in the end “But… that is impossible!”

Houses of pleasure -more commonly known as whorehouses, as well as several other vulgar names- had been not uncommon in Númenor’s towns for centuries. Some were little more than a small room with a single worker and a rough bedding, others were hosted in sumptuous buildings, had ladies -and gentlemen- specialised in different services and a strictly selected clientele; there were laws regarding the opening hours the houses had to keep and a minimum required distance from the inhabited area, and owners and workers paid the taxes just like any other tradesperson. In the last century, a movement had grown in influence, demanding the closure of all houses of pleasure and similar establishments, citing a concern for the morality of Númenor’s people as its main argument; finally, the result had been achieved a couple of decades back. Elendil, at the time too young to understand the matter, vaguely remembered one night, as they walked home after his father had brought him to spend time with his ill grandfather and the visit had protracted longer than intended, he had seen a woman, naked save for a scarf draped around her shoulders, standing on the door of a small house. The woman had smiled at him, and Elendil had returned the greeting waving his hand at her, wondering why she had not put some clothes on in a chilly autumn night; then his father had seen her and had lifted the child in his arms, covering his eyes with an hand, to quickly carry him away.

That had been his only brush with the world of paid pleasure. He was not so naive as to believe that sort of transactions did not happen anymore; there were people of both sexes who received clients in their houses, and in some out of hand inns there were maids who, for a tip, joined the clients in their rooms.

This, on the other hand, was something completely different, and Elendil found himself unable to talk as Raumos took his arm to lead him inside the room, while one the guards closed the door behind them.

“This place is… well, you could call it a very exclusive society.” the assistant Sail Master explained, finally taking pity on his friend’s astonishment “From what I am told, a few rich or powerful men opened it a few years ago; they meet once a month, and as you can imagine all of it is extremely secret, since it is technically against the law. The coins you saw me give the guards at the entrance are a sort of safe conduct; the associates use them to symbolise that the person carrying them is trustworthy and will keep their mouth shut regarding the activities that take place here.”

Raumos added that the son of the family he boarded with was the attendant of one of the members of the society, who had gifted him two coins the previous week; having recently gotten engaged, the man had decided not to use them and had given them to Raumos, after making him swear he would keep his secret even under torture.

They walked together around the room, observing the scene around them. Most of the men present were older; the women, in contrast, were mainly young and attractive, and even less dressed than the one Elendil had seen that night decades back; a couple of them smiled at the two young soldiers, and Raumos let his gaze follow the oscillatory movement of the hips of a particularly pretty girl before walking to the table to take two goblets of wine. Some prostitutes were sitting on the knees of their clients; others were leading them away by hand, headed for more intimate corners. A couple of men, who had clearly drunk a goblet too many or were simply unconcerned with keeping their affairs private, had had the girls lie on the couches and were mounting then in plain sight, apparently engaged in a test of endurance, surrounded by others who cheered for them and even betted on the result.

Elendil sipped his wine slowly, his stomach still vaguely ill after the session at the Red Wave; a moment later, the goblet almost slipped from his hand when his eyes fell on an older man, still more dressed than most, with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter on his knees.

“Eru, but that is…”

“No, he is not.”

“... the King’s head councillor! He’s a friend of my father, he has been married for decades, and father told me that man was one of the most ardent supporters of the law that closed the brothels…”

He had spoken in a whisper, but a moment later the older man, until then focused on the girl who had started undressing him, met Elendil’s gaze; the young soldier was quick to turn, hoping he had not been recognized, even though, he reflected, he had nothing to fear or to feel ashamed of.

Raumos motioned him to be silent. “Any man you see here, even your old friend or your captain, pretend you have never met them.” he suggested “Don’t you understand most of these men are married, and all of them would have much to lose if the word they are patronising a place that has been outlawed for decades spread?”

“Then they could avoid patronising it.” Elendil argued; he was not usually the judging sort, a moralist even less, but something he could never stand was hypocrisy.

“I know. Well, what do you think?” Raumos asked, gesturing to the room around them with his arm; a blonde girl, busy serving a tray of food a few steps away, noticed the assistant Sail Master and looked at him appreciatively “I thought you would appreciate this place, at least as a way to take your mind off… well, the discussion you had with your father this morning. You are not officially married yet, and this could be your last chance to enjoy a woman’s company. Still, we can leave if you would rather do something else.”

Despite everything, Elendil felt himself smiling; he still felt terrible thinking about what awaited him in a few short weeks, but it was comforting to know he did not have to face the future alone. “You are a good friend, Raumos. The best I have, truly.”

“And you never forget it. So? You want to go or…?”

Elendil shrugged his shoulders; he had no particular plan for the rest of the night, but it was still better than spending it sulking in his bedroom, or drowning his sorrow in beer at the Red Wave. “Let us stay a while.”

The next half an hour passed quickly. A smiling Raumos disappeared out of the room hand in hand with the blonde girl, and Elendil waved at him, grinning; he was also approached by a pair of young women, but politely declined their offer to keep him company. Two prostitutes improvised a dance on a table, their naked bodies rubbing against each other in a simulated rapport, and the young soldier, who sat nearby, found himself captivated despite himself.

He was wondering whether, in case he actually spent his coin to lead a woman out of the room, he would wake up the next morning feeling satisfied or miserable, when a man entered the room emerging from behind the tapestry, opening his arms to attract everyone’s attention. “Gentleman, the fight is going to begin soon.” he announced solemnly “Please take your seats if you wish to attend.”

The announcement seemed to arouse the interest of many of the attendees, since some immediately stood from their seats, abandoning their partners to walk to the room hidden behind the tapestry. Someone immediately began to propose new bets.

“The champion has been undefeated for more than a year; I bet ten.”

“Are you sure? I have seen the challenger fight at the barracks, he will break the Sparrow’s neck in a minute…”

So it was a fighting match, Elendil reflected; unlike the exchange of sexual favours for coin, blood sports were not outlawed -they were, instead, the most common and popular sort of event that took place in the arena that hosted them that night- and betting on them was commonplace, but, Elendil reflected, perhaps the members of the secret society had organised the combat as an entertainment for the evening.

He looked around him; Raumos had not returned from whatever alcove the blonde girl had led him to enjoy a little private time and, the young soldier decided, he might as well go and see what would happen.

He followed the crowd under the tapestry, walking in another, slightly smaller room; here there were no seats, only a rectangular space delimited by ropes and poles mounted on the floor - a far cry from the spacious oval-shaped platform above their heads. Soon, a small crowd had assembled around the ring; Elendil was quick to slip in front of other spectators to secure a good spot.

The man who had announced the match stood in front, acting as a master of ceremonies. He first announced the evening’s challenger, who was welcomed by clapping and encouragement: a tall, powerfully built man, who Elendil heard the man next to him comment had served in Númenor’s army and had proved himself as a soldier and fighter.

“He can do it.” someone predicted as the fighter took off his tunic to reveal an ample chest and muscled arms “Look at his size! He will toss the Sparrow around like a rag doll.”

The man next to Elendil smiled. “Are you sure? He would not be the largest challenger our champion has defeated.”

“I know I’m right this time. Fifteen on the challenger.”

“Deal.”

A couple of minutes passed, as the challenger, standing at one side of the platform naked to the waist, stretched his muscles and punched the air, surrounded by the chatter and hollering of the spectators; looking around him, Elendil realised the mounting excitement was due to the imminent arrival of the champion.

“Well, is there going to be a fight or not?!”

“Where is the Sparrow?! We want to see the Sparrow!”

“He has no chance to win, let me fight in his place…!”

Finally, the master of ceremonies raised his hands to ask for silence. “And now, the moment you have all been waiting for!” he announced solemnly, clearly enjoying the trepidation his words had aroused “Noble lords and friends of the arena… please welcome our champion, undefeated after fourteen matches… the Sparrow!”

The responding uproar seemed to shake the room’s walls; fists were raised, hands clapped, and many eyes ran to the tapestry-covered arch, which a moment later was raised to allow the passage of a cloak-covered figure. Elendil was sure not even a triumphant general returning from the battlefield would be saluted with such honour; the audience’s enthusiasm was deafening, the champion’s name invoked and praised all around, and some pushed their way forward to have a better look.

Indifferent to the commotion his arrival had provoked, the Sparrow walked unhurriedly to the closer end of the ring, his head bent low; when he stood face to face with his opponent, he finally lifted the hood that covered his head, letting the cape fall to the ground.

For the second time that night, Elendil was left speechless.

Her arrival. Her head. Her opponent.

The Sparrow was a woman!

For a moment, the young soldier thought this was a joke. That the match the cheering crowd had gathered to witness was nothing more than a continuation of the activities he had witnessed in the first room, and that she and the challenger would perform together for the amusement and the pleasure of the crowd. But then, why were the attendees exchanging bets and discussing who of the two fighters had better chances at winning?

The Sparrow, it had to be told, had a completely different attitude from that of the prostitutes who were entertaining the men in the other room. Completely serious and focused, she remained indifferent to the clapping and shouting around her as she flexed her legs and arms, warming her muscles for the match; she was younger than most of the men, practically dressed with a pair of breeches and a simple shirt. For a moment, as she turned to throw a punch against an invisible opponent, her eyes met Elendil’s, and the young soldier felt his heart leap in his throat.

When the woman turned, not noticing or perhaps deliberately ignoring him, he could not help feeling disappointed for a moment.

The man next to him, who had bet on the Sparrow’s victory, noticed.

“This is your first time here at the Arena, I gather.” he pointed out, his tone friendly.

Elendil smiled, vaguely embarrassed. “Is that so evident?”

“A little, but you need not worry, we are all peers here. Are you interested in the match?”

“I am. Are they… going to fight? To actually fight?”

“Absolutely. It does seem strange, or unfair, but believe me, that young woman knows what she is doing, and no one is forcing her to be here. I was present on the first night she arrived; many thought she was joking, or did not realise what she was getting herself involved in, but she did. She insisted she was allowed to compete, and the other fighter tried to be gentle with her… until she broke his nose with her second blow.” the man recounted “She won that night, and all the nights that followed. She has never been defeated, and she has also bested soldiers and men much bigger than her.”

Elendil was fascinated; he couldn’t wait to see the champion fight. “But who is she?” he asked “What is her name?”

The man smiled at his enthusiasm; clearly the Sparrow had earned the affection of a new admirer. “I would really like to know, my young friend; but no one knows.” he explained “She has never revealed her name, just like our associates here keep their involvement in this society secret; she does not speak like one who was raised here in the city, but apart from this she is a pretty mysterious character. Look now, they are going to begin.”

The two fighters were now face to face, the master of ceremonies between them. The man quickly recapitulated the rules -no weapons could be used, the fighters were allowed to yield, a fighter was declared the winner if their opponent lost consciousness or were unable to rise from the floor- before formally opening the match.

“Destroy him, Sparrow!”

The challenger had probably been informed of the danger his much smaller opponent posed, because he did not seem surprised by her sex; he wasted no time before charging at her, and the woman was equally quick in evading him, stepping aside to avoid his punch. Raised fists to protect her face, her legs bent, she was clearly at ease in the ring, facing her opponent without fear; Elendil quickly decided he would cheer for her.

At first neither of the two fighters seemed able to take the lead; the challenger tried again and again to hit the Sparrow, growing angrier and more frustrated the more she kept evading him, moving with the swiftness of a runner from one point to the other and keeping her distance from her opponent’s longer reach. Some of the spectators, thirsty for blood and violence, complained they were getting bored, but most of the others waited patiently, following what was clearly a deliberate strategy.

“Come on! You are twice her size, just break her leg!”

“Hold tight, girl! You are almost there!”

Several minutes passed, and neither had landed a single blow. In a couple of moments, the challenger’s fists brushed against the young woman’s face and stomach; a direct hit would probably be enough to throw her to the ground, but to Elendil it was clear she was biding her time, tiring her opponent out before counter-attacking.

The audience followed the fight with bated breath; betting had ceased, and even the attendees who favoured the challenger looked preoccupied. “Not long now.” the man next to Elendil murmured, and the young soldier nodded, his blue eyes fixed on the Sparrow; her opponent was heaving, an almost homicidal intent evident in his gaze, while the woman seemed completely in control of herself, focused and even unworried, her chest barely rising with her breathing.

And then, she attacked. It was sudden, lightning-quick, a kick against the challenger’s left calf, her limb much smaller than his but that nonetheless forced the man to his knee with a cry of pain; she took advantage of the moment of distraction to hit him again, this time her kick against his face. The challenger had the presence of mind to raise his arm for protection, but the blow did land, and the man swayed, the impact almost violent enough to throw him to the ground.

He stood, and she was ready to face him; Elendil realised the Sparrow could not hope to avoid her opponent anymore, and while the man was clearly tired, and frustration and rage might have made him more prone to make a mistake, he was also much bigger and physically stronger than her, which gave him a distinct advantage. Elendil bit his lip, affected despite himself; that young woman was no one to him, but he did want to see her win - against all odds, against everyone who probably considered her unfit for fighting on account of her gender, using her intelligence and agility to combat her opponent’s brute strength.

And that she did.

The challenger avoided her third blow, and the fourth; and then, he hit her, his fist connecting with her stomach, and the young woman almost flew out of the ring, thrown back several feet. She hit her head violently, and for a moment Elendil feared she had lost consciousness, or was at least too hurt to continue the fight; but she was not, and among the encouragement of her admirers, the Sparrow stood slowly, wiping blood away from her mouth. She walked back to the centre of the ring, determination filling her eyes; you have hit me a first time, she seemed to be thinking, there will not be a second one.

There was, unfortunately for her, and a third as well, but the Sparrow was also able to land several blows on her opponent, by then completely out of breath; a large bruise was forming around her left eye, perspiration soaking her clothes, but the challenger was limping, a second blow having reached his calf, and he seemed to have to breathe through his mouth.

“They are not going to resist for much longer.” Elendil muttered; he did not know whether the man next to him had heard, and he did not care, because he was simply thinking out loud. “She needs to end this soon.”

The Sparrow had to have come to the same conclusion, because she attacked once again, charging against her opponent; she evaded a new punch, but before she had time to strike herself her opponent grabbed her by the back of her head and hurled her against the floor.

A shout filled the arena. “NO!” Elendil screamed.

Smiling menacingly, the man blocked the Sparrow under him, his knee pressed against the small of her back, an elbow bent behind it so that it had to be close to snapping; pain had deformed the young woman’s face, but she did not scream, did not cry and, most importantly, she did not yield. When her opponent attempted to suffocate her, she bit his hand, and as a cry of pain and surprise erupted from the man’s lips, she slipped out of his grasp; she turned without standing, and without a moment of hesitation, she kicked him between his legs as hard as she could.

Some winced; no one laughed, but they all cheered when, after a last violent punch to the face to make sure her opponent would remain on the ground, the Sparrow stood, heaving and in pain but indisputably the winner, at the centre of the ring, her fist raised by the master of ceremonies as the audience celebrated her fifteenth victory in a row, clapping and rejoicing.

She was bleeding, drenched in sweat, bruises blossoming on her face and body; Elendil could not stop looking at her, and when their eyes met again, he knew that this time she had seen him as well.

This fic is dedicated to two of the best people on Tumblr: @hippodameia and @montyc. Thank you so much for asking!!

#The Lord of the Rings #The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power #The Rings of Power #Rings of Power #Elendil #Elendil x reader #Elendil the Tall #Lloyd Owen #Bellona's stuff

34 notes · View notes