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s3thwrit3sstuff · 11 months

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❝ WHY AM I IN LOVE ALONE? (WHY AM I HURTING ALONE?) ❞

Gojo Satoru x male!reader | angst with comfort | unrequited love, ex-cheater!Gojo, arranged marriage | wc: 8.5 k | not proofread

warnings: character death (Geto Suguru), mentions of infidelity, r! has self-esteem issues, r! has some dark thoughts about su!c!de, mentions of parent death, abuse from parents (r! is from an influential sorcerer clan, his family kinda sucks), talks of virginity

masterlist; part 1; part 2; part 3; alternate ending; playlist; au's and what if's

authors note: there are some time skips here and there, hopefully, it isn’t too confusing! I really appreciate all the comments on the first part of this and I hope this satisfies you guys!

The flame of the candle casts the room in an evershifting blue. Pulsing and moving, pushing and pulling as the shadows undulated. It resembles the way sunlight dances on the waves of the ocean, piercing through the waters to reach as far down as it could.

It reminded you of —

Of summer.

The candle flickers, sparks of orange briefly flying, just as your father walks through the door of cement. It takes five men to push but they do so without complaint. Your eyes squint to protect themselves from the fluorescent lighting of the hallway and the flame burns upwards in the offence.

The men hastily pull the door closed. Your ears itch from the grinding noise of stone and your skin warms from the candle but you say nothing.

Your father kneels across from you. Unbothered by the still-furious flame.

The candle is the only barrier between you. It sits on top of cylindrical stone; the melted wax nearly covers the top, some dripping down the sides but you’ve never seen this candle shrinking or the flame dimming.

The room you’re in is one of great importance to your family. It was taller than it was wide. Dark as sin without this cursed flame. The (L/N) family nearly fell into ruins some century ago, a member of your clan decided to turn this room into a place where no secrets would be safe, so you’d have no enemies.

After he had done this, your clan flourished.

It served its purpose. No lies could be told in this room.

“Is Gojo Satoru in love with you?”

The flame calms from its fury. As if listening.

“Yes.”

Sparks of orange fly, shooting from the wick and pathetically fizzing out. His eyes darken, swallowing that gorgeous blue like a black hole.

“So your mother speaks truthfully.”

He had hoped it was just mindless gossip — misplaced anger from his own infidelity. Your father was never one to admit your mother was right.

“Geto Suguru.”

His name makes you turn your eyes down to your lap. Your father’s frown deepens. Further settling into permanent lines of displeasure on his ageing face.

“My son, born of the (L/N) clan, promised to marry Gojo Satoru. A six-eye user, soon-to-be head of the Gojo clan. My son who had centuries of ancestors fought to put him in this position of power with a strong family name, riches and opportunities beyond belief.”

“Bested by a boy whose parents aren’t even curse users.”

That haunting blue burns steadily.

“This is your duty, as son of the (L/N) clan.”

“Father, how could I compete with Geto Suguru — “

Your father reaches through the flames and grabs your face. The skin of his arm reddens as the flame roars at the disrespect. It licks at your eyebrow, your eyes, your cheeks. It burns. Though not like a regular flame would. It doesn't eat away at your flesh and render the fat past that — the flame hisses, digs under your flesh, and sets your nerves ablaze.

The pain is white hot and you swear you burst a vein in an attempt to grit your teeth together. It's like you're burning from the inside out, your skull heating up and glowing from where your skin is stretched thinnest.

You've been through this time and time again but the pain never dulls. It pries your lips open and a strangled wail is ripped from your throat.

Your face is held so tightly your cheekbones feel as though one more gram of pressure would shatter it. His face splits through the fire as he scowls down at you.

“I will not let the decision of a 15-year-old boy destroy what I’ve tried so hard to build. This is bigger than you ever will be. Your marriage to Gojo Satoru will make our clan more powerful than ever.”

You weep as you nod your head while nails dig into the flesh of your thighs. He lets you go, pushing your face away from his hand as if he was tossing trash away. You back away, hands shakily hovering above where your skin feels as though it's sizzling. Like you always do, you lean on the wall and the cool wall is like heaven.

The flame calms just as your heart does, at times it is as though it pulses with the beating in your chest.

In those minutes, your father stays stoic.

“Love is worthless in matters of power. The things I ask you to do will strengthen our clan, and strengthen our abilities. Put your selfishness aside, boy. This is a debt you owe to your flesh and blood.”

“...Yes, father.”

“Why do people stay with someone like that?” Megumi scoffs from behind the couch. He’s dressed in his pajamas, hair still damp from the shower he took. Meanwhile, you were sitting watching the television, dressed for bed yourself.

“I think it's sweet,” you say. The series was truly ridiculous and overly dramatized. Some cheesy and soapy drama that plays at night when lonely adults need someone else’s problems to obsess over.

“He stays with her even with all her flaws.” Megumi’s face says more than he ever could. You laugh, beckoning him over to settle next to you.

This is the usual. Gojo is always busy with missions here and there. Sometimes even needing to get onto a plane - he could be gone for days at a time. Leaving you, Tsumiki and Megumi.

Well, just you and Megumi now.

He doesn’t react as you squeeze him a little closer, just tucking his legs comfortably to lean on you.

“Okay, but that doesn’t negate the fact that she’s hurt him. I mean, it’s honorable but — isn’t he tired? I mean, she slept with his dad. Twice!”

You chuckle, grabbing the towel he had slung over his shoulders to help him dry his hair.

“You were paying attention! I thought you hated this show,” Megumi rolls his eyes. “How can I not pay attention? It’s so stupid I can’t look away.”

“Please. Just admit you like watching shitty tv shows,” you tease.

“I really don’t,” he denies. Megumi shrinks a bit despite his words and you chuckle. The dialogue from the TV continues and Megumi relishes the ambience.

The way you gently dry his hair. The dumb characters talk about who slept with whom and what impossible surgeries they wanna do. The lingering scent of the takeout dinner you indulged in with him today. Your shampoo and body soap and the smell of the detergent you use help him sleep easier at night.

“Is it the same for you?”

He feels your fingers pause. Not frightfully, more confused. He continues as your movement does.

“You’re like this doctor. You stay even if he hurts you.”

“What are you talking about? Gojo’s never hurt me,” your tone was perplexed.

“I’m not blind," Megumi mumbles. You pull your hands away from Megumi, his towel now on your lap as you wait for him to turn around. He does.

Then a commercial plays, something about a new aquarium that’s just opened; it casts the living room in blue and your heart gets caught in your throat.

‘ It’s not the same, ‘ you tell yourself, ‘ I’m not my father. ‘

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“You rarely call him by his name. You stay up when he’s here but turn in early when he’s not. You go to clan meetings alone but he brings you around everywhere when he’s here. Dates, gifts, compliments.”

Megumi shrinks under your gaze but meets your eyes unwaveringly.

“Every time you look like you’re about to smile at his jokes you just...pause and remind yourself about something...is it Geto?”

Megumi inhales sharply at the expression on your face. The commercial had come and gone and the next that plays is a stream of constant colour; chaotic and disarrayed. The red-orange and yellow make you look like a curse.

But then your eyes soften and his grip on his knees loosens.

“I — I saw a picture.“

There are pictures of Geto in the house. Gojo said he would be fine without it but you found it ridiculous how much hurt he thinks he’s saving you from. You were already brought to your knees and metaphorically beaten down by the man you love and the man he loved; your best friends.

A picture of the four of you in high school wasn’t going to make you less or more pained.

Megumi’s asked about Geto before. But not like this; not like he knows something he shouldn’t. Geto wasn’t a forbidden topic.

But.

Your children deserved better than that. They should believe that love is important and that their fathers are there for them through whatever it is. That Satoru and (Y/N) were not going to just disappear and leave them to fend for themselves.

“On his flipphone.”

Of course.

Of course he kept that useless piece of crap.

Of fucking course.

“The wallpaper was of them. They seemed closer than friends. Did Gojo hurt you because of Geto?”

“Despite his flaws, he’s still my husband, Megumi.”

That doesn’t satisfy your son. His brows twitch and he gets that defiant look in his eyes that makes your stomach twist into knots. The ghost of that man, Megumi’s biological father, always sweeps through your brain every time he gets so stubborn.

You don’t hate Megumi because of it. Gods know how much you wish you weren’t a (L/N) — you wouldn’t have chosen your parents. Your mother, absolutely. Your father could go rot in hell with his new wife.

“But you’re unhappy.”

“I’m not — ”

The trailer of a movie plays; it casts the room in orange for a brief few seconds.

“You are. You’re lying. I’m not a little kid anymore, I’d be fine if you...if you divorced Gojo, I don’t mind if you move out. If you’d let me, I’d stay over. A kid from my school has divorced parents, he seems fine. He said it made his parents happier.”

“Megumi — “

“I can take it. You don’t have to stay together for Tsumiki and me anymore. You’ve raised us well.”

Not well enough if he’s pleading for you to leave Gojo.

“You’re just a boy. You don’t know what you’re saying. I think the TV show is really starting to get to you,” you jest. Megumi’s never been one for jokes though. Especially not ones as dumb as yours. Your awkward grin falls and you sigh.

“It wasn’t because of Geto. Suguru and Satoru...”

Megumi’s ears prick. He could count on his hands the number of times you’ve uttered Gojo’s name. Each time, it’s said with such bitter longing. The rotten essence of first love and cruel summers dripped from every syllable. This time, however, there’s a softness to it, an emotion Megumi would later know as yearning.

“They were the strongest and they were inseparable. With Suguru, Satoru could just be. With Satoru, Suguru felt worthy.”

“I was,” you sucked in a breath. “I was...there. Yes, it hurt me but I love Satoru, Megumi.”

How could you not?

Those heavenly eyes and boyish grin. His lips seem painted by the angels and his hair spun from those impossible-to-reach clouds and the purest of light. Satoru was beyond beautiful.

He was funny, brash, and annoyingly persistent. His very existence was irritating to some; he was good at everything. His hands were like Midas, everything he touched turned into gold.

Nonetheless, he was human. You would know better than most. When Suguru left Satoru looked like a facade of a young god. That’s what Suguru did to him that you never could. Suguru made him human.

So you didn’t blame Satoru for falling in love. You couldn’t even blame Suguru for falling in love.

You were an obligation chosen out of his own comfort. (Y/N), his precious friend whom he’d marry once the two of you were 17 years old.

You were duty and honor. You were a reminder of his godhood. He was untouchable and ethereal; even so, he wanted nothing more than to fall into the arms of the one person who could make him unravel his soul. He held Suguru more preciously as you aged until he couldn’t anymore.

“I love him.”

“But you’re sad. He makes you...sad.”

It pained you to see Megumi try to understand. He was your son. This talk of a loveless marriage and divorce, him saying he would be fine with the aftermath as if he would have to carry responsibility for it.

He was just a boy. He was your boy and he’s trying to protect you when it should be the other way around.

So you shake your head and reach forward to cup his cheek in your palm.

“I still love him, Megumi. Sometimes, that’s enough.”

Megumi wants to tell you it isn’t.

If love was enough, his mother would be alive and his shitty father would have stayed to be a father to Tsumiki and him.

If love was enough, Tsumiki wouldn’t be in a coma.

But he says nothing and just shrugs. He murmurs a half-assed agreement and then stands from the couch. He goes to bed that night, wishing nothing more than to see the world from your eyes. You were his father. More than his own was.

Gojo was a busy guy so he warmed up to you first. Despite how tough it was for you to navigate being a teenager yourself as you raised him and his sister.

He just wanted to make you happy. Because clearly, you were incapable of doing it.

Megumi found it hard to sleep that night.

“Awh, asleep already?” Gojo frowned as he peeked into Megumi’s room. He was supposed to arrive the next morning but he missed his family. So he took an earlier flight.

A creak made him look your way and his eyes widened.

“Don’t bother him, Gojo.”

“(Y/N)…” his footsteps sound tentative as he walks towards you.

“Don’t look at me like that, I was just watching a sad movie is all. Megumi stayed up late, so don’t wake him. He’s got school tomorrow.”

Gojo doesn’t believe you. The way he’s gazing at you is as if you were the most pathetic curse to have ever graced the earth. Had he ever looked at Suguru that way before his betrayal?

Gods, even the thought of him has your brain pulsing. Those lost summers and cozy winters were yours too but of course, for Satoru, it must’ve been different.

To you, they were everything because your friends were there. More importantly, Gojo was there.

To him, his Suguru, they were all they needed.

You wipe away some of the tears, sniffling and turning away from Gojo. “You came home early. I didn’t cook dinner tonight, but I can heat-up some leftovers,” Gojo follows you to the dining area. He wants to ask if you are okay, even if he already knows the answer.

‘ Is it Suguru? ‘

It’s on the tip of his tongue. It’s been 9 years since his betrayal, your mother's funeral, your father's wedding. Between Tsumiki and Megumi, and the missions there was never a chance to have that conversation.

But what if it wasn’t? You were more than that. You existed beyond the shadow that Suguru cast — in Gojo’s eyes anyway.

The microwave dings and it casts the kitchen in a warm yellow glow. “How was the mission?” He watches you make a plate, standing near the kitchen island with his arms by his side. “It went great. The uh, the plane ride there was sorta bumpy though.”

“Yeah? You got scared or sumthin’?” He takes his bandages off, eyes twinkling with something you can’t quite place.

‘ He’s making jokes, talking casually, ‘ Satoru thinks. His palms feel a bit clammy. “Hah, as if. Even if the plane was fallin’ I’d definitely get out of there,” he boasts with that careless smile.

You offer a chuckle, turning just as your smile fades into a polite purse of your lips. The plate is placed in front of him and he’s not hungry but he sits anyway.

Huh.

So this is what having an intimate dinner is supposed to feel like? It creeps in that you’ve never been on a date outside of this marriage. He had never wooed you before Geto. It was all casual and friendly. Even if it was just the two of you, your guardians would keep watch to ensure that nothing got too passionate.

Where were they when Gojo snuck into Geto’s room? Night after night, week after week...

He had never touched you like that. Every time he tried, you found yourself pushing him away. Not out of bashfulness or lack of attraction. You just can’t help but wonder if he’ll replace you with Geto in his mind and your heart breaks every time.

9 years of marriage and still, your bed was cold as ice.

At times you would feel panic, wondering if Gojo is with another body to fill that void that you can’t fill but then it ebbs away.

Because they weren’t Geto either. So they were just as meaningless as you.

You grimace.

To think you’d blush and swoon at the idea of your marriage. Enamoured at the fact Gojo chose you. Now here you are. A resentful friend, a horrid husband, and a failing father.

If it weren’t for Tsumiki and Megumi you would’ve been hanging from the ceiling or perhaps you’d “let your guard down” during a mission. Maybe even in front of your husband. Your train of thought is cut short as your mother’s face appears. Stiffening your lip, you turn your gaze to the table to collect yourself.

Gojo watches you shifting around and reaches a foot forward to bump into yours. He smiles at the way you get wide-eyed, frozen for a second.

“How was your day, my beloved?”

“I went to Jujutsu High to oversee Megumi’s transfer,” his brows lift.

“Already?”

“Just to make things easier, Gojo. So it isn’t so last minute. He practised summoning his Divine Dogs today too.”

You’re wringing your hands together, folding and unfolding your fingers all while glancing at the table. It reminds him of the day he found out you had feelings for him.

You were sat across from him just like you are now. The both of you were 15 and hungry, so you offered to pay for lunch. Suguru and Shoko had gone off to grab condiments and he saw it; that look of adoration in your eyes.

You were handsome and kind. A true friend to him, Suguru and Shoko. Then an idea popped into his head, an idea he’d never proceeded with if he had known the repercussions.

If he wed you, he’d still be able to be close to Suguru.

He was selfish. Suguru told him that it was cruel, you were their friend and this would hurt you.

“Satoru that’s cool-blooded. He’s had a crush on you for a year now, you shouldn’t,” Suguru murmurs.

“It’s just a crush, he’ll probably divorce me or something. Then, I’ll marry you, Suguru.” He interlaced his fingers with Suguru. Naked shoulder pressed to naked shoulder. His 16th had just passed, he’d have to marry you after his 17th birthday but it’s alright. He told himself you would get the message and he’d have Suguru. Duties fulfilled and promises honored.

“What?” Suguru’s eyes were so wide it was almost hilarious. Satoru turned on his side, outlining the traces his lips left on Suguru’s skin.

“Will you marry me, Suguru?”

Satoru’s guilt wraps around his heart with its sorrowful roots. He wonders if you think you’re ugly, or unworthy. His fondness for you wants nothing more than to hold you. You were his friend after all, before all of this; the missions the four of you would go on together were the highlights of his life.

He didn’t mean to hurt you.

The food tastes like ash in his mouth but he swallows it down.

“We should go out tomorrow.”

You blink at him, contemplating. He can see the tearstains on your skin, the wetness on your philtrum that you’ve tried to wipe away and the way your lashes are clumped together.

“Anywhere you wanna go, after we drop ‘Gumi off we’ll be off to the races. We could go shopping or —”

“I want to go on a mission with you.”

That catches him completely off guard. You offer a grin, and the slightest flash of teeth has Satoru nodding before you even get to say another word.

He owes you this. You deserve happiness.

“Of course, anything you want.”

Gojo should’ve stopped there. Said nothing else.

“I love you, (Y/N).”

All at once, he sees your eyes turn hollow and your smile tightens.

You don’t believe him.

“...Thank you, Gojo.”

Ever since, that’s the only way you responded to his “I love you’s”.

Thanking him for trying to convince you and himself that it was true.

Megumi’s never seen your father before. He looks so out of place at home. His hulking form and intimidating face were so rough like unpolished stone. He should be elsewhere, not eavesdropping like he is now but he can’t help himself.

Gojo had to tend to business and you couldn’t turn away your father. You knew what he was here to talk about anyway and after last night's screaming match with your husband, you were as tightly wound as a coiled snake.

“How is your wife, father?”

“She is healthy.”

A vein bulges from the side of your head, rage pumping through it as your jaw clenches. His gaze scrutinizes you in such an obvious way it makes you want nothing more than to exorcise him.

“Gojo Satoru killed Geto Suguru. Is this true?”

How could it not be true? You thought bitterly. My guilt, Gojo’s crying, my outburst — all proof of his death.

He scoffs, a pleased quirk on the corner of his lips.

“I suppose you’ve done well then, my son. You didn’t even have to do any bloody work.”

“You know nothing, father. Geto Suguru’s death was a tragedy, don’t you dare turn it into a victory,” you seethe.

“He was a troublemaker. A waste of breath — a weakling. He deserved all that he got, don’t tell me you’re sympathizing with a murderer?”

“He was my friend!” Megumi flinched as you yelled.

“If you hadn’t pushed me and Satoru to marry, all this pain would have been avoided. We would still be friends, I could grieve for him without bitterness in my heart!”

You have no more tears to give. Instead, your anger burned like an inferno, burning you from the inside as you glared at your father.

“You’ve ruined me just like you ruined my mother. Where is duty? Honour? All of that is just trampled by your greed! You are dishonorable! Disgusting! Selfish!”

“You dare speak to me that way?” He lifts his hand and Megumi's palms hover close to stop him. The doors slide open. Satoru stands there. Even with his blindfold on, his gaze is heavy.

He calls your father's name. He doesn’t hide his disrespect. No titles were shared. No acknowledgment of his relation to you. He was beyond mad.

“It’s best if you leave, old man.”

Your father lowers his hand and you realize your nails are digging into your palm as blood seeps through your fingers.

“This younger generation truly knows no respect. Does it pain both of you to be together? Is my son so ugly, Satoru?” He laughs derisively. “Put a pillow over his face as you take him then! Gods knows I did the same with his mother.”

You open your mouth and yell, an ugly yell that's so full of anguish and anger; no words or vulgarity. A scream that makes Gojo’s throat hurt hearing it. Your father looks at you in disgust, shaking his head as he turns his back to you.

“Pathetic.”

You lunge at him and Gojo stops you, gathering you into his arms as you try to reach for your father.

“I’ll kill you!”

“Beloved, that’s enough —”

“You monster! I’ll burn you alive!”

“(Y/N)! He’s gone! That’s enough!”

Gojo doesn’t know why but he lets his infinity down. He lets you dig your fingers in his shoulder, and scratch the back of his hands as he tries to gather your wrist and grunts as your head bumps into his.

“I’ll kill him! Let me kill him!”

He grabs your wrists and pushes them against your chest. You’re pinned to the wall and the more you struggle the more he presses on your chest. It forces you to take deep breaths, and for your brain to catch up with your body.

“He should be the one that’s dead! Not my mother! Not Suguru! Him! Why isn’t he fucking dead!?”

Satoru can’t help but think of those final moments with Suguru.

How ragged his breathing was as he leaned against the wall.

“At least curse me a little at the very end.”

Suguru’s smile makes Satoru feel like a teenager again. He reaches forward and Suguru noses into his palm. Satoru’s breath comes out in a shudder. There he is, the man he loves more than anything, dying.

Suguru hums as Satoru leans over to hug him. Using the bit of strength he has left his head slots where it belong; in the junction of Satoru’s neck and shoulder. He remembers how ticklish he was there and manages a chuckle as Satoru flinches as his hair did just that.

He has so many things to say.

But he feels that wedding band and he’s glad that Satoru won’t be alone.

“You went on a date with (Y/N) at the crepe restaurant, I could sense your curse energy.” His daughters had wanted to go there after and Suguru remembered how bittersweet it was to sit where the two of you had sat. He had imagined himself as you and he’s struck with the want to see you and Ieiri and —

“I should have married you.”

Suguru’s eyes water. “Satoru —”

“All I do is hurt him. You were right, Suguru. I was cruel. If I married you, we would all be happy. Your daughters and my children, they’d be siblings. (Y/N) would have found someone who would never be as cruel as I am. We would still be friends. I should’ve married you. I should’ve married you.”

Suguru was selfish too. He resented you for having Gojo. It pained him to think about how lucky you were — he wished you misfortune.

What kind of friend does that?

You’d met his parents. Spent birthdays together, and went through lessons and missions together. How could he resent you and love Satoru and Shoko so dearly?

“I chose my path, Satoru. But in another life...in another life, we’re all happy.”

Satoru feels Suguru’s lips press to his jaw.

“You can make it right, Satoru. You love him, you’ll know what to do. Just don’t be so crass, yeah?”

Your yelling doesn’t cease. He’s half a mind to yell along with you because there’s truth in your words.

Why is it that everyone that mattered wasn’t here? Because they’d hold you and tell you were alright. Your mother would’ve done everything she could to ease your pain. Suguru would be here to do the same for both of you. What would they say if they were here?

What could they do to help you?

Help him?

Satoru lets you push him away. Megumi wonders if he should walk in now. He’d never seen you like this. He takes one step forward and Satoru speaks.

“I want a divorce.”

A pin could drop and Megumi was sure it would sound like an explosion. Your chest heaving slows as Satoru watches you straighten your posture.

“Do you live to embarrass me, Satoru?” You can feel his infinity go back up.

“Or is it me that embarrassed you? Should I allow my father to mock Suguru’s death? What am I meant to have done? What could I do to satisfy you, husband?”

“This marriage is hurting us.”

Your bark of laughter makes Satoru’s heart clench.

“A marriage YOU could’ve prevented. Did you forget that? You’ve had all the time to stop it. In those 3 years, you fucked Suguru and confessed your love to him. What exactly did you intend for my life?” You cross your arms, trying so hard to keep everything contained but your mouth can’t stop itself.

“Because I could have been fine. Maybe my father would have cast me aside but at least I would have moved on. Instead, you wormed yourself into my heart and infected me from the inside out.”

“Your mother just passed. I didn’t want to cause you more pain by canceling our wedding —”

Your palm doesn’t strike him but that isn’t with lack of trying. He can see the way your hands shake as you attempt to nullify his infinity. The trails of blood that drip down from your nails piercing through your palm from earlier. Your eyes were as dark as night as you stared at him with a blank expression.

“You are dishonorable, Gojo Satoru. You are selfish, and you deserve nothing you have. Not me, not Megumi, not Tsumiki, not Ieiri and you sure as hell didn’t deserve Suguru.”

He snaps at you. Slapping your hand away as he points a finger in your face.

“You don’t get to scream at me when I tried to make this marriage work! For 10 years all I’ve ever done was love you!”

“All you’ve ever done is bury Suguru by using me, Satoru!”

“Oh, that’s bullshit!” Megumi is frozen in place. He had never seen you fight before. Had never ever seen Gojo yell or lose his cool. He feels his heart hammering against his chest and clasps his hands together.

“Every time I touch you, you pull away! Every time I kiss you, you flinch — Fuck! Do I repulse you?”

“You don’t get to be pissed about not being able to fuck me, Satoru.”

He takes off his blindfold and those cerulean eyes shine with fury.

“Of course I fucking do! You want to be the martyr so fucking badly and you did it, (Y/N)! You’re the martyr!”

You don’t let him poke his finger into your chest but despite your smacks, he touches you anyway. He grasps your wrist and his grip is so tight you can tell it’ll bruise.

That horrifying blue sears your skin.

“I may be selfish but you’re fucking vindictive, (Y/N). You tell yourself that you’re nothing and somehow it comes true. Living, stewing, in a dead man’s shadow just so you can feel good about not returning my efforts!”

Just a few nights ago he was sweet. Telling you that he loves you and he wanted you. You never believed him and here was your proof, the labor of your hurt and pain stands before you with righteous ire.

“So I’m done! I’m done.” You shake your head. He scoffs, letting you go as if he was tossing trash away.

“(Y/N) — ”

“We’ll divorce next year. Next year on this day, I’ll allow you to divorce me. But not now. Not today. Call me a vindictive, vengeful, stubborn asshole. But what I’ll not allow you to do is humiliate me all over again.”

Satoru wants to say something, but the whine of an animal stops him.

When you find Megumi clutching the neck of his Divine Dog your anger disappears in an instant. He isn’t crying though it’s obvious he’s simply holding it back. The dog's part as you reach to cup his face, whispering his name as he attempts to steel his expression.

“...I’m so sorry, Megumi. I’m so sorry you had to hear that.”

“It’s whatever,” he shrugs. Satoru sighs, combing his fingers through his hair as he crouches next to you.

“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t have to listen to that," Satoru sighs. “I’m old enough — “

You stop him by pulling him into a hug. He’s stunned, his face would have been comical in any other situation so Satoru smiles.

“You’re just a boy. Don’t act so tough so soon,” Satoru reminds him.

The few things Satoru and you could relate to was how your children would never have to face the theft of their youth as long as you were alive. You squeeze him tighter and he returns it, burying his face into your shoulder.

Despite being pissed at Satoru, he says nothing as he feels him stroke his head.

The dogs whine again and nuzzle Satoru and you, licking Megumi’s ears and cheek to dissipate this acrid scent of fear and anxiety.

“Can I stay over with you sometimes?” You know what he actually wants to ask you.

‘ When you leave am I still allowed to need you? ‘

His shoulders sag in relief as you nod.

“You don’t even have to ask, Megumi. You know I love you, right? I’ll always love you, my beautiful son.”

“Couldn’t have gotten a place with better Wi-Fi?”

Shoko glares minutely as you pluck her cigarette out of her mouth. You put it in yours and she gags at the indirect kiss which makes you roll your eyes.

“Just because you’re single doesn’t mean I’m interested, (Y/N),” you scoff and shove her shoulder. She stiffens on purpose but sways a bit. It makes you laugh.

The house you bought was a cute duplex penthouse. Something small for yourself and for Megumi when he slept over. Shoko was the only person to have seen it so far — other than Megumi of course.

Your divorce was months away but it was far too awkward to sleep on the same bed as Satoru after that fight. This was for the best; baby steps until you’re officially separated.

“Hm, even if I was interested in women you’re not exactly my type.” She lights up another cigarette and leans on the railings of your balcony. Man, hate Satoru all you want but he sure was generous with his money. The view was stunning. It must have cost a fortune.

“So. You’re single now.”

You cringe and shrink down, limply holding the cigarette as you brace your chin on your arm.

“For the first time in 13 years...”

“27 is a perfectly good age to fuck around. Not too old to scare anyone of a respectable age off but not too young to make people feel like a creep.”

“You’ve such a way with words, Shoko,” you mutter dryly.

“I’m just saying, sex is a great way to get your mind off of things.”

“Says who?” She laughs, turning to you with a cocked brow.

“Satoru may be the golden child of the sorcerer world but he’s not a sex god. His dick isn’t that good, alright? There’s someone out there that’ll make you feel like a virgin again,” her laughter dies out as she takes note of your bashful eyes.

“...No.”

“What?”

Shoko's brows furrow. It’s the most expressive she’s ever been.

“10 years and not once?”

You hide your face further into your arms.

“(Y/N)!”

“Okay! We never had sex, alright? I — I don’t know if he ever went to get his dick wet from somewhere or someone else. But me and him never fucked. I’m an adult virgin! Sue me!”

“Not even a handjob?”

You groan, smushing the cigarette into the ashtray before going back inside. She follows, belatedly smushing her cigarette when you remind her with a look.

“Ok — Okay, but do you want to be a virgin? It’s perfectly reasonable if you do. I’ll respect your choices. But, why didn’t you...?”

“Shoko, every time he touched me...I felt like the ugliest person on this goddamn planet. We tried,” you sighed. “He tried a few times. Never pushy, never forcing but no matter what fucking angle he approached it from. I just couldn’t.”

Shoko slides her arm over your shoulder and you pliantly turn to return the hug. Her shirt, unsurprisingly, reeks of cigarettes but it brings a semblance of comfort. For a moment you’re washed over with nostalgia though for once, it comes with no pain.

“Well, you’re good-looking and you should definitely take half of Satoru’s money in the divorce. You’re good with kids too, a definite catch,” she presses a kiss on your forehead and you accept it with a loose grin.

“You deserve someone and if you don’t want anyone that’s fine too. Just promise to invite me out sometimes,” her eyebags suddenly seemed darker and so you give her another hug.

“I love you, Shoko.”

“I know. Unfortunately, I do too.”

“You love me,” you tease as your fingers wiggle and she pushes your face away ruthlessly.

“Heavy emphasis on the unfortunately — tickle me and I won’t heal you.”

She lets you escape her grasps, flabbergasted at her statement.

Satoru twists the ring, the light that it catches shimmering bashfully at his attentiveness. His husband had moved out, Megumi decided to sleep over after a whole day of helping him settle in and Satoru didn’t know how to feel about it. His hand feels naked and uncomfortable. The air that breezes lightly on the bare skin make gooseflesh ripple. The ring is enclosed by his fingers and he props his face on the fist, peering at the papers of this mission and that. The writing all look like giberrish, floating aimlessly in his brain as he thinks of (Y/N).

Had he truly never felt Satoru’s affections? It might have not been the love he deserved but to call it nothing was egregious. Or was he being selfish again?

Satoru pinches his nose bridge. His throat longs for the burn of alcohol which surprises him. He wasn’t much of a drinker — he wasn’t a happy drunk.

The ring grew warm in his hold and Satoru squeezed it. It always had the funniest way of doing that. It was as if it was alive, like a cursed object made to punish Satoru. Whenever his eyes wander or his mind reminisces of passionate nights, it burns and he resents himself for it. 10 years of involuntary celibacy was not something he thought of when he was younger. He liked sex. He doesn’t know if it was because it was good or because it was with Suguru. Regardless, Satoru enjoyed it.

He thought that if you got over that hurdle in your relationship, the two of you could fall into sync. He knows he cares about you and he knows you love him.

The house was so quiet. Satoru wants nothing more than to hear your soft breathing, Megumi’s sleepy mumbles and Tsumiki’s shifting around in bed.

He was supposed to be the strongest so why couldn’t he keep his family together?

Suguru told him that in another life they were all happy. But Satoru can’t help but ask himself why not in this life?

His hand unfurls and he slips the ring back in place.

(Y/N) Gojo is a Grade 1 sorcerer with extraordinary skill and wit in battle. His face was crafted by angels with feather-light touches, ones that thumbed the furrows of his brow with a sense of melancholy and kissed his eyelids with love; Satoru did not deserve you. He didn’t deserve to wake up with you by his side, caught by how beautiful you were when your guard was down.

Satoru suddenly wonders what made him unable to fall. It wasn’t your personality, nor your voice. You were funny, intelligent, headstrong, resilient, and everything most men fantasized about. Was it him? Even with all his attempts, his sweet gestures and words, did you see through it?

Did you see him?

What was it that you saw?

A tall child craving for his favorite person to come back?

…Was it a pathetic sight, (Y/N)?

Did you heart bleed for him?

Satoru stands, slipping the mission papers back into their files.

His guilt is a willow tree you had planted within him, tended by his own hands and watered with your tears. It’s beautiful and lonely, surrounded by flowers that climb and choke its branches as it hopes for someone to understand it.

You had. You understood the isolation he felt being on top and you supported him and got stronger to reach him. You saw right through him and he remained blind to you.

Shoko's name flashed across the screen of his phone. Satoru picks it up mindlessly, sitting on the end of your — his bed.

“You better give him half of your belongings in the divorce,” she says. He hears the burn of the cigarette as she inhales.

“Suguru was my friend. Just as much as he was (Y/N)’s.”

Satoru’s brow twitched. “Excuse me?”

“Suguru. I was there, believe it or not, and so was (Y/N). Suguru was our friend, our brother, our Suguru. We grieve him every day. Even before he was dead, we grieved him. I don’t fault you for being a shitty husband because of your grief, (Y/N) wasn’t the best husband either.”

“Don’t pretend to understand — “

“Get out of your head and stop mourning alone. All those years. When have you ever come to see me, Satoru? I was hurting too. ”

She exhales, flicking the ashes away as Satoru covers his wet eyes.

"I fucked up, Shoko." That was an understatement of the decade. She glances at the night sky, watching the buildings breeze past.

"I fucked up."

“Itadori Yuuji?” You squint your eyes at the papers, ignoring the warmth that Satoru emits from your side. You were at a clan meeting. One that Satoru decided to join so, you had no choice but to listen to him.

“Sukuna’s vessel,” he tilts his head, scratching the back of his neck from the uncomfortable button-up you forced him into. If he wanted to annoy you, you’d gladly return the favor. It was a few sizes too tight and the tie you put around his neck choked him but, he acted as cool as a cucumber.

“The boy Megumi found?” He nods and you read his papers with more fervor.

“You fought Sukuna?” He smiles cheerfully, grinning from ear to ear as he spins in place.

“I won,” he cheers. It takes all your self-restraint not to throttle him. “That was reckless,” you hissed out, ignoring the servants eyeing the both of you as they set down the trays of tea and finger foods.

“I’m the strongest. I would’ve won anyways,” he peers over your shoulder to read through the report again.

“Why are you showing me this? The higher-ups already called for his execution.” He places his chin on your shoulder. Your breath hitched yet, neither of you commented on it.

“I told them I’d kill them if they executed Itadori Yuuji,” he faces you as you turn to glare at him. Your lips were centimeters apart. Satoru takes note of your racing heart.

“Are you insane?”

“He’s just a boy doing what he could to save our son. Itadori shouldn’t have to be killed for doing the right thing.”

He lets you push his head away, slipping the papers back into the document sleeve and sliding it over to him.

“He will be executed once he eats all his fingers, he is a lamb sent to slaughter.”

At times like this, you think of Suguru and wonder if he was telling some truth about the world you lived in. Kids dying in droves because of curses that would never exist if non-sorcerers didn’t exist. But really, this was no one's fault but Sukuna. The old bastard couldn’t just die instead, he prolongs his existence like a roach.

"Megumi blames himself for that,” your heart squeezes at the thought. “They get along great, such rambunctious students. You would love them, you could spend more time with ‘Gumi.”

“Satoru, I’m not going to be a teacher. I’ve no patience for it,” he looks befuddled at your words. “You’ve been my husband for 10 years, so that’s a lie.”

The reminder of your marriage earns him a stink eye that he just giggles at. The official papers were to be served in a few more months. Until then, you were still together in the public eye.

“Just...think about it, (Y/N). I know you’ve been busy with missions and these boring meetings but I also know you miss Megumi and he missed you too.”

Gods, he’s playing that card. Why does he always need to play that card? He knows you give in every time.

“How have those missions been? You’ve been traveling a lot,” he puts Itadori’s file away and gives you his full attention. “Exhausting but it is fun to sightsee and make new friends,” you reach for the cup of tea.

“...Ya popped your cherry yet?”

The tea sprays onto the table and you cough violently as you save yourself from the near-death experience. A servant gasps and rushes to clean the mess, another asking if you’re alright and if the tea was too bitter or hot.

“You’re — You are — “ he grins as you cough and pats your back. “You are so gross, Satoru!”

He cackles at your flustered expression.

The servants leave eventually and you stew as you sit across from Satoru, back turned to him to stare out at the courtyard. Your silhouette makes his smile widen. He props his chin in his palm, taking in the sight of you.

“I wouldn’t mind if you had. I was just asking, as a friend.” He’s glad your shoulders don’t stiffen. The only reply he earns is your middle finger.

“Whaaat? I just wanted to know if it was good.”

“Is this how you’re going to convince me to be a teacher? By asking vulgar questions?”

“Not my intention but if I can kill two birds with one stone then why not?” You groan as you hang your head, hoping the ground will swallow you whole. Satoru hums a tune as he awaits your answers.

“Fine! Fine. I’ll be a teacher.”

“You’ve earned one mark! For a full mark, answer the other question!”

You’re tempted to throw the whole tea set to his face but can’t help the smile that crawls on your face at his animated movements. So you turn to face him, shaking your head as you sigh.

“No, I haven’t. Does that satisfy you?” Satoru’s slack jaw makes you want to punch him.

“Nearly four months of traveling and missions and meeting other people. Not one got into your pants?” You huff and cross your arms.

“So you’ve let someone into your pants, husband?” Satoru gasps. “How dare you? I’ve been a dutiful teacher and my students will attest to this!”

He then placed his elbows on the table, looking like a schoolgirl about to gossip.

“You should tell me all about your type, I’ll be more than happy to help you,” he draws hearts in the air with his finger.

Your type? You wanted to scold him and maybe even degrade him for acting like a perverted cuckold but this question catches you off guard.

You found Satoru attractive. Then again, who didn’t? But what was your type? You place your chin between your thumb and finger. Satoru waits patiently.

“I don’t know, I mean, I know I like men but...huh...”

You scratch the back of your neck.

“I guess I never really thought about it.”

Satoru exhales, endeared by the worry on your face. He was a shitty husband but Satoru was a good friend. You had put your life on pause for his. It was only fair that he helped you. He may not be able to fully piece together your heart but he’ll do what he can until you can smile again.

Those months away helped, there’s no doubt about it, but he knows you miss home and you needed to put down new roots in soil that wasn’t infested and toxic.

He knows you’ll probably take years to forgive him. He’s willing to wait, so he can have his friend back.

“We can start simple. Which one of our friends would you sleep with?” Your shrug makes him list some names. Then the sight of your eyes widening as he says Nanami Kento makes him gasp.

“Nanami!? Our underclassmen!?”

As Satoru guffaws and goes on about how boring Nanami was your mind ponders on this tightening of your chest.

Were you too lenient with Satoru? After all he has done?

You weren't without sin or fault. You understand that much but this feels so different. Familiar, actually, there's no expectation in Satoru's affections.

It was casual and it made you feel lighter than you have in a long time.

Should you be angrier? As a boy, his friendly attitude felt like a slap across the face. Now, it just feels right. Has your heart finally stopped beating for Satoru? All it took was 10 years of a shitty marriage?

It was rare for sorcerers to live as long as you have. A sense of panic grips you. For a moment, the thought of time wasted flashes. Then, those sweet memories of Tsumiki and Megumi seep in. Memories of Shoko, Satoru, Suguru and you laughing boisterously at something stupid while eating at the school field.

Your eye creases as your cheeks lift. Satoru is still rambling about Nanami and the only thing that makes him stop is a sound from his fondest memory.

You're laughing. Clutching at your stomach and tear-pricked eyes kinda laugh. His huff of disbelief transitions into a chuckle.

Oh, you forgot how good it felt to laugh this hard. It felt so nice to have him as a friend again. So fucking nice.

"His cheekbones are something to behold, I know, but did you forget his old hairdo?"

Satoru can see the warmth seep back into your skin, your eyes are glowing again as you cover your face; those heavenly shades of (E/C) peek through your fingers. The ring glimmers, and for a moment Satoru's chest doesn't feel heavy.

"You can do better, husband," he says. Your teeth are in full view. No longer hidden by a grimace or frown or a tight-lipped grin. There was still a long way to go but Satoru was willing to go the distance. For his beloved friend who deserves it all.

He can't wait to tell Megumi you are back for good this time. He can't wait to see you interact with his students. He knew you'd get along with them, they'd love you. Gods know they need a break from him at times.

"You're so fuckin' dumb, 'Toru," you exclaim. He agrees with a hum and for the first time in a long time, you feel like yourself again.

"Made you laugh though," he dodges the pillow you'd been kneeling on with glee.

#s3thwrit3sstuff #reader insert #male reader #gay reader #male reader insert #male!reader #satoru gojo angst #satosugu #satoru gojo x yn #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x male reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x male reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you

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taegularities · 2 years

Text

candles & flames | jjk (m)

chapter I: water

Summary: He wasn’t supposed to be yours. His foolery wasn’t supposed to target you. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: enemies to lovers, royal!au; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: so! they’re both royalty/high in society (gd should’ve called this ‘royals’), fuckboy jk, banter, past side character death mentioned, hints of fake dating but not really, angst!, the ending.., douchebag jk at times, crying, guilt, jk is sus too, bits of jealousy, society sucks, explicit sexual content: carriage shenanigans, sexual tension, fingering, oral (m. & f. receiving), mouth fucking, spit stuff?, manhandling, spanking, dry humping, dirty talk, angry foreplay but things get softer, he comes in her mouth <3, they’re hiding during all that <3 ➳ wc: 24.6k 😐 ➳ a/n: sooo. i love e2l and regency aus, but i haven’t written much/any of those, so they’re not my strongest suit. but hopefully y’all will still enjoy reading it, bc i did enjoy writing it. it’s just the beginning hehe <3 this entirely new genre/trope took some brainpower lmao so i’d love if you dropped by and told me what you think !! 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

Jeon Jungkook’s sincerity doesn’t run as deep as his undeniable beauty.

His lopsided, rosy smile certainly has the unyielding power to deceive; but the confident walk and elegant bow are only convincing until he opens his mouth. You thought she knew — thought she’d be wiser than to fall for some deceitful doe eyes.

So your violent disappointment doesn’t come as a surprise when she strolls into your mansion tonight. An arm linked with his; her gentle hand remains on his light blue coat, and he looks as mannered as ever.

If you didn’t know about his nightly activities or what reputation he holds, you’d perhaps fall for the soft, treacly smile.

You stand on the second last step of your stairway, awaiting your sister’s arrival with the same old vexation you’ve felt since you met Jungkook for the first time. Years ago.

When he spots you, he sends a sly wink your way — he knows exactly what you harbour for him.

You respond with an unpleasant grimace, and he rolls his eyes with a scoff, bidding your sister goodbye for the night. She’s well mannered, too, or at least more than you.

Not that you walk the streets with a lifted dress and curses falling off your tongue. But she definitely hides her distaste for people better than you.

What surprises you, though… she’s not hiding anything with Jungkook. She genuinely respects him. Which you, personally, don’t quite understand.

When their farewells are over, she greets you with a nudge of your shoulder, and you follow her to her room with a deep sigh. You plump on her bed with worry carved between your eyebrows, watch her grant her scalp relief from the complicated hairdo.

“Tell me,” you start, meeting her eyes in her vanity mirror, “what do you like about him so much?”

You expect a grand confession of love; musings, poetry, a list of dozens of traits that won’t sound like him at all.

But the actual reaction you get back throws a thousand question marks into your brain.

“Nothing.”

You wait a moment. Perhaps she’ll elaborate, provide an explanation you can get behind.

When she doesn’t, you ask, “...What?”

“I mean. He’s kind, of course. He didn’t insult me or anything. In fact, he’s been nothing but a proper gentleman. But.” She lifts her shoulders in nonchalance and takes a deep breath. “I thought I needed to do this, because I was raised for this very moment all my life.”

You groan.

You’ve heard this speech before — and you still deeply disagree.

“Slowly dissolving in fencing and horse riding classes when I don’t even wish to get married,” she admits, and your eyes widen. “Or at least not to him. Just didn’t realise until now.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means that I’m not suitable for marriage yet. Honestly, you should be the one he courts.”

You let out a slightly shrill laugh, wondering if you misheard. But her insanity never knew any boundaries, so you shouldn’t be surprised that she uttered such a suggestion at all.

“You’re joking.”

“No!” she defends. “He suits you a lot better. Besides, I spoke to mother and father already and asked them to put Jeon’s hand in yours.”

Now that’s a piece of information that makes your heart race.

No way.

Just because one sister rejected, it doesn’t mean it’s the other’s turn. You live in a twisted world.

But you’re not playing her or anyone’s game, not today, not with that… man.

“Excuse me, what the hell did you say?” you snarl, leaving the bed in a hurry.

You step next to her, raging. Your heaving chest is bursting; even more so when she barely even flinches, unbothered and calm.

And then she dares to question, “What’s the problem?”

“The problem?!” you nearly yell back, nails digging into your palm hard enough to leave crescent scars. “I cannot stand this man. I— I heard from Aera just yesterday that she saw him leaving some tailor’s place. Buttons open.”

“What tailor?”

“The one near the theatre. He frequents that place sometimes.” You gesture around wildly, shaking your head like she’s lost her mind. Which you’re certain she has. “And her friends’. And that’s all that Aera sees, so God knows where else he puts his—”

“Does it matter?” Your sister turns in her seat, looking up to you with a sombre expression. “He’s a man, and he’ll get away with it. They do those things all the time. But… He’s still an important suitor and he’s not off the market. Heard he’s in search of someone.”

You fold your arms, tilting your head. “Off the market? Mother always says that about us as well. But we’re not objects to be sold.”

“It’s how the world views marriage, sweetheart. You should be happy our parents allow our suitors to court us.” You turn away, rubbing your eyes. It’s common these days, though. No need to deem yourself lucky just yet. “If we lived a few hundred years earlier or were raised by more authoritative parents, we would’ve been married with kids by the age of eighteen.”

“You’re genuinely insane,” is all you throw back.

But she doesn’t capitulate yet; instead, she clarifies, “You don’t need to meet him. But I just want to state that I won’t anymore, either.”

“And… you said just that to mother?”

“Of course,” she persists, running a fancy comb through her silky hair, “I’m her darling daughter, so she’ll do anything to see me happy.

You squint your eyes. “What did you say?”

“I said… that he and I aren’t compatible. That I do not want to spend my life with a man who doesn’t understand what I desire.”

You look at her in a faint mock, shifting your balance to one leg. A hand planted on your waist, you ask, “And you think I would be a better fit for him?”

“I mean, it’s a Lord, for God’s sake! Such royalty doesn’t approach us every day! And yes, I think you’re very different from me. And a lot like him,” she emphasises, once more.

“Whatever.”

Her eyes flash back to her mirror, cautious hands taking off the precious jewellery. For a moment, you don’t think much of the silence, but when you spare her another glance, she looks distracted.

An empty gaze and a frozen body; something that only ever occurs when she’s lost, deep in thought. Which means — something must be wrong.

You kneel next to her, placing a warm hand on her arm, and ask, “What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying,” you immediately snap back, “and you were never good at it anyway.”

She clicks her tongue, puffing out a breath. Leans forward and rubs her temples as she whines, “What do you want me to say? That I got to know his cousins while spending time with him? That I might or might not have fallen for one of them?”

You’re speechless. Baffled and unable to make sense of her babbling.

“But that I can’t possibly chase their gazes, because they’ll be gone in a month again?” she adds.

You have a slight hunch about what she might be suggesting. It’s not particularly difficult to figure out — not when you’re aware of Jeon Jungkook’s immediate relatives.

“Are you…” you whisper. “Are you talking about—”

“His name is Kim Seokjin,” she tells you, gulping hard, “and he has me wrapped around that pretty finger of his.”

“Does… does Jungkook know?”

“No, he doesn’t,” she explains; all of a sudden, she sounds exasperated, “but he knows something’s off. That’s why he’s not trying as hard anymore, though he genuinely seemed interested in me. That’s also why I needed you to take my place, because I do not want to hurt him.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, humming for a moment before you tell her, “I doubt you’re hurting him.”

She looks at you carefully; her fingers wander from her temples to her forehead. “Because of the things you’ve heard?”

“It just doesn’t sound like he cares a ton. And he has no manners,” you look away, hiding the transparent disgust in your countenance. “He’s frustrating and unpredictable, and his parents… caretakers had to save him several times.”

In a moment of despair, she grants you the tiniest of smiles; doesn’t notice your hesitation or the flaw in your sentence. Her eyes carry ache and hopelessness; you wish you could change reality in a way that suits her.

Gently, she assures, “Say whatever you will, sister. But upon meeting him… I don’t think you would still hold the same opinion about him.”

“...What?”

“He’s a gentleman when he wants something. And in the end, he won’t remember his weekend flings across town, but… the one he falls for. I’m just not suitable to be that woman.”

She’s lucky neither her nor Jungkook made a great deal out of their brief friendship, or the streets would already be talking about their falling out. As far as you recall, they never attended a ball together, or spent time anywhere but in one of his mansion’s private halls, sipping some beverages.

You knew it sounded boring.

But you didn’t think it’d be over within a week.

And you won’t question again when she, your mother, your father or anyone involved in this wicked case began picturing Jungkook and you as a duo. You’ve never expressed anything but utter disdain for him — so you’re bewildered.

Instead of clutching the indignation raging in your torso, you simply mumble, “Alright…”

She reminds you, “I’m not forcing you.” You grimace, and she responds with a weak smile, “I started this as a joke in fact, but now that I think about it… do consider it.”

And that’s it.

She stands from her chair, mindlessly braiding her hair; not quite ready for bed, but clearly in dire need to be left alone with her thoughts. Which you understand momentarily when she turns to you, softly stating, “I shall rest now.”

“Alright,” you repeat, arguments and confusion ebbing down.

And eventually, you stroll to your room to battle your very own muddled up thoughts.

The night stretches endlessly, and the morning is quiet.

Your father withdrew to his room possibly before your eyes slipped open, and your mother is, if you were to believe your sister, already promenading with some of her friends. Titles are scattered across the peerage, so you guess it’s more of a circle to exchange rumours than anything.

Your morning remains uneventful until noon breaks in; you soon wish you could continue wallowing in boredom when you fly down the stairs, opening the door where the three loud knocks came from.

Half expecting your tailor to bring new gifts for an upcoming ball, your smile soon drops when you see who’s actually ogling at you.

Eyes flit from the ground to yours. He puts on a sweet smile, taking off his gloves. He’s wearing a long dark coat with a red waistcoat underneath, matching the colour of the obligatory hat that you’re sure he didn’t wear.

His hair is too flawless, not a strand out of place, parted on the side.

You might never be able to understand his lifestyle or his will to roam around the town so recklessly, but you’ll never deny how unnaturally handsome Jeon Jungkook is.

Might be the slightly tilted smile, the big, jet black eyes. Or the golden skin, the button nose. Constantly pouty lips, deep dimples that he doesn’t need to smile for.

If he wasn’t as imprudent as his reputation suggests, you’d probably be one of the many women sighing and dreaming in his presence.

But alas.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice as mellow as his simple nod dashing, “is your sister present, perhaps?”

He sounds amiable, attempting his best to not vex you more than he already does. You want to respond in similar kind, but you can’t quite blandish the truth when you tell him, “She doesn’t want to see you anymore.”

His eyes widen, but blink just as fast. The initial shock ebbs down as soon as it came — as though he expected it, but hoped for a different outcome.

Jungkook sighs, quietly complaining, “Figured that… but she could’ve told me.”

“She… she said you knew.”

“I suppose I did,” he says, clicking his tongue. He tilts his head for a moment, his pupils shaking in distress like his soul is falling apart. Then, he averts your gaze to stare at the outer wall of your house. Pausing, uncertain what to say before he finally asks, “Did she tell you why?”

But you won’t break this easily. Not due to the honey sweet tone in his voice. “She’s my sister. I can’t spill secrets to a stranger.”

Jungkook and you neither meet nor speak too often. But whenever he crosses your path, no matter how often you try to dodge his looming presence, there’s familiarity in his words.

Like now.

“Are we really strangers?”

You suppose you’re not.

And the truth is, if Jungkook wasn’t out to clash with you every chance he gets, you might be able to forgive what happened so many years ago.

Perhaps you’ve forgiven already — perhaps there’s even a shred of empathy left in you that feels guilty for disliking him as you do.

If he was nicer to you. If he didn’t mess with your kindness so much.

“I can’t. And I won’t say anything,” you answer eventually, straightening your back.

“Very well. I guess I’ll figure it out myself.”

“I guess you will.”

Annoyed, he half turns around, giving up with a shaking head before he halts. He hesitates, delaying whatever he still needs from you. You await his unspoken question patiently.

And then he finally looks at you, only moving his head, still in flight position, “Is she okay?”

The few times you granted him a look at balls or gatherings, his smirk was mischievous. Passing by you, the gazes he threw were sly and arrogant.

But right now, you see none of it. He looks genuinely worried; somewhat apologetic. So you nod, and tell him, “She is. We’ll be going on a walk today.”

Jungkook has never quite been as kind to you as today. But once you reassure him that the gap between him and your sister won’t linger, he hums. Sighs. The gentle armour falls off his face, and his usual cocky demeanour returns.

But you won’t let him emotionally damage you today. Instead, you ask first, “What about you, prince? Another appointment somewhere?”

You know he’s not quite a prince. He’s the Duke’s son — but maybe you’re purposely trying to be rude.

And it truly is demeaning to switch the title. It’s most likely redundant, too.

But you can’t bear his words anymore. Hurt accompanied his presence one too many times in the past, and you can’t hear any of it anymore.

He looks confused, eyebrows shifting closer, and asks, “Appointment?”

“I just… I figured you have plenty of other rendezvous you can attend. That you’ll get over my sister quickly.”

Jungkook cocks an eyebrow in irritation, fingers fiddling with his gloves, “Hold on. Did I do something to you?”

What?

He must be mocking you.

“You don’t kno––” you begin, only to be cut off.

“I know we snapped at each other at parties, but… you can’t hate me this much.”

Funny. Because you know he hates you just as much.

“Jeon Jungkook,” you emphasise, stepping closer to the threshold, “if you truly don’t remember, then it’s not worth mentioning.”

“Wait, I— I honestly just—”

“Go take a walk. Maybe you will know then.”

You shut the door without granting him a chance to justify himself and press your back against the cold wall. Your chest rises and falls once, heavily and deeply, and you shut your eyes.

You despise confrontation more than him. To him, you might seem like a shameless, wilding brat, but you’ve never been this defensive with anyone before.

Reputable kindness, endless grace, yet a respectable feisty nature let you shine in people’s eyes.

Not in his. And that’s alright.

When your eyes crack open again, your mother’s stepping down to you, a soft smile playing around her lips. You raise your eyebrows, confused as you ask, “I thought you were out with your girlfriends.”

“I was… an hour ago.”

She must have come back when you were scouring the library. You didn’t hear.

“What happened there?” she wonders, pointing a finger to the door.

You push yourself off the wall, flattening your dress. “That was nothing.”

Your mother silences. Looks at you knowingly; then spits the topic you dreaded, “Your sister has broken her affiliation with him.”

“Affiliation? Maybe that’s why.”

“What about you?”

“...What about me?”

She’s careful when it’s about Jungkook. You’ve always reacted to him like this — even when the trio announced him as your sister’s potential future husband for the first time.

So she waits for your expressions to relax, folding her hands, slowly blinking, before she reminds you, “There was a time, long before he courted your sister, when he was almost your suitor.”

No.

You stuffed this very memory in the back of your mind, and you won’t let her tug it to the front. You won’t even tell her what occurred back then; why you wrote him off, all the things he said.

You used to taint him in others’ eyes; but you’re tired now. The negativity may as well stay within you.

“So?” you finally murmur.

“You could meet him. You should.”

“Why? Why does everybody say that? Or… or expect that from me?”

“It’s not about expecting anything from you,” your mother argues, “and in the end, it is up to you what you decide. But your sister has rambled on and on, multiple times, how he reminds her of you, how you’d be perfect if you gave each other a cha—”

“That sounds surreal, mother.”

“If there is any chance for you to be happy, to be something your sister can’t be yet… why not try?” She’s persistent, you must admit. You do wish she put her energy into something else, though. “But. I understand. If he was to ask, you would undoubtedly say no… right?”

“Precisely.”

She smiles at you, briefly closing her eyes. Then, she turns on her heel, lifting her shoulders just a little as if to mock you, and breathes, “Very well.”

In a way, you often wonder whether mothers possess the gift of sight.

One time, she foreshadowed rain on a seething, sunny day, claiming that her headache only occurred when weather conditions changed drastically.

Another day, when you were around twenty years old, she’d warned you to be careful when boating with your friends that day. You remained home, heeding her message, only to find out not long after that there had been a dangerous fight amongst gangsters just where you would’ve rented a boat.

It seems that even today, her mocking sarcasm and cunning smile didn’t disappoint.

Or, perhaps they did.

Because in the best case scenario, she would’ve walked away and finished the topic nonchalantly — that she didn’t, manifested the second knock on your door today, close to your bedtime while everyone else is already asleep.

Not you.

The late night snack happens too often these days, your hidden guilty pleasure. Not rarely does your tailor wonder why your corset needs new stitching each time, but you can’t bother less about this age’s beauty standards and starvation techniques for women.

Dropping the biscuit, you rub your hands clean off the crumbs, rushing to the door without expecting anyone tonight.

The first thought that flashes through your mind is that it might be someone your father awaited. Last week alone, he had two visitors at this time, discussing some more finances, some more business.

But not today.

Instead, the same familiar face greets you that you sent away this noon.

“You’re… here again,” you say, but Jungkook’s expressions don’t budge a bit.

He looks nervous, somewhat lost. As though he spent his hours adrift on lonely streets, unsure what road leads home.

What he says surprises you.

“Could we go on a walk?”

“On a walk?”

“I need to speak to you.”

The atmosphere and mood differ vastly from when he appeared on your doorstep before. He’s looking at you directly this time, not quite averting your gaze as he did last time. At noon, he sought out someone else, finding you.

And now that he’s face to face with the exact person he needs, his eyes are more piercing, more focused.

Rejection lies casually on your tongue. It’s an easy word for you when it comes to him; and you know exactly how effortless it would be if you sent him home now as well.

But then, you remember what your mother said — wonder whether she delivered a secret letter to him, urging him to come back. Or perhaps, she once again foresaw the future and gave you the faintest signal to do the opposite of what you’d usually do.

Maybe.

So you take a deep breath, glancing behind you, hesitating for a moment as you ask, “You shouldn’t be asking a lady to accompany you on a walk, not at this hour.”

“I’m not trying to abduct you. I just need to talk a little, and I will send you back home safely.”

You can’t tell him that your mother would jump at the opportunity to bring you closer to him — perhaps not so late, and perhaps not alone. But she’s not the one whose permission you need.

But your own.

“What if someone sees us?” you try again.

“They won’t. All you have is a garden nearby, and the worst beast we might encounter is the sin… lust.”

You grimace in disgust, ready to step back before he starts chuckling and clarifies, “Not with me. But. I am saying that those who still roam the streets will be more terrified of tainting their own reputation than yours.”

You’re out of options and excuses.

Licking your lip, you spare another glance to the hall behind you. Nothing, no one.

And eventually, you let the shawl you dropped on your shoulders an hour ago fall, wrapping it around your arms and chest as you step out into the night.

The garden, as Jungkook deduced, lies few minutes from your house. It’s a pleasant night to spend time outside, and if you weren’t a homebody during the weekend, you might have taken a stroll tonight anyway.

Your area is safe; your mother still doesn’t enjoy your lone escapades.

Once you’ve reached the garden, you let out a relieved sigh. In truth, you can barely see the colours of the flowers around you, but you do register the fragrance that the summer breeze wafts towards you.

You like the scent; bask in it. It feels as though it’s repairing broken fragments of you that you didn’t know existed in the first place.

As you take a seat on the low, cold stone wall, you break the silence of the last minutes, and ask, “Why did you seek me out anew tonight?”

Jungkook snickers for a bare moment, leaning forwards and spreading his legs, folding his hands between them. He looks up to your puzzled expression, and states, “You don’t need to speak so formally to me. We’re not at the Queen’s castle.”

You exhale, letting your shoulders drop a little, and repeat, “Why are you here, Jungkook?”

His laughter continues faintly before it dies, but in the faint light of the moon, you still see the remnants of his smile. Ingenuine, keeping it to hold onto optimism.

He admits, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

You don’t have the faintest clue what that might mean. But you try, “You didn’t have anywhere else to be?”

“Maybe I did. But it’s gotten boring. Trivial.”

You roll your eyes. If you meant resting in his room, then Jungkook means rolling around on someone’s sheets.

If you’re the calmness of water, then he’s the danger of fire.

You tease, “Poor you. Desired by everyone.”

“Not everyone, right?” You see him winking and shake your head in disbelief. Look away and directly into the direction from where the night wind blows. Shiver. “Are you cold? We can go back—”

Something in your mind finally breaks, and you interject, causing him to shrink, “Let it out. Honestly. Why are you being so nice to me?”

He looks baffled, pouting, eyes wider than usually. He plays the act of the innocent lamb perfectly, but you’re not stupid. Not even when he asks, “Am I not allowed to?”

“Sure,” you shrug your shoulders, rubbing your knees, “but it doesn’t suit you.”

“I’ll have you know,” he begins. He leans closer than you’d like him to. “That I’m constantly very kind to women.”

You huff. “So you don’t usually regard me as a woman.”

“I mean. Now I do.”

God.

Insufferable.

You tongue the inside of your cheek, observing his provoking grin for a moment longer until you spit, “Whatever.”

Wiping the non-existent dust off your gown, you stand, wondering why you agreed in the first place, and mumble, “This is an absolute waste of my time. I could be sleeping.”

Perhaps it’s the intensely piqued glare you throw at him; or perhaps, it’s the fact that he came all the way here, to converse with you and have you walk away.

But Jungkook’s strings break, and he rubs his face violently, grabbing your wrist before you can walk away. He tugs at your arm and pulls your body back, eliciting a gasp out of you as he realises what he did.

“What in the worl—” you exclaim, possibly loud enough for the neighbourhood to hear.

But he lets you go immediately, shushing you with a finger on his plush lips before he whisper-yells, “What the hell is your problem?!”

You fold your arms, furrowing your eyebrows. “Ah, yeah. Here he is, the man I know.”

“No, seriously,” he challenges, taking a stand in front of you. “This condescending attitude is just what made me treat you the way I did.”

You let a breathy laugh fall, mustering all the mockery in your voice as you say, “You can’t excuse anything you’ve ever said with this.”

“Why can I not? Were you not going around town, spreading absolute bull about me?”

You remember. You did. But that’s because Jungkook began; knew how to humiliate you, knew how to nearly destroy your persona to the entire peerage.

Seems that he carried this with him just as much as you did. Only, you never feigned kindness; never forced yourself to amity to the point of implosion.

And Jungkook… Jungkook is imploding.

Annoyed and harsh, you inquire, “Have you ever wondered why?”

“I knew why. But you started the hostility.”

“I did not,” you defend, “You just don’t seem to recall everything.”

Pause.

Unsteady breathing, clenched fists.

His expression is changing, and his body is backtracking. Suddenly, his eyes look crestfallen, not as filled with fury anymore.

And you know why.

“I remember,” he admits, “But I… I’d rather pretend I don’t.”

Again… you know why.

“I understand,” you tell him, just a portion calmer. “It still didn’t feel good.”

You think you see the same fragments of guilt that are cutting your heart. Because when you think back to what he’s pretending to forget, you still can’t hate the boy for what he did.

Only for the things he kept doing.

“I needed to speak to you, but… I never wanted to bring up all the moments I hurt you,” he mutters.

You bite your lower lip, shaking your head. And then, you tell him, “You didn’t just hurt me. You humiliated me.”

“I—”

“You say you remember. But what about all the details, all the tiny moments? The exact things you said.”

He shakes his head, urging you to stop.

Yet, you say, still calmly, “Let me help you remember it all.”

His mouth opens to speak, but you’re already a step ahead.

“Apart from that very first night when we were children, Jungkook,” you begin, closing the distance by a bit, “you would always tell your cousins how stuck up I looked standing aside at any gathering.”

“I—”

“That I was an outcast. You would compare my dresses to fruits, laugh at them, or point out a minor flaw about me, or make fun of how I never smiled because of how tight my corset sat.”

The words spilling out of you were long overdue.

In truth, you’ve never been alone with him. You could never lash out at him at balls without him embarrassing you back a thousandfold.

And right now, your chest is burning, sadness in your eyes as you narrate further, “And I loved those dresses. The young and naive me would… prepare them days before and jump in joy. Just to hide in the back once she saw you.”

Remorse overtakes his features. You’ve never witnessed such a thing before — and despite the gratification coursing through you, you can’t help but feel bad, too.

“I didn’t know,” he murmurs, “I was… reacting. I was furious, because I know what you told people about me. I was never interested in becoming the honourable Lord everyone wants me to be, but I still despised the judgemental side-eyes.”

“I did it, because I remembered how you’ve always treated me. Besides, I never ruined your reputation, because you did it very well for yourself!”

Shit.

You regret it once you’ve said it.

He winces, and you step back again, clearing your throat. You shut your eyes, and open them again, talking on when he doesn’t respond, “And you know what else? Do you know what the worst thing you did and my biggest mistake was?”

He knows. He must.

Because the time you’re referencing, on that very gathering, your eyes met just briefly. And he could see the damp dejection on your waterline.

“Listen…” he tries, but you inhale, loudly and deeply.

“When I was being paraded by boys, I still thought it a good idea to accept you as a suitor, because my mother convinced me to. I thought… Odd! I’m just a Viscount’s daughter. The Duchess’ son might court me? An honour.”

Your voice is trembling; less because of the tears that hold back, but more because of the anxiety that confrontation brings. No matter the damage caused, you feel bad.

But you can’t stop the flood of thoughts.

“We were adults then, and I was ready to forgive you,” you tell him, gulping, “until you told a handful of men who liked me, that I’m the most untrustworthy snake in town. And how my sister,” you laugh; your gaze shifts to the ground, “is much more beautiful and actually worth the trouble.”

The waterfall of your words comes to an end abruptly.

Silence falls between you, and so does Jungkook’s head.

“You never even apologised,” you tell him.

Jungkook’s thoughts whirl around their own axis.

Life threw hurdles at him, and soon made him someone he’d never aspired to be. Half of the things you listed have long escaped his memory — what remains is how empty he felt each night before he fell asleep.

How bitter and cold he’d become after one too many strokes of fate.

Were you the only person he hurt as he did?

Probably not. Though you were possibly his easiest target; good to blow out steam on when you tossed the opportunity to hate you to his feet.

And what’s left to say now?

“I am sorry,” he mumbles.

But you don’t look convinced. Your eyes are misty, your demeanour despondent. You don’t respond.

The reason he knocked on your door tonight emerged due to entirely different reasons. The spat you both just engaged in wasn’t part of the plan.

Yet, somehow, you’ve still arrived at just the right point.

Where Jungkook’s suggestion might make sense to you, only maybe, considering that he has barely grasped his own ideas and thoughts.

Aware how ridiculous it might come out, Jungkook treads carefully, almost back pedalling before he chooses to let out, “Let me court you.”

And the world suddenly stands still.

For him.

For you.

Words echo. Court… you?

You’re confused; your rage is dying. The muscles of your face relax, and you part your lips, probably deeming his proposition a joke before you ask, “What?”

“I know you can’t stand me. And… I think you know you’re not my first choice either, but. My mother wants me to approach you.”

Your eyes widen, as if he’s said something you resonate with. As if you’ve landed in the most absurd coincidence.

“Your… your mother?” you stutter.

Jungkook nods. “She’s acquainted with your sister. And with you as well. She claims that if your sister can’t spend her life with me, I should take a step towards you.”

And when you speak, Jungkook understands your prior expression, because you silently confess to float in the same boat, “Did you talk this out with my mother? Is she involved?”

“No… what?”

“Nothing. What you’re suggesting is insane.”

Jungkook draws a breath; fingers lift to rub his aching eyelids, “I know. As I said… I don’t think we fit together as well as my mother might think, but… you enjoy a great reputation. She thinks I should try it with people like you before throwing my life away.”

By now, you’re finding it ridiculous, because you laugh, discouraging Jungkook further. “Try what? I am not a toy to prepare you for something better. I won’t be your saviour, and I don’t want to be.”

“You wouldn’t be. But, despite the hate we carry for each other, I think that you and I would understand each other.”

“Understand… how?”

You’re not buying it. He can see it.

He knew his idea would land on empty ears — it sounds too stupid, too sudden.

But he still attempts, “Aren’t you and I both… acting like we’re in the middle but never quite there?”

“...How?”

“I walk around town. You have dozens of friends. But when it comes to life or meaningful thinking… how often do you find yourself trusting someone?”

The breeze cools a little more, playing around your locks, dishevelling his hair. For a moment, you look to his feet, and then you whisper through the susurrating wind, “How would you know?”

Easy answer.

“Because I saw you at balls. You would converse and dance with the guests, but once you’d satisfied their needs to gain the attention of the beautiful honourable sisters… you retracted. As though you’d finished a task. They were happy, and you were happy to observe.”

You hesitate.

And then say, “You were, too, weren’t you? If you didn’t observe, you wouldn’t know all that.”

“Maybe. They say keep your friends close, but your enemies…”

“You dislike me, but still want to court me?”

“I… I want to try. I don’t want to regret not trying. And I am sick of sleeping around town,” he confesses. It’s something you didn’t expect, he thinks. Because you tilt your head in question.

He assumes you don’t hear it when he adds in a quiet whisper, “That brute in our mansion is right about one thing… I’m not good for much.”

Jungkook can’t decipher whether you heard it and are ignoring it or whether you didn’t hear and are still ignoring it. Because you state, “I don’t want you to be my friend just to find out who you are.”

And again, he defends, “That’s not what it is. I know who I am. I just need someone to talk about it who will be neutral. If we still hate each other later, I won’t ask anything more of you.”

That’s it. Nothing more… seemingly.

Your thoughts are all over the place.

He says one thing, and then another. You interpret it one way, and then another.

Your head needs rest.

“Do you realise that you barely make any sense?” you shoot, impatient and tired.

“Do you realise that most of our feuds are in the past?” he counters, his voice louder now. “If we hadn’t wounded each other so much at such a young age… I wonder if we could’ve been friends. I just. I don’t wish to foster bitter relationships anymore.”

You remain quiet. So he’s saying… he wants to get closer to you, because he assumes you match his mindset? Similar to your mother, to his mother?

He wants to build a relationship with someone honest, who won’t gloss over the truth.

And.

He wants to eliminate the hatred in his life. Wants to renew his opinion about people. Thinks that with proper peace, you could be friends, if not more.

Is that the summary of his suggestion? Does it make sense? You don’t know.

“I need to redeem myself,” he then tells you, “I know I wasn’t the best person, but I want to be better.”

“All of a sudden?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe not. Maybe your sister brought me closer to a memory with you. And the memory led to what my father wanted. And… that led to me realising… that I’ve become the person he didn’t want me to be.”

Maybe that’s valid reasoning. But you’re sceptical. And if you were to give him a chance, you’d still proceed cautiously.

“Which means…” you start.

“That I shouldn’t have done all that to you that night. I don’t think it’s easy for either of us to find liking each other, because too much happened, but… I want to try.”

Final statement.

He wants to try. Even adds one single, “Please.”

And you’re conflicted. It’s a risk, isn’t it? A risk to get hurt, or to be disappointed, to fall back into old habits without any progress.

But.

Maybe you should try the way he is.

Your, as well as his, mother vowed that you are identical in personality. Your sister did, too.

To you, you’re water, and he’s fire — but perhaps there’s a grey area where you meet. Where you collide and become steam, evaporating, hot yet calm.

So you finally say, “One chance. And that's all you get.”

You remember being eleven at most.

You remember navigating through the darkness, at a time that your parents were long awaiting you at home. You had just stepped out of your friend’s place a few minutes ago; in hindsight, you should’ve never gone to someone whose parents allowed such a thing and never bothered to bring you home.

Even though you didn’t live too far away, the journey home, wading through the rain, felt endless.

Oh, and there’s that, too.

You remember pouring rain.

And spotting the Duke’s son when you least expected it.

Back then, you wouldn’t see him in town too often. In truth, he and his brother spent most of their time studying in a much livelier city, learning manners, acquiring skills.

They’d come home for the weekend, and even then, they wouldn’t leave their mansion and their parents’ side much.

But when the beloved Duke died, leaving your town gasping and in quiet anguish, you saw Jungkook from this close for the very first time.

It was spring, you believe. Warm enough to enjoy lunch near the lake, to exchange conversations and jokes. But the nightly fog and rain were still freezing, yet half as bad with the umbrella over your head.

He was weeping, alone on some run-down bench; legs crossed, barely noticing you when you drew closer.

“Excuse me?” your tiny voice asked; you recall squinting your eyes. “Don’t you need to be home?” He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at you. “Does someone know where you are?”

Your house was a few streets away, but walking to the mansion took a fair amount of time. You wondered whether he’d run all the way down here; with a childish mind, you also wondered what it felt like running from home.

Arguments are a common human trait, especially as a child grows up. Back then, you didn’t know, and despite your obedience in your house, you wondered if you had the guts to leave, should your parents give you hell today.

Jungkook’s affliction, you understood. You figured why he was here at all, lonesome and lost, unable to take the gut-wrenching cries that probably roamed their castle.

You reached out to touch his shoulder, and leaned in to lift the umbrella over both your heads. It was the first time he met your eyes — the white of them was red, tears on his cheek merging with the rain.

The sheer amount of pain overwhelmed your fragile heart. You were just a child, watching someone shatter and break in front of you. He had big eyes back then, too, the same pouty lips, and his crying fractured something deep inside you.

You’d claim that you’d always been an empathic child — and you’d claim that Jungkook, once upon a time, used to be similar.

But not anymore.

That night changed him. Or at least, you think it was one of the reasons that altered his personality.

Because from afar, he appeared sweet, friendly, and mannered. But you didn’t expect his fiery reaction when you said, “You can come home with me.”

It was a simple suggestion. A sign of a stranger’s sympathy.

But Jungkook either didn’t catch your amenity or didn’t know how to give it back properly.

So he didn’t at all.

When he spoke, he sounded scared. Even in his fear, though, he wasn’t gentle with you.

Today, you can only remember every word when you think about it hard. When you don’t, fragments of sentences flash through your mind, something with home and dead and cosy fantasy world.

You’ve long pushed it out of your head; you wonder how much he remembers.

But you still know that he left you speechless and confused. You were hurt, as much as a child can be hurt from another stranger child; but even then, you knew where his temper was coming from.

You silenced.

You stood in front of him in the cold shower. Water collected in your shoes, goosebumps on your skin, but you weren’t shivering anymore.

His breath fell heavily, and his gaze fixated somewhere near your knees. And despite the things he’d said, you touched his shoulders again, telling him, “Go home.”

To which he replied, “I don’t have to.”

“But you will get sick.”

“Who cares?”

It was tough to come up with something he’d want to hear — and when you lost the courage bit by bit, close to leaving him and walking away, you heard a carriage approach.

The next bits have always been chipped particles of your memory.

How someone stepped out of the carriage, thoroughly irked, calling his name and scolding the life out of him. The man was tall and well-built, handsome to a pleasant degree, but the monstrous anger in his face left an upsetting impression on you.

And Jungkook — he just listened. That is, until he finally conjured up an excuse; you still haven’t figured out what strange reason urged him to come up with, “I apologise. The girl led me to these alleys, and I couldn’t find my way back.”

Of all the things he could’ve said.

You still don’t know.

Lying isn’t the worst sin of them all; but sometimes, it does wound an eleven year old more than it should.

Because he said it quietly and calmly, differently from how he’d spoken to you.

You were too young. You didn’t understand how to effectively defend yourself.

So you panicked when the man you didn’t know — Jungkook’s uncle, his dowager mother’s cousin who later married her and became the Duke himself, as you’d find out — came closer, peppering you with a dozen questions.

He asked what you’d intended to do, or why you’d get in his way on such a day, and did you not know who that boy was? What had happened today? What you were getting yourself into?

That everyone was worried sick and your search for a playmate set the entire mansion ablaze?

You claimed that nothing happened, and that you’d just found him. That you wanted to help, that you would’ve told Jungkook’s family if there was any way to do so.

You were clutching the umbrella tight between your little fingers; and the hold didn’t lose until his eyebrows relaxed. Because in hindsight, you were lucky that he didn’t say anything worse, that he didn’t notify your parents or demanded anything for the damage.

The Jeons were grieving too much; they couldn’t be bothered with some girl.

So they both left.

You snap out of your trance, inches from Jungkook’s shoulder.

It’s bizarre to see him smiling at you now, an utter contrast to your first meeting. In truth, the entire world has changed.

You used to witness it from an innocent point of view; you’d hold onto your mother’s hand, and play with other girls until you started understanding the concept of such balls and soirees.

People are all looking at you, whispering to each other, gathering rumours and information to expand on later. Their eyes are wide when they see the two of you, lips parted.

Not too far from you, your mother and sister are nodding encouragingly, fitting into the atmosphere so much better tonight than you.

Of course they were delighted to hear the news.

Your father escaped to the garden, drinking with people he knows, talking about God knows what.

And here you are, next to the man that voiced the most unbelievable proposition you’ve ever heard.

The truth is.

You think you’ve long forgiven him for that night. The harsh words thrown at you, the lie he crafted, the anger his uncle unleashed on you.

You’ve forgiven him, because you can’t imagine the pain of losing someone so dear. His own father. Reigning during the day, gone that very night.

There’s not much one can hold against a child.

But what you hate is how much that night started. How it rolled out the rivalry without any valid reason.

How you grew to view him from your most bitter side, remembering the fear he put you through despite his own pain. How the gazes you gave him carried a sour taste, and how he consequently turned bitter, too.

He probably wasn’t always like that — but the years that followed made your life hell. The boy you heard of from other people, the reputation he held… gone one day.

As he grew up, he frequented various women’s places, a new one every other month, and they all would never stop swooning over him. He liked that.

Didn’t care about tarnishing his image — perhaps he thought it was his brother who’d reign one day anyway.

And somehow, he respected you the least. All the accusations you threw at him just two days ago, standing in the dark garden, you still take each of them to heart.

At some point you came up with the theory that he connects the memory of that night, his father’s death, too much with you. That this is why he’s always hated you, just because he could.

And you’re sure that this very theory of you is correct, because you don’t know many other of his victims.

But deep-rooted ache of the past or not.

Sometimes, a behaviour can’t be excused.

You look back and forth again.

Up to the chandelier dangling from the ceiling, to the orchestra chiming its music through the hall. Everything is bright and white, giggles drowning in the music, dancing couples ecstatic.

The hall is divided into obvious sections: courting men who impress gorgeous girls. Mothers fanning air into their faces and watching. The host nowhere to be seen and the scent of finger food filling the room.

If it wasn’t for the others’ occasional, judgemental glances, you might even find some liking in the aesthetics.

Jungkook insisted on making this the first opportunity to carry out his plan. Not that you weren’t coming to this fete anyway — you were anticipating this dress for days.

Your apparent suitor kept stopping every now and then throughout the night — or at least since you arrived forty minutes ago. He conversed with whoever approached him, and you realised that he knows far more people than you ever could.

Which shouldn’t come as a surprise, considering his status.

But it’s funny to you — how they’re smiling at him, speaking to him for their own advantage. Because you know for a fact that those are the same people who’d fire double as many malicious rumours about him back at you when you badmouthed him in the past.

They’re different from the men in Jungkook’s life. Because when his cousins trudge along, greeting him gently, their eyes land on you for just a moment; then back on Jungkook.

Kim Taehyung says, “Now that’s an unusual pairing if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Get used to it,” Jungkook counters.

Your head turns fast, and you regard him with a puzzled look.

What? Is he pretending? Get used to what?

You thought you were just trying this thing out.

“What happened to all those evil adjectives?” Taehyung prods, drawing close; Jungkook pushes him away lightly.

You gather that Kim Seokjin must be the mature one out of those two, because he boxes Taehyung in his sides, eliciting a deep groan. He looks at you so softly that you feel immediate sympathy with him.

Even though he might be one of the people who nodded along when Jungkook insulted you behind your back.

“I mean, we’re trying to get used to each other, too,” Jungkook clarifies.

You exhale in relief. Well, that certainly makes more sense.

“What for?” Taehyung asks.

“You don’t need to know everything. Or anything at all.”

“Alright,” Taehyung whines, full lips sulking as he steps away, “not like you tell me much anyway.”

Seokjin gives you one last, apologetic grin, walking away with his brother as though he’s babysitting him. You follow his movements, only smiling once you realise where he’s come to a stand.

You think he’s spotted your sister. And you keep watching as he moves to her slowly; watch as her gaze falls to the ground, eyelashes shyly brushing her cheeks.

He lifts a hand, and by the looks of it, you guess she has accepted his proposal to dance, too.

For a moment, you feel serene. Blend out the noise and brightness around you.

But as your smile widens and your heart soars, Jungkook calls your name as though it’s a melody.

Your focus breaks when your eyes fall on his, your joy replaced by confusion as he clears his throat and offers you a hand. His spontaneity must be a constant character trait of his, because up until now, you couldn’t predict a single word, a single motion of his.

“Would the lady like to dance?” he asks, an arm behind his back, just as high society’s rules claim.

You roll your eyes — he’s truly putting every bit of effort into this affair, isn’t he?

But you’re a lady indeed, and none to decline a gentleman’s kind offer. Not publicly, at least.

You plant a palm in his, and he leads you among the couples swaying away, lost in each other. Some conversing, some not. You throw your locks out of your face, drawing a long breath when his hand lifts to the small of your back.

It’s a soft touch, yet so unfamiliar. Strange. You’re not certain what to make of it.

You conjure a distraction from the questions in your mind, cocking an eyebrow as you state, “They seem to have quite an opinion about me.”

Jungkook’s pupils briefly move to where you assume his cousins must be standing, though you can see at least one of them dancing not far from you. Basking in more amusement than you ever might with the very man staring at you.

Jungkook kisses his teeth; then sighs for a moment. Eventually, he declares, “It’s not their opinion. They don’t care.”

“So you do?”

“I wish I didn’t.”

You scoff. “And I wish I could take this in a good way.”

Imitating your sneaking irritation, he puffs out a breath, guiding you slowly. His feet lead you in gracious motions; and you must admit that despite the insolence that he never fails to rile you up with… your hand fits into his perfectly.

If it wasn’t for his nearly constantly demeaning expression, you could perhaps forget that he despises you.

And you him.

“You didn’t want to dance with me, did you?” you spit.

His eyebrows relax, his lips parting; his silence grants you utter satisfaction. You wonder which justification has materialised in his mind this time.

He doesn’t bark back anymore, instead claiming, “It’s not that I didn’t want to.”

“But,” you argue, “you’re obviously doing things right now, because you’re forcing yourself to all of it.”

Jungkook remains stubborn, opposing immediately, “No. Not at all. I’m enjoying the night.”

“You’re barely looking at me.”

“I didn’t know you’d want that.”

Fair.

You did conclude right from the beginning that this idea would end in a blind alley. But the thought of wasting your time still feels intolerable to you.

“Perhaps you’re right,” you tell him, “wouldn’t know what to say to you anyway.”

He grimaces, and his mood changes; a one-eighty turn from vexed to teasing like it’s nothing. “That’s not so kind,” he quips, “I honestly thought we were trying something here.”

“You were. Jungkook, you suggested all of this.”

Jaw hard, he looks away for a moment before he admits, “It’s not easy. All of this… the execution might be flawed, but I know no other way to hate you less.”

You don’t take his words to heart this time; in fact, you agree. Whispering, “I know.”

In a room filled with laughter, your bicker feels inappropriate. With the mood down and the atmosphere tense, neither of you will win tonight.

And you understand that he thinks the same, because in the next moment, he inhales and asks, “What did you do today?”

You pause. Blink. Sigh, and then hum.

Tell him, “I woke up. I read some of my book. Then I went for a walk, spontaneously crossed paths with a friend.” You think again, smacking your lips. “Got ready for tonight, and now I am here. Very unexpectedly dancing with Jeon Jungkook.”

Another sneering laugh falls out of him, and he nods, clarifying, “It’s not unexpected, is it? You knew we were coming here.”

You shrug your shoulders, unable to argue, and ask back, “What did you do today?”

“I was… hmm. I needed to attend something important with my brother,” he parts from you, turning you around your axis, “thoughts of what you might be wearing tonight.” His body leaves yours once more before his hands pull you back in. “Tried on some clothes, drank some whiskey to prepare for tonight. And now we’re here.”

Your insides burn.

The fire that spreads is ambiguous — you can’t quite say if you love or hate it.

But there is no time to dwell on it, no chance to ask about it; so you choose to ignore his comment about your dress, not least of all because you can barely imagine he means it in a pleasing way.

You ask, “You attend important businesses, too?”

He chuckles, eyebrows drawing close. “Did you think I merely go around town all day and watch the clouds float by?”

“I thought you’re stuck all the time.”

“Stuck?”

“In… someone.”

Another set of eyes rolling. God, you must be irritating him — almost as though he’s swallowing his own medicine, right?

The music just won’t end. You’ve been turning in circles for ages; your breath is turning stagnant by the minute. And this darn conversation knows no end, either.

“You really think highly of me. Very pleasant to know,” Jungkook says, his expression neutral.

Unresponsive, you only shake your head, looking through the sea of guests.

The rest of the couples surely look happier than the two of you by miles. Their enthusiasm dejects you a little; you wonder how high the chances are that his plan will succeed if you keep looking at each other like that.

But… you guess he keeps trying.

Like, when he says, “I meant to tell you that… you look gorgeous tonight.”

If anything between you came out of the blue, then this must be the most unforeseen surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you lean back, voicing a single, “Oh?”

You’re not able to add to it when you switch sides, grasping his other hand. And then, your bodies separate, apart from the hand you’re holding, stretching your fingers to the man next to you; adhering to the choreography.

His fingertips touch yours just briefly, and a fleeting moment later, you’re back in Jungkook’s arms. His shoulders feel firm and sturdy when you put your hand back on it.

You question, “Not like a fruit today? Or like I escaped a carnival? Or perhaps as though I broke out o—”

“No. No, you don’t,” he interrupts. “You never did.”

His hand moves further up your back.

Slowly, gently.

You don’t think he should be doing any of it in public, that his expression should shift as it just did. But he’s a mystery, and you still can’t shake the glooming feeling that he’s following a greater agenda.

You wish you could trust him easier.

“Why did you insult me then?” you ask.

“It’s… what my personality was made of.”

“That’s an excuse to you? It hasn’t been too long.”

He turns you in his grip, still stepping to the sound. Keeps executing the dance perfectly; your back nearly presses against his chest. You wonder how fast his heart is beating right now.

His hair tickles your cheek, and the heat of his breath skims your neck, “You meant something way worse to me than an enemy. Sometimes I hated you enough to feel closer to you than to anyone else.”

“I…”

“And I hated it. It didn’t feel good,” he whispers, turning you back to him. The warm hand between your shoulder blades pulls you a little closer; the music is still loud, but his touches are calculated and tender. “You were one of so few who hated me openly.”

He gulps; and then adds, “And the only one who did so without scarring me permanently.”

Wait… what is he talking about? And why is his voice so quiet, carrying this odd trace of ache?

“What does that mean?” you want to know.

He shakes his head so slightly you barely notice. “Abhorring you brought me back to reality sometimes. Because where my mind resides… isn’t quite,” he looks around, up to the ceiling, side to side to every guest, “in this realm.”

You try again, “Why are you talking like that?”

His scent is too intense now. His head is tilted, his eyes drunk, though his lips didn’t touch a single class yet tonight.

“Perhaps I should’ve told you that sooner,” he says.

“Then,” you’re breathing irregularly now. The music is calmer than before, so he has an excuse to nearly press your chest against his. “Why didn’t you? Why did you keep beating me up until I broke?”

And that’s when the peculiar haze in his glance dies again. He doesn’t answer; doesn’t know what to say.

You stare at him until you can barely breathe. Stare at his eyes, his nose, the dropping corners of his blooming lips.

Memories of a laughing crowd return. When they’d mock you until the earth spun too fast. When they’d surround you and nudge your shoulder, repeat the obscenities that he priorly whispered to them.

You wish that was all there is — but the voice in your mind keeps throwing warnings at you. That this is not all he has to offer. That he will hurt you, stomp on you, burn you alive.

And when the music dies, you finally break.

Out of the trance and out of his grip.

Your hand retreats from his immediately, and you pull away from him; as other couples bow just a little and grant each other promising smiles, you turn from him and walk away.

Out of the mansion and onto the porch.

You think you hear him calling your name, repeatedly.

You’re sure he understands that any sort of relationship between you is doomed. Because you might keep looking back to the past, holding onto the sting and the guilt.

But this time, even when his voice draws closer, you choose to look ahead.

Only ever ahead.

“I didn’t want to break you.”

You cross your arms over your chest, rubbing your skin; tonight's chill is more palpable now than when you arrived. Takes you back to the eventful night.

You don’t respond.

His steps and voice inch closer to you carefully. His movements are wary now, as though you could attack any moment. Little does he know that you’re already out of energy.

“I didn’t want to break you,” Jungkook repeats, and you move your head to the side, but don’t quite look at him. “But I justified it all by telling myself that I still had it worse.”

As Jungkook lost his father, you think he lost bits of his humanity, too.

It shows in the lack of empathy he had towards you as you grew up. In the way he’s aware of manners, but chooses not to stick to them. And right now, it shows in the way he absolutely doesn’t understand how emotions work.

You turn around, shaking your head in disbelief, “Pain is not one-sided. You will never be the only one to feel a certain thing. And no matter how bad you have it, no one deserves to be put in the same misery!”

“I know!” he exclaims, his voice echoing through the darkness, and you recoil. “I know that now. It’s part of the reason why I am here with you at all, because it’s the first time in my life that I’m seeing people as… people.”

“And why now? Why not earlier, why not later?”

Your heartbeat hastens when he moves even closer, not enough space between you; his scent returns, though it elicits something different now.

“I could’ve approached you earlier… or later. And you still would’ve asked me the same thing.”

You seal your lips once more.

He looks at you with a gaze so piercing that you feel the needles in your chest. He pokes holes into your lungs, robs your breath; his eyes are too apologetic, too sincere.

You wish you had a stronger armour.

Wish you didn’t give into his excuses so easily.

Because he’s right. Any moment in time is ideal to shatter someone; and just like that, any moment in time serves as an opportunity to turn life around.

He whispers, “I am trying to be better. And I am tired of this meaningless life.”

“But,” you try again, quieter this time, “why do you need me to be better?”

“I don’t need you for that,” he immediately explains, “but you’re the first I need to reconcile with.”

Reconciling is the wrong term. You cannot reconcile with someone who never used to be close to you in the first place.

Sometimes, you wonder whether you’re an item on his list; one that contains numerous tasks that will secure him a place in heaven. But then again…

Doesn’t everyone have one of those? Humility is rare; self-interest isn’t. You can’t even be mad.

“I know,” he mumbles, “that I called this a courtship. But… All I want is sympathy. You’re my biggest fiend for nothing, you shouldn’t be, and I…” His hand reaches out, but he doesn’t touch you yet. You focus on his fingers. “It wasn’t you who killed him, after all. Life did.”

You knew it.

Despite any pain you needed to bear in the past, your humanity never vanished. You can still read people; knew what his reasoning might have been.

You ball a hand to a fist. Blink to the ground, and then let your gaze travel over his body, up to his face. “I didn’t.”

“No… no, you just. You happened to be there that night… and maybe you shouldn’t have been.”

So if someone else had found him…

Maybe he could’ve ignited his hatred towards them. Perhaps you would’ve somehow, someway, learned to appreciate him as a friend; would’ve admired him from afar, as so many women you know do.

Or maybe you never would’ve bothered to be acquainted with him at all.

“You’re not a tool to make my mistakes undone.” His digits wander to yours, fingertips finally brushing your skin like a feather; opening your fist. “But if you could make me feel so much resentment without deserving it… maybe you can awaken some of the good feelings, too. And learn to see me as a friend, too.”

Your chest rises. Then falls. He follows the movement shamelessly, though you’re sure he doesn’t mean anything tasteless by it.

But you still feel the cold shiver snaking down your spine torturously slowly; feel the goosebumps he calls forth when his fingernail traces a line along your bare arm.

You hate that you feel that way. Hate that you can’t deny how tempting a peaceful future with him sounds. As his partner, his friend, his acquaintance — whatever may come out of this.

If he just didn’t look at you like that…

Like you’re actually someone who can affect his life when no one else could ever break his walls before.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask, stretching each word without intending to.

“I just,” he inhales, as though he’s breathing you in, “I need some time. And your patience. And in turn… I will practise restraint, too.”

That’s where his promise ends. He doesn’t elaborate on what he needs to restrain, or how much time he requires.

And you don’t ask; instead, you repeat, “You think I can awaken something good in you?”

His words merge with the whisper of the breeze, accompanied by a gentle nod and a light touch on your elbow, “And you’d deserve that affection, too.”

The room is dark but comforting. Brightens your mood; a stark contrast to the brilliant yet dispiriting hall you last danced with him in.

This afternoon, however, passes vastly differently from when Jungkook and you bickered throughout the dance, bringing up memories neither of you was ready to relive.

No.

There’s something about today that keeps the storm at bay.

Maybe the nature of your last conversation. The touches, the freedom you granted yourself. The fact that you’re hiding your irritation towards him, and letting his humanity seep through.

And it feels good.

“You’re not used to this, right?” you whisper, leaning close to him.

He presses his lips into a line, eyebrows drawing close, and asks just as quietly, “Why would you think so?”

“I thought you spent your time at prettier places. Lush, rich, loud.”

Your eyes move from him back to the kids on the tiny stage.

The girl sitting in the middle of it showcases a confident attitude, paper in a hand that hasn’t trembled a single time. The short story she’s narrating is supposedly a dream; an idea of how she wants her future to play out.

The children around here usually speak about the parents they never knew, or the life they had up until now; topics that are far too advanced, far too mature for kids like them.

But you assume that someone who’s seen hell, has persistently thought about heaven, too.

“No,” Jungkook responds, letting out a gentle laugh. He doesn’t roll his eyes this time, and the missing negative tension pleases you. “I think it’s very nice here. Something about the kids and the happiness that surrounds them…”

“Yes, I agree. The orphanage has an overwhelming number of gifted children. They know how to make the best of their days… even though they don’t have much in life.”

Jungkook nods. Lifts his hands to applaud with the rest of the crowd, flashing a smile at the bowing girl on the stage.

A break of a minute follows; the head of the orphanage appears with a radiant grin, fond of the monthly literature and poetry nights. He announces the next presenter, hands in tight, tiny, enthusiastic fists.

Jungkook asks, “How did you find out about this?”

“My father donates,” you explain, crossing your legs under your seat. “Money, clothes, books. He finds education very important, so he likes to foster literacy around here.”

“I see.”

You hum, smile fixated on the boy now fiddling with his paper. The several times you’ve seen him before were the exact same: he always wears a beret, a white shirt, short, brown pants, suspenders attached to them.

He clears his throat each time; dark, big eyes take in the audience before he flashes a sugary sweet smile.

And then, he begins.

He rattles down the poem in a perfect pace and intonation; maintains just the right amount of eye contact; establishes himself as a future, well-known poet that you envision him as.

Eventually, when he’s nearly done, you register a shifting body, hear a sigh from your side and wait until Jungkook says, “This is… beautiful.”

Your head immediately turns towards him.

Not that you forgot that Jungkook is human, too. But the new sentiment, the glassy eyes, the soft rhythm of his voice — you barely recognise him.

You catch yourself fast, deciding to overthink later, and state, “They’re more talented than you’d know. Look at him,” you nod towards the boy taking one deep breath, preparing for the ending of his piece, “he was seven years old when he wrote his first poems.”

“How old is he now?”

“Just twelve. He’s one of the best among them. Very cherished and admired.”

Perhaps you’re too enthusiastic, maybe a little too loud. Because in the next moment, one of the women in front of you turns her head wordlessly, expression frozen and judging. Your teeth dig lightly into your lower lip, and you apologise, chiming in with Jungkook’s quiet chuckle.

His voice even more hushed than before, he leans in further; his breath is hot against your ear. “Have you ever tried writing?”

You puff out a breath, shaking your head immediately, and answer, “Oh no. I just read. I admire literature, because crafting an entire story must be… difficult.”

“Must be.”

“For now I am satisfied with frequenting this place and listening.”

You’re glowing today. It’s the first thing Jungkook noticed when he saw you approaching outside, side by side with your chaperone who hasn’t acknowledged either of you even once.

Which is why neither of you are particularly fond of bringing an observer with you.

You told him just today how you convinced your parents at a young enough age to let you roam around alone. And Jungkook… no one ever really paid much attention to this detail.

But despite the lurking presence, you’re lost in your own world. A personification of joy and tenderness, calm as a still lake, fully in your element.

So he remarks, “You seem to be fond of them.”

“Hm?” you make, and then nod with twinkles in your irises. “I used to teach some of them once a week. I would come over and read with them.”

“That’s…” Incredibly kind. Admirable. Inspiring. All the good things and more, he thinks. “A good way to spend your time.”

The words fall out casually, another sentence in a harmless conversation.

But somehow, you think he looks sad. You wonder whether he feels like he wasted his time; like he could’ve engaged in bigger, better things. You can’t decipher his thoughts.

For all you know, his expression could mean nothing.

And it changes within a heartbeat again anyway.

“And you want kids someday, too?”

The question surprises you. It really shouldn’t. In an ongoing courtship, conversations about the future usually happen way sooner — they’re not abstract, not an abnormality.

But when they come out of Jeon Jungkook’s mouth, they sound unnatural, nearly surreal.

“Uhm… someday. No rush,” you answer, thumbs circling around each other. “Right now I need to experience a little more in life before I can allow myself to think about that.”

Your response doesn’t surprise him; in fact, he agrees, nodding along — a good sign. Yet, his curiosity shines through, and he asks, “Like what?”

“Like…”

You almost don’t say it. You’re not quite embarrassed — after all, your thoughts aren’t rare, more common than people talk about. But it feels strange. You didn’t think you’d ever utter such words to him.

You surprise each other with each second you spend in the other’s company.

“Like intimacy,” you finally tell him, “love. Heartbreak. Love again, but true, pure and final this time.”

You wonder if anyone is listening in. Then again, some have already left their seat to converse with someone else, or to go home, or to snatch the food on the faraway table.

The event must be over.

Jungkook’s voice is louder now, yet calm. There’s amusement in his eyes, laced with a slice of serious interest. He’s close to you. Both your hands are planted against the bench, forefingers only inches apart from each other.

The closeness is alluring, but not as much as his words, “You’re saying all that as if you’re expecting me to fulfil some of that.”

“I…” you stutter, looking away and to his knee. “You asked. And anyway — why would you think so?”

“I mean. Am I not courting you?”

The sarcasm dripping from his words is contagious, and so is his smile. His humour consists of jokes, you have realised; he’s not trying to be condescending. If you took everything personally with him, you’d have to do the same with everyone else, too.

You might be biased, but you can be fair as well.

“Then,” you join in, teasing with a light bump of your shoulder, “what are you ready to give out of all that? Not love, I presume.”

The famous smirk returns; easy to swoon anyone anywhere else. But the people around you don’t care about royalty, nor the nearly illicit touches between you.

Because when his grin widens, cocky and confident, and his finger reaches out to circle the back of your hand, no one notices but you.

And no one but you hears him say, “Just. If it’s not love, then you might want to use your fantasy. Then you’ll know.”

The single moment of hesitation is enough for him to understand your bewilderment; but then, you deliver yourself a mental punch, tearing your hand away from his touch.

You scrunch your nose, eyebrows rising, and say, “Disgusting.”

“So,” he begins under a laugh, “you haven’t experienced intimacy or love before?”

You’re still rubbing the skin of your hand as if he burned you, vocalising in thought until a distant face flickers in your head. You tell him, “Intimacy? I have.”

You say it quietly; you don’t think he’s the most trustworthy person around, and if he did tell anyone, your reputation as a lady might be doomed. But you don’t deem him as someone who blurts such secrets to the world.

You think, and perhaps even know, that when Jungkook hurts someone, he does it in his own different ways. Looking at him, you doubt his mentality fits the rest of the rumouring, cruel society.

Clearing your throat, you continue, “Love? I thought I did. But… love is harder than that.”

“That it is.”

“What about you?”

He looks at you like a puppy, sad and despondent. “Well…” he laughs breathily, just for a moment, “love is harder.”

And that’s where the conversation ends.

The dozen questions you need to ask don’t make it out, your confusion about his melancholy lingering.

Because suddenly, a handful of children run towards you giggling, speaking over each other, calling your name as a girl orders, “Let us braid your hair!”

You lean back, surprised, touching your locks, and tell her, “But I did my hair at home!”

“Come on, we will be careful and—”

Their words overlap once more, the boys behind them scolding to leave you alone, and others urging to ask you again. Perhaps it’s your pretty dresses that lure them in each time, or the kindness they’ve learned to admire in the past months and years.

But they’ll never fail to approach you at least once every time; a true light in the darkness.

You stop their fervent banter as you get to your feet, talking over them, “Alright! Make it pretty, though. Or I will make sure no one sees me during the ride home.”

You fall back on your seat, your grin bright as you look at Jungkook.

And the next hour, he feels, passes faster than the entire week did.

You’re different like this. Different from when he met you at soirees and gatherings, different from the night that brought you together and split you apart in the first place.

There’s a trace of guilt in his heart, because for all the mean years he spent tormenting you, he missed out on all the kindness your pure heart had to offer.

He sees it now.

In the way you speak to the people around you. The way you compliment and playfully scold the children. Your witty responses, the eagerness to entertain them and be entertained by them.

Refreshing.

And once they’re done and dancing on the stage, he can’t resist but fall back into his teases. Only softer this time.

He says things like, “Some of your hair is sticking out there.” Points to a random spot on your braid and adds, “And what’s that?”

“Don’t say that!” you defend. “They tried their best.”

And each time you ramble all your protective exclaims, he nods and says, “I know. You look really pretty.”

Near the end of the evening, a hand touches your braid. Brushes down to its tail, rubbing the tresses between his fingers.

You stay as still as a sculpture, perplexed by the sudden motion; but then break into a laugh when he brings the tail to your ear, tickling you shamelessly.

When you tickle him back, you don’t succeed, and he lets you know.

“Fine,” you say, “but I can still annoy you.”

He challenges, “Can you really?”

And you try; keep trying until he grabs your wrist, pulls you in. Kills your giggles, his eyes unfathomable, but his body suggesting something quiet to come. Beguilement perhaps.

You realise once again how differently today would’ve played out if you weren’t ready for a change.

It’s baffling how much a certain mindset can change, and how much it can affect every interaction in daily life.

Especially with people like him.

You think he’s losing himself in how you look at him; you’re not sure why. You don’t understand what you did, or where the sudden change in mood came from.

But then again, it vanishes as fast as it appeared.

The same children from before call your name, standing near the snacks and waving at you, and with a sigh of strange relief, you ask, “Food?”

All he does is nod.

“Good idea.”

“Will you let me hold your hand?”

The query comes entirely out of the blue, overshadowing the occasional neighing of the horses and the sounds of the rocky road.

You sway a little where you sit, hands in your lap. The carriage ride must have been going for ages now, and you don’t think either of you has said much in that time.

Except the random little statements about nature around you, vibrant and green, leading you to a soiree in the countryside that he spontaneously invited you to. Without chaperones at that.

You glance at his idle form in front of you, leaned back against the carriage seat. He has his cheek propped on his fist, looks as nonchalant as ever as he vocalises said query.

“Why would you want that?” you ask.

“To… feel a sliver of warmth in my terribly ill-lit life?”

You laugh quietly. Your eyes flicker back to the greenery outside, and you pull your feet back, telling him, “Stop joking.”

“But I—” He thinks for a moment, wondering how to phrase his next attempt. “I do think we’d look good together. Your hand in mine is the first thing royalty loving people might want to see, and… it’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of you, too.”

He’s wrong. In fact, the act might cause a whisper here and there; for a fresh, yet to be established couple, it isn’t common to do such a thing publicly. But you don’t correct him just yet; you play along.

Because your stomach turns.

Jungkook is probably used to such flirtatious, suggestive remarks. He might not think of them too much, might not connect any particular emotion to it.

But to you, it does more than you’d dare yourself to allow.

Because it vexes you to admit that you’re starting to like him. No matter what your past held.

You love and hate that after numerous more promenades and events you attended together, your mind is slowly, surely pushing the pain away and giving way to a new relationship, to sunshine and rainbows.

Arguments are dying, fights almost forgotten.

You zero in on something else, still dodging his question, “First? What else?”

“What?”

“You said it’s the first thing that comes to mind. So if there is a first thing, there’s certainly a second, third, perhaps a last thing, too.”

He laughs, flashing another one of his lopsided grins. You don’t hate it as much anymore. “I’m not one to spill my secrets just like that.”

You hum, sit up, and urge, “Then… why don’t I guess?”

“I was going to suggest the same thing.”

You smile, conjuring up harmless ideas; knowing him, that’s probably not what he needs to hear, though.

“Then. You’d like to dance with me. Again,” you say.

“That is true.”

“We shall, later today then. Hmmm, what else?”

“I thought you were supposed to guess.”

“Right,” you confirm in a gentle giggle; you don’t quite notice when the sound of it makes his lips raise ever-so-slightly. “How about riding? Do you enjoy it?”

“Riding, I do. Does not involve horses, though,” Jungkook admits.

Vexation aside, you can’t suppress the childish titter that his playful words elicit. And when you speak again, it sounds merely half-serious, “You're such a crude.”

“I apologise. Continue.”

You shake your head, and then oblige, “You wish to spend more time with me… in carriages. Talking.”

“In carriages?” he wonders, raising an eyebrow at the detail. “I mean… I do like long distance carriage rides.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Until now… I didn’t either.”

Witty bastard. You’re sure that if he wrote a book on how to court a lady successfully, it’d hit the market with a bang. And get sold just as easily.

Short silence allows the both of you a soft smile. And then you speak again, “Did you mean that? The… riding thing.”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to answer, “I’d be a liar if I said no.”

“Mhm…”

“And you’re beautiful. I’d be a fool not to mean it, too.”

You roll your eyes, vehemently averting his menacing eyes. They don’t always resemble a doe, you’ve realised. Sometimes, they’re drooping and dangerous.

But you’re not weak enough to spiral so easily.

You think.

“Do you say that to most women to charm them?” you ask.

“Just the daughters of Viscounts.”

“Right… then, would it be too much to ask…”

You barely know what you’re hinting at, but apparently, he understands. His tongue darts out to the corner of his lips, and he looks back to the horse and its rider. Flattens his waistcoat, clears his throat, glances back once more.

And when he’s eventually made up his mind, he changes his seat swiftly and elegantly, and suddenly, he’s right next to you.

Asking, “Tell me. Would it be? Too much?”

“Would it be? To ask what you imagine,” you finish your sentence.

Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, hissing in thought before he teases, “It’d be too much indeed. It’s… A lot.”

“A lot, yes?”

“Would end up writing a book on it.”

“Then,” you say breathily, hidden in a flustered giggle. “Perhaps,” you dare, veins pumped with courage and adrenaline, “you could show me. Maybe it is easier.”

Brave. Bold. Unexpected.

The tension lingering between you for days was quiet so far — now that you’ve spoken it out, it suddenly feels… different. Hotter. And he, albeit surprised, doesn’t back away.

“Here, huh?” Your brazenness is affecting him. You see it in his eyes. Feel it in the air, know it from the way he moves closer. “You won’t let me hold your hand, but this is alright?”

You laugh, leaning in. Your shoulders touch, sparks crackling between you. Should you reach out to his thigh?

“Perhaps you can hold my hand afterwards. As a way to feign innocence,” you suggest. Your thoughts are blurred; so are your ideas.

“Shut up.”

And you do.

Because he’s the first to reach out to you.

His fingers, slow and careful, sneak to where your entangled digits rest. He grazes your skin, free of annoying gloves, pulls at your thumb just a little.

Movements stop, eyes gauging your reaction; and when you don’t refuse his touch, holding your breath in suspense, he continues.

He leads your hand away from your lap, letting it drop in the petite gap between your bodies. And then, he comes back to where your dress covers your thigh, barely touching the fabric as though to observe your response.

Your eyes dart up to his; his expression is one of a kind. Lips slightly parted, tongue sliding between his teeth, eyes digging into you with a harmless candle flame flickering behind them.

“What’s that?” you whisper.

His focus falls back to your dress, his body moving closer, “What’s what?”

“What… are you doing?”

“What you asked me to do.”

“I…”

“What?” he muses. “Were you joking?”

No. It’s strange to admit, but you weren’t.

Your torso leans into him automatically when his forefinger runs along your leg, up to your pelvis. You press your thighs together tighter, and you guess that’s what snaps something inside him once and for all.

His breathing comes out broken, and he halts for a moment before he orders, “Come closer.”

“What?”

“Closer,” he repeats, basking in your gasp when his grip settles on your thigh, pulling you to him. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

What have you done?

Asking for such a wicked thing; more than your fragile soul can possibly bear. He’s inescapable danger, a path to ruin — what if you lose your entire mind to him before you even arrive at your destination?

“What are you gonna do?” you ask him, though you can’t resist his pull.

Jungkook’s head falls to the side just a little, one eyebrow cocking and teeth worrying his tinted lower lip. He breathes in through his nose, and then warns, “Will you stop asking so many questions?”

And then, without a single warning, his arm priorly skimming your dress wraps around your waist. You let out a tiny yelp, and a moment later, you find yourself half on his lap, swinging dangerously.

But in his hold, you’re sure you’re not going anywhere.

“Closer now,” he repeats once more, and this time, you oblige.

You shift in his lap, making yourself comfortable on your seat; not given a generous amount of time before his fingers return home.

“I’ve been waiting for this, you know?” You have, too. “Just,” he purrs against the shell of your ear, “want to see how much we can get out of you. Just like that.”

Just like that?

A question floats through your mind, soon to be extinguished when a strong hand parts your legs and moves up. He palms your hot, clothed cunt wordlessly, never preparing you for anything; you choke, eyes squinting shut.

And then, said palm begins to move.

Slowly at first, accompanied by sudden burning kisses along your neck.

He’s never kissed you before.

His lips feel inviting. Hot. Too good.

A quiet voice whispers, “How’s that?”

And you, losing yourself gradually, answer, “Here,” you bring two of his fingers to where your nub aches for him, moving it in a miniscule circle, “touch me here.”

“Like th—”

He swallows the last word when your hips move on his lap; what grows underneath you robs your breath, poking between the cheeks of your ass. You tilt your head for him to kiss you deeper.

“Fuck,” he curses. His unoccupied hand immediately shuts your sudden cry as he bites into your shoulder, pressing harder against your clit. “You’re even worse than me.”

Along with the waves of pleasure, pride crashes against the shore, too; you don’t like a one-sided game.

What did he expect from you?

His bulge soon rock hard, you rub your butt against it in a delicious rhythm. Every now and then, your focus falters, wiggling when his fingers move around your pussy particularly well.

You never thought you’d ever let Jeon Jungkook dig his fingers into your entrance over two layers of clothing.

Or that you’d ever voluntarily enter the same carriage as him at all.

This is either a heavenly dream or a neverending nightmare.

He ruts his hips against you, seeking relief; his eyes only flash open when you tease, “You’re pretty desperate… aren’t you?”

And that’s when another nearly silent groan breaks against your skin. Just as quickly as he tugged you onto him, he’s swirling you around, as carefully as the congested space allows.

He pushes your back against the inner wall of the carriage, his body following. Your mouth drops open when his lips attach to your neck again, sucking harder now, the pace and force nearly bruising.

Knee hoisted up on the seat, he pushes it between your parted legs, allowing at least a hint of reprieve as he busies his hands with something else now.

Impatient fingers hold the nape of your neck, lips kissing a trail to the mounds of your breasts. You sigh, wishing he could swallow you whole, a carve between your eyebrows as he says, “So what if I am? I mean, you… You have never been so…” He places a wet kiss near your cleavage. “Breathtaking.”

God, you ache to reach out to the growing bulge.

You ache to kiss his lips; his everything.

But when the wish threatens to burst out, the coachman, hopefully oblivious, yells back, “We’re arriving shortly!”

Arriving.

Right.

You’re going somewhere. You nearly forgot about time and space.

And all this began with a conversation about hand-holding and horses, didn’t it?

Jungkook’s eyes slowly lift to yours. The warmth of his fingers returns to your face. He looks at you deeply, carefully, breathlessly. Mutters a little, “Shit,” persisting on not backing away.

His mouth is close enough for you to stop your heartbeat; your cheeks are heated beneath his touch.

And then, reality dawns on you.

It’s perilous, the proximity when you’ll probably be passing other carriages very soon. Come to a halt among a crowd of guests, in front of whatever house he’s brought you to.

Society is close — so you break the tension, and joke, “Hide whatever grew in your pants.”

His laugh is sudden, sweet. It differs from the desire that previously bloomed in his eyes, now playful and casual as he promises, “Later. We’ll continue later.”

You use the last two minutes to tidy yourself up as much as possible. Fortunately, Jungkook didn’t dishevel your hair, so you should be good to go.

As you arrive, stepping out, the first thing you notice is that this is not a house. This is an unaffordable luxury. Trees and flowers burgeon everywhere, like a big, blossoming garden. A breathtaking scent, lovely and inviting.

The sky is azure blue, brighter here than in the city, and the heat of the sun isn’t as stinging due to the gentle gust.

But the people? Same old news.

The initial process passes fast. Various things that you expected; various things you brush off fast.

Like, the overexaggerated kindness and enthusiasm of the stranger hostess. Or the loud laugh and slightly inappropriate comments of her husband.

The side-eyes some throw at you, as if you’re the only new face around here. Or perhaps, you are, you wouldn’t know.

And the silent judgement of one of Jungkook’s acquaintance’s eyes, one you do not know, verbalising the strange statement, “Every other woman before wasn’t good enough, was she?”

To this day, you don’t understand the malicious nature of some people. Why they hide their insecurities behind a presumptuous mask, throwing insults straight to your face just upon arriving.

You want to snap back, but before you’ve uttered a single word, Jungkook defends, “Well, I for one am glad no one was.”

Suppressing the smile proves harder than you thought; and when you’re looking at him again, you bet you’re radiating brighter than the sun hanging in the sky.

You register only faintly when the woman laughs, as though he’s cracked a joke, wishes you fun at the fete, nods kindly and walks away.

Ambiguous little snakes.

But who could focus on split tongues and slit-formed pupils when a way brighter charm is standing right next to you? Shaking his head in frustration, rolling his eyes at people’s audacity.

Angry for you; defending you.

Funny, because he used to be the same.

Perhaps he really is trying to change.

You move closer, smile, and breathe, “Jungkook?”

“Yes.”

Who cares what society thinks?

“It’d be okay to hold my hand now.”

You hold his gaze carefully, possibly doting; when he smiles, crinkles appear around his eyes. He fits your palm in his, nods just a little, and then says, “Pleasure, princess.”

Walking deeper into the hall feels different this time.

The carriage’s mood and the touch of his hand elevate your senses, your heart a blissful mess despite the stupidity of the guests outside.

You catch your lower lip between your teeth, because this event is a lot more high-spirited than any other you’ve ever attended before.

“Who was the host?” you ask as you come to a stand; your hand moves to his elbow, just for elegance’s sake, and you point across the room to the man who greeted you.

“It’s one of my uncle’s friends. He’s an Earl,” he explains, leaning to your ear, “they have a son with the name Namjoon who married another rich lady from high society, and that’s why they’re able to live in such luxury.”

Makes sense.

The last ball you went to was hosted by an always-invisible Marquess, so the amount of diamonds hanging from the chandelier tonight shouldn’t surprise you after all.

You don’t think you know too many faces around here. Considering that you rode out to the countryside, a fair distance from your home, you don’t expect to recognise anyone, either. Except perhaps two or three souls floating around, nodding towards you as they pass you by.

The slight hint of familiarity relieves you, but even in its absence, you would’ve been immensely grateful that Jungkook brought you here. To introduce you to the relevant fellowship of the family must be the highest honour, right?

As your gaze wanders from a row of candelabras to the dancing crowd, and then back to Jungkook’s smile, he compliments, “I think I prefer this dress to the one last time. Suits you even better.”

“It very much felt like you wanted to rip it off me just minutes ago,” you jest, nudging his sides, “but thank you.”

“Well I can appreciate the dress and want it… not on you. Right?”

The rapture pools in your lower belly and tickles you; you attempt your hardest to not let the treacherous sigh topple out of your mouth.

“I assume that makes sense,” you say.

“I’ll like any dress on you as long as you don’t wear one of those… those with arched bottoms. I don’t even have a name for them.”

You roll your eyes, groaning just a little, “Don’t remind me. They’re like tents for butts.”

Jungkook chuckles, bringing his hands together to slap with his snicker. And when the two of you have calmed down again and wiped the tears of your very personal joy, he asks, “How do you like it?”

Your gleaming grin is contagious, and Jungkook can’t deny his joy when you exclaim under your breath, “It’s beautiful!”

“Right? Each time there’s something new,” he explains, open palm gesturing to an artwork near the snack table. “Like this glass sculpture.”

You nod towards it, though it’s impossible to miss. “That one?”

“Wasn’t there last time.”

“They like to make their nights memorable, it seems.”

A hum vibrates in Jungkook’s chest, unspoken compliments stuck in his throat as he, instead, subtly hints, “I think, for me, tonight will be the most memorable.”

Caterpillars previously crawling through your stomach, filling you with utmost hate and displeasure, flutter as butterflies across your torso now. Whatever confessions would have riled you up not long ago, are now desired. Your heart craves them.

Perhaps you’re weak and naive after all.

“...Really?” you mumble.

Jungkook smiles with his eyes, too, you noticed. The crinkles at the corners of them, the night sky inside them, the joy around them. His nose sometimes scrunches in the most devastating honey-sweet way; his lower lip is tilted.

An everlasting, unique beam.

It was all there before.

Only now, you know to appreciate it.

His body shifts to yours almost unnoticeably, shoulders barely touching. The picture of the two of you standing there is the exact same as last time, but whatever is blooming with you makes the crucial difference.

“Really,” he confirms.

“You’re… quite enticing.”

You’re joking, but then again, you’re not. You’re trying to elicit a reaction out of him, delighted when he obliges just right, “Am I? Can’t we just…” He sighs, looking around. “Go back to the carriage?”

“Oh, I’d be more than ready to, but society i—”

Mid-sentence, a movement catches your attention. A joyful, familiar face rushes to Jungkook, and you immediately recognise him as Jeon Junghyun — future heir, widely admired, brother to the black sheep.

He nods towards you, your eyes twinkling; you’ve heard nothing but delightful stories about him, so it’s a pleasure to see him after such a long time again.

But he doesn’t regard you much longer before he’s rambling about taxes and random names, urging Jungkook to follow him to introduce him to what’s-her-name.

“It can’t wait?” Jungkook asks, regarding you with an apologetic look.

“The quicker, the better.”

You place a hand on his arm, assuring, “Go. I will be here and waiting. Lords can’t escape duty, after all.”

His lips curl to another sorry smile, and a moment later, he gives in, letting his brother tug him to a small circle of top notch people that you can’t assign names to.

For a minute, you watch as he mingles with the crowd, effortlessly fitting in. He doesn’t think too high of royalty or the tasks that surround it, but he still knows how to behave when he’s thrown and forced into such a situation.

You think he admires you, but he’s not that low of a personality eith—

“Oh, it’s you!” someone says to you. You turn to a face you noticed earlier, from the city, someone who frequents parties as much as you. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

You remember his name to be Byun.

He isn’t anyhow close to you. His mother, a past friend of your own, introduced him to you years ago; as far as you recall, he is easy to converse with, but you don’t think either of you approached the other much after that.

“I did not think I would see you here, either,” you remark.

You sharply hope he doesn’t ask you to dance. You remember your mother telling you that you should never reject a gentleman when he asks for one; or else, you won’t be permitted to do so with anyone that night at all.

And you desperately need a round of harmonious swaying with Jungkook tonight.

But despite the sickeningly sweet smile, Byun doesn’t broach that subject, instead nodding towards Jungkook’s laughing body and remarking, “I didn’t know you two met?”

You know why your mother broke off her friendship with his. You recall her complaints about how that woman had no manners, never asking for anyone’s wellbeing, not interested in small talk as long as it benefitted her.

You reckon her son is similar, because as he skips formalities and jumps straight to your company tonight, you internally cringe.

Smacking your lips, you hope he doesn’t prod, and simply tell him, “We’re becoming… friends.”

“That’s good,” he praises, nodding, “Oh, I… I am not trying to court you, I need you to know that. I just needed to at least ask if he’s treating you right.”

And again, you remember that you do not share a bond with him whatsoever. So you’re suspicious about his sudden curiosity, confused as you question, “Why are you asking that?”

His answer comes immediately; he shrugs with a glass of champagne in his hand. “Because he has… a reputation.”

And you’re quick to say, “He’s not that horrible.”

“I do hope that. I’ve heard he’s not very fond of relationships or affection. My friends call him The Fluke Duke.”

You scoff. Funny, because Jungkook isn’t a Duke at all.

One look at him makes you feel bad immediately. He’s currently staring through the room, drinking nothing much but a glass of water, but for a very brief moment, as though he felt your gaze on him, his eyes meet yours.

You catch a tender smile, but when he spots the stranger conversing with you, his eyes narrow for just a moment. Relaxing when you give him a little wave.

You tell Byun, “That’s incredibly mean. He’s not so bad, I promise… Sometimes you just need to give people a chance.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. Not that you could care — you didn’t come to defend Jungkook all night.

“Sure,” Byun says, “I was solely wondering, because — and don’t take this as an offence — I’m aware that you’re a big man’s daughter. But someone like a Lord usually courts someone of his kind. Or at least announces the courtship in a more respectable way.”

Respectable?

You know he doesn’t mean bad, but the choice of his words doesn’t particularly please you.

You breathe in; patience is a virtue. “Well, Jungkook… he tends to be careful. He won’t court me and have all eyes of society shame us, should it not work out.”

“Not bad. Quite smart.”

The music chiming until now fades, and with it, your chat dies, too. You don’t respond, averting your eyes from him, and when he’s realised that you’re done with him, he raises his glass and says, “To the both of you.”

Slowly, a hand in his pocket, he walks away when Jungkook steps back to you.

A woman in tow, he finishes his dialogue with her; you don’t know whether you’re imagining the glitter in her eyes, but you do know that her hand on his shoulder is happening.

So is the gorgeous smile.

And once she’s bid her goodbyes, you cock an eyebrow, stupidly half jealous, half fooling around, and ask, “A lady winning your heart?”

His eyes raised to yours, his initial smile drops, as though you’ve suggested something profoundly heinous. He blinks, and then responds, “Absolutely not.”

“But why not?” you continue, fallen back into a good mood in Jungkook’s proximity, playful bicker on your mind. “You’re handsome, aren’t you? A catch for sure.”

You think that’s what your relationship has become. That you can banter about such things, even if just for fun; just two days ago he did the same at a picnic.

But you guess he did it in a wittier way; your suggestions, he doesn’t seem to enjoy.

And he hesitates in irritation, overwhelmed by your sudden, odd inquiry. You must say, even for someone as unashamed as you, this came out of nowhere, and you definitely could have cracked a better joke.

Looking closely, you see him clench his jaw, warning through obviously gritted teeth, “Don’t say such things.”

“Oh, I…” you pause, gulping. Was that so bad? “I didn’t mean it. I was just joking that anyone would want you, and—”

Shut up. Shut up. Just…

Your gaze drops to your shoes, and you mumble something under your breath, eyebrows lifted. You fold your fingers, eyes big, intended on asking him what the hell you did before your breath hitches.

He doesn’t give you a single moment to prepare for the sudden pull, fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugging you into an unknown direction.

You wonder whether he’s aware that someone might be watching. But you can’t really see his face, trudging along behind him; not aware of his quiet anger until you’ve climbed the staircase and entered an empty room in a lonely hallway.

The door locks behind you, and he cards his fingers through his hair, sarcastically chuckling before he tells you, “That was humiliating.”

You’re baffled. “W… wait, what?”

“It was humiliating, because we were done discussing business and I was just telling her that we might go further than whatever we’re doing now. That we’re very friendly with each other. So it was embarrassing that you’d say such a thing and bash my loyalty.”

You think he is overreacting. No one even heard what you said.

But something in you tells you that his agitation doesn’t quite derive from whatever you did down there.

“Other than that,” he adds, “she is a childhood friend. Like a sister.”

You watch his finger gesture around, the other hand on his hip, and you say, “I’m sorry, I… didn’t mean to do that. In fact,” your voice grows louder when he laughs, “I was even telling Byun how pleasant of a company you are.”

“Were you now? To Byun, yes?”

“I was. I know him from town, so feel free to ask him anytime, if you’d like. But th—”

“I don’t need to. But my reputation is already dead, and I don’t want it to be tainted in your eyes, too. And…” He pauses, suddenly calm. He licks his lips, his gaze pungent. “Do you know what truly irritated me?”

You don’t answer.

A moment later, he confesses, “I was talking to her… and she was suggesting all those women in the room. To her defence, she didn’t know I’m here with you, but she was pointing to half a dozen girls, listing their traits.”

You don’t know where this is going; not an idea why this irritates him. He just couldn’t care, right?

But you keep listening.

“And then I… I realised that the time for finding comfort in other women is truly over. I just wanted you as a friend, but…” He moves closer slowly. Fingertips on your arm again, lips close to your cheek. “Watching someone stand so close to you… I told myself it doesn’t bother me, but it does.”

“Is that… is that why we’re here now? I haven’t done anything, have I?” you ask carefully, confused when he shakes his head in frustration. “I mean, I— you reacted too much. Jealousy is why we’re he—”

“No. You being you… me wanting, craving you all the damn time. Me finally realising it. That’s why I’m furious… It enrages me.”

Pause.

You fall silent; and so does your heartbeat.

His voice trembles a bit, the gulp audible. “More than anything.”

And... that’s it. The point of no return.

Maybe that’s when all of you breaks.

Or when it was supposed to break.

The tension gathered in the last days, exchanged through distance and every moment without each other, through telling glances and subtle touches… it catches up with you, gathers on your lips and unleashes when you push yourself forwards.

He whispers your name, and you mutter back, “Jungkook…”

And then, your mouth falls on his with vigour.

Hands bury in his hair, back arching; he swallows your gasps, your taste, your sweetness.

The reciprocation happens without a moment of delay; your body beseeches him to come closer.

The kiss never allows a gentle second. Before you know it, you’re drunk on his tongue, stumbling backwards until your bottom hits a wooden table.

You hate the transformation that occurred within those few days. Hate how his hands cup your face; fingers then shifting to hold your chin; then, a palm against your back like he’s treasuring you.

Lips on your neck. Breaths against your veins. Teeth on your shoulders.

God, you despise him now more than ever. Hate that he’s so difficult to truly detest, despite his irksome flaws and incorrigible nature.

Especially when he breathes against your goosebumps like this, mouth ghosting over the mounds of your breasts. Toying with your dress.

He whispers, “My God, you enrage me… yet I need you near me all the time.”

A swift movement, and he’s turned you around. He must be scarring your skin with the way he plants kisses on the juncture connecting your neck and shoulder.

His digits journey down your back, fumbling with the sleeves of your dress. Unabashed, he pushes them your shoulder, all the way down over your breasts, revealing the corset that truly makes it hard to breathe right now.

He fiddles with the strings of it, loosening the knot, and says, “I hate those fucking things.”

You too. Now more than ever.

He allows some space to breathe, but never really opens your corset fully; it dangles half closed around your torso.

Gentle touches skim the skin between your shoulder blades, kisses abundant wherever he’s able to reach. And once he needs more, he brings a seeking hand to the front, engulfing one of your breasts firmly.

You reach back, touching his cheek and his hair, cutting yourself on the jawline before his free hand grasps your wrist and pins it against your back.

“God, your scent is driving me crazy,” he confesses, nose brushing along your cheek.

And all you manage to respond with is a weak, “Touch me.”

“Where?”

”Anywhere.”

His words turn into a salacious whisper, promising you, “I am.”

You shake your head, biting your lip, stifling a moan. And when he lets you go, his touches easing, you claim, “I want more.”

“Figured you did. After what happened earlier—”

“You were cruel to stop there.”

He leans down, chuckling against your back, and you shiver as he asks, “So what? I couldn’t bend you over in the carriage, could I?”

A response sits patiently in the forefront of your mind, temporarily shut down when he lifts the hem of your dress and exposes your legs.

His face keeps shifting downwards; your mind conjures an idea of what he might be doing, but the anticipation is still killing you.

Neverending, not even when he pushes the dress further up, frees you of your undergarment and shoves your torso down onto the table. His hot breath fans your increasing wetness, and you nearly feel shy about your bare lower parts.

But then you remember that you’ve never been timid in his presence; and you won’t start now either.

Though him being in charge isn’t such a bad thing.

He asks, “How does that feel?”

That is nothing more but the still seething breathing against your cunt. So you lift your lips to a smile, your voice mocking as you admit, “It feels like you’re teasing me.”

But his words carry a tinge of confidence, cocky when he deduces, “But I think that’s what you like. Slow and careful… and to prolong the pleasure until you can’t take it anymore. You like that I’m controlling it, right?”

“I… hate you,” is all you can bring up.

“No…” Two fingers suddenly dip between your folds, never inside, “try again.”

The gentle touch nearly makes your body jolt forward. You didn’t expect it so soon, didn’t know it could feel so good without any piece of clothing between him and you.

He rubs slowly, up and down, testing your dampness. Your arms reach forward, clutching the top end of the conveniently empty table; the wood feels cool against your cheek.

Your eyes shut, butt lifting, turning in tight circles as he moves his fingers in geometrical patterns.

And then, his fingers disappear, his panting drawing closer and—

Suddenly, the tip of his tongue plunges in; and you cry out.

A semi-harsh slap lands on your ass, and remains there, squeezing almost painfully. A thousand sensations rush through your veins, and you can’t muster anything more than a stifled, broken moan.

His tongue retreats, and he asks, “Do you still hate me?”

“If hating you… makes you do such things,” you breathe; you’re not sure if he can hear you, “then yes.”

When his lips close in again, only touching your folds, you feel a laugh vibrate against your skin. The feeling of it makes your knees tremble, but his hands push your body up, allowing him to dive deeper.

You realise immediately that he’s experienced, and far more than you at that.

Because he isn’t harsh with your body; or at least not yet. He doesn’t thrust his tongue into you like a maniac, not biting you in his haze.

No.

He moves his wet muscle in figure eights, lapping up your juices with lewd kisses. He moves back once to spit on your cunt, and then comes back to wrap his mouth around your sex, flicking his tongue over your clit occasionally.

God.

Holy fuck; how could you miss out on all that for so long? Just because of some stupid fight?

You can’t move; you can’t form a thought. The ardent sensation kills all of them.

You attempt to reach back to him again, cursing under your breath — but he doesn’t quite want to allow you that touch for now. Snatches your wrist, pins it against the small of your back once again like it’s a habit.

“Hold on a little more,” he whispers when he pulls back for a moment, out of breath. “Just a little more. I need to…”

He pauses, lets the rest of the sentence dangle.

Comes back to your dripping pussy; but this time, it’s not all he delivers. He lets your hand go, fingers suddenly at your entrance; and without a word, he pushes two of them in to his knuckles.

You scream out, but immediately bite your lip, worried someone might hear your forbidden affair.

His digits turn and curl, shoving into you carefully and repeatedly; his tongue never leaves, drinking all of you in. Your sounds make his eyes roll into his head, mingling with his own moans and craze.

He tilts his head, lips buried in and kissing you feverishly; tasting you thoroughly. You’re slowly losing your mind; his hums are too low in your pussy, the smack of his lips too outrageous.

And an embarrassingly short while later, you’re breaking.

Breaking hard and with passion, with shaking legs and unintelligible words.

His touch rotates over your clit, his hands shooting up to hold your ass, so you don’t fall. Your reactions are as seductive as they can get; they make his lower parts ache.

And once he’s parted from you again, he finally concludes, “I needed to finish what we started before. Desperately.”

Sure. He can keep talking if he’d like. You barely register anything.

“Yes,” you only say, catching yourself, stopping the spinning of your head.

Rushing, he gets to his feet, capturing a handful of your butt once more as he angles his body. His clothed member presses against you, rubbing dryly between your ass cheeks, and his lips roam over your head, lowering to your earlobe.

“You sounded so pretty, falling apart like that,” he whispers, kissing your jaw as his hand moves to your chin, “just how I fucking thought you would.”

“Jungkook, I wa—”

Your wish remains unfinished — because the touch around your chin vanishes, instead reappearing around your mouth when he digs a thumb and ring finger into your cheeks.

He parts your lips, forcing them open, and asks, “A taste?”

Despite his beastly nature, he utters his ask for permission tenderly, and your body quivers at the uncommon decency.

You stick out your tongue, registering his fleeting groan, and suck his digits in when he places them inside. Steady movements of your head force an idea into his head, and his breathing falls irregular, his head dizzy.

His grunts are low and inviting; fuck, you want him to split you asunder.

You’ve barely licked all of you off his fingers when he pulls you up, turns you around and faces you with raging flames in his eyes.

Your lips collide again, breaths leaving through your noses. Your body tenses, pliant under his touch; tingling where his fingers land.

He doesn’t know how much you craved his taste. Doesn’t know that you’d lie on your bed staring at the ceiling, hands under your blanket doing what he hadn’t done yet.

Closing your eyes, imagining his mouth on yours. And in reality, the feeling is so much sweeter, lovelier, prettier.

Not what you imagined, but more.

And there’s so much that was missing in your fantasies.

Like, how he wraps a palm around your neck now, pushing in ever-so-slightly. Your head tilts when his does, the kiss deep, his tongue hot and skilled; you taste yourself on it again.

Jungkook holds you in place, ridiculously tight… as if you would ever make the mistake of walking away now.

The unspoken words and the burgeoning insanity have you under a firm grip, and even if he stepped back now, you wouldn’t move by a hair’s breadth.

And yet, you push him from you when his kisses continue on your jaw and your neck. The corset is slipping off, possibly flashing your breasts; and you want him to touch you there, you do.

But the anticipated fondling can wait; you’re salivating too much.

So you gaze into his confused face as you push at his chest; he’s probably wondering if he hurt you anyhow. But you surprise him when you entangle your fingers with his, eyes never leaving his as you slowly, carefully, drop to your knees.

The shock in Jungkook’s face is priceless.

“You… you don’t have to,” he says.

You move your head left and right, “I know.”

“Honestly, just because I—”

“Shut up,” you command, toying with his breeches before you pull them down to his knees. “I’m doing it, because I want to. I’ve been wanting it…”

“Oh… you…”

Undergarments follow; and what awaits you underneath is far more generous than what you expected. And definitely ten times harder than you foresaw.

Pre-cum trickles out of his member’s head, and you wrap a hand around the girth before it can slap back against his stomach, tainting his grey waistcoat.

He winces at the touch, hissing when you move. Fuck, his responses have you reeling; boosting your confidence until you can’t hide your smirk. You continue your ministrations, still high from your own release, but twisting and moving your wrist perfectly.

And when you see his thighs tense, his eyes closing, you lean in and lick his tip for just a moment. A soft swirl of your tongue around his head, collecting the leaking liquid, has him hissing.

The action repeats, over and over again, delicately and diligently, and you revel in his groans. He whispers your name in a manner so filthy that it alone urges you to take him in deeper.

And the way his hips move an inch, longing to thrust into your mouth is both amusing and breathtaking at once.

“Fuck, darling,” he mumbles, and you lift your gaze to his open mouth. If he didn’t control himself, he’d be drooling, you think. “A bit more.”

And you gratify his request.

Breathing through your nose, mustering strength and shoving him in until you gag. His cock is heavy on your tongue. Hot and thick, too much to fit him all in. It twitches in your mouth, releasing pre-cum into your throat repeatedly.

And God, you’re relishing every damn moment.

You nod with his length inside, humming and moaning, and he says, “And I was worried you’d… you’d punch me if I kissed you.”

Goddamn.

You ignore him.

You ignore that he imagined kissing you, that he overthought your reaction, that you were and are one of his daily thoughts at all.

Rather, you focus on not faltering, on keeping your pace, making him break as much as he shattered you. The aftereffect still lingers, your pussy aching and pulsating. Or perhaps, it’s happening again.

Perhaps you’re just yearning for more.

And with the thought pulling at the strings of patience, you swallow around him harder, hollowing your cheeks, fingers wandering to the end of his shaft and then to his balls. They’re firm and full, but you want them empty; released wherever he desires to.

“Didn’t think you’re so good,” Jungkook says, probably more to himself than to you. His speech is blurred. “My God, you’re…”

“Hmmm,” is all you do with your mouth stuffed to the brim; but when you release his cock with a pop, you ask breathlessly, “you sound tormented.”

“Yes, that’s a good alternative to absolutely dying to tear you apart,” he growls through gritted teeth, “more. Keep going.”

“Yes, sir.”

Which only spurs him on further; he fists his cock for a second, pumping, taps it against your tongue when you stick it out, and then pushes in once more.

“Ohhh, you’re the devil,” Jungkook breathes, laughing shakily as he watches his dick disappear in your mouth bit by bit. “I want to do something, but…”

“Mh?” you make again, coating him in more of your saliva.

“Don’t want to hurt you.”

You shake your head, closing your eyes. Pleased when his warm palm comes down to your face, caressing your cheek. He knows he must not mess up your hair tonight, so his digits float back to the nape of your neck again.

And you understand exactly what he desires when he says, “Nod just once if it is alright for me to…”

You do. You do so with utter keenness.

He says, “Pinch my thigh if you need me to stop.”

You nod once more.

And a moment later, his finger wrap around the back of your neck tighter, planting his feet firmly against the ground before—

His body falls a tiny bit forward when he rams his cock inside you; not stopping there, but repeating the action. Over and over again, relentlessly. His hips work with barely any remorse, his hand keeping your head in its spot.

He looks down to you, dark hair strands covering his eyes. The muscles of this face are tense, his jaw clenched, the puffed breaths unsteady and hectic.

“Shit… that mouth does a lot more than talk shit.”

All manners gone, his words become crude, provoking a reaction out of you. But you’re nearly immobile, moving according to the orders of the puppeteer above you; only gaining back control when he finally lets you breathe.

And that’s when you ready yourself for retribution, revenging your sore throat. You shift on your knees, ignoring the pain on them inflicted by the ground, and suck in one heavy breath before you unleash your true beast on him.

Jungkook stumbles again, speechless in surprise; judging the hardness of his balls, you know he won’t last much longer.

And you’re right.

He protests almost immediately, telling you, “Don’t… I want to—”

You don’t know what he wants. You keep going.

And perhaps you’d actually stop if his body didn’t beg otherwise. If he truly snapped at you, told you to back away, you would.

But you know he won’t.

Because his hips still shoot towards you, soon giving up, muttering, “Fuck, you are a brat, aren’t you? Of course you would never listen to me.”

You understand only every other word. He doesn’t allow much peace to your mind, slamming in, loving the saliva dripping from your chin.

And just a minute later, he’s emptied himself inside you, rope by rope, a salty taste and muffled moans.

Surreal. How did you go from absolute hate to… this?

Surreal.

The moment stretches endlessly; his movements are sudden, arhythmic.

It takes him a full minute to recover, though his panting suggested that he would never find his way back to reality again. But once you’ve processed his taste and he’s calmed down, a helping hand falls in front of your face.

As your palm touches his, he lifts you to your feet; an arm wraps around you and he pulls you in, still shaking, his gaze intense. A smile plays around his lips, affectionate and tender, and he says, “That was not what I had planned.”

“I apologise. It was hard to resist.”

“That I saw,” he chuckles, folding his fingers behind your back, “but I am in no position to complain. You looked gorgeous like that.”

“Did I, now?”

“A beautiful view, indeed.” His face nears yours, angling to the side. Lips stop with a tiny gap’s distance from your own mouth, and he promises, “Next time, I want more than that, though. And I won’t give up then.”

“I won’t be in a position to complain either,” you utter, joining his laugh, caressing his hair.

“Well, you’ll be in a vastly different position altoge—”

You flinch when a firm knock sounds against the door. The colourful illusion broken, you land back in the dark room, immediately parting and fumbling with your clothes. Jungkook pulls his pants up, the door catching his attention, and then you.

“Turn around,” he tells you quickly, doing his best at the corset’s knot. He looks to and fro for a little longer, and when the knock chimes once more, Jungkook whispers to you, “More wasn’t supposed to happen tonight anyway, huh?”

You stifle a laugh, backing away. He runs his fingers through his hair, hurrying to the window, checking his reflection until he’s satisfied with himself.

And then, he steps to you and tells you, “Two minutes. Leave a little after me, yes?”

You nod, and he imitates, fixing your hair and grabbing your face in his hands to press one last kiss on your mouth.

Then, he moves away. You scan the room, finding some darkness to hide behind.

When Jungkook clutches the handle of the door, he looks back at you once more; he can’t see you in the shadows, but he still smiles, takes a breath and then steps out.

You don’t catch a glimpse of the person outside, but you hear the man asking what the hell Jungkook was doing in there. He utters a senseless excuse back, and a moment later, the room falls silent.

Everything stops as fast as it began.

Hidden between furniture, your breathing doesn’t steady for the following couple minutes. You hold a still shaky hand to your heart, chuckling, unable to fathom a thought; because never in your wildest dreams did you fantasise about such a deeply personal occurrence.

When enough time has passed, and your attire is decent once more — or at least enough for oblivious guests to not suspect a single thing — you finally leave the room.

The door creaks open, and you grimace, hoping that no one observed the two of you vanishing into and appearing out of the same dark room.

You flatten your dress, head looking from left to right.

Which side did you come from?

You barely remember. It’s lit here, but it’s still somewhat scary. Several portraits decorate the walls; the hallway isn’t infinite, but both ends show a curve — one must lead to the staircase.

You noticed none of this when he dragged you here.

Eventually and instinctively, you choose left, because you’ll definitely come out somewhere, right?

You draw an invisible line along the wall, humming the melody of the music you heard downstairs. The thousand and millions of butterflies still float through your tummy, the heat in your cheek lingering and a glowing smile plastered to your face.

Perhaps he was right indeed.

Perhaps you will be able to forgive each other, feel fondness and replace the gloom, forget the past and your childish feud.

From the way he looked at you, his sentiment seemed and felt real. You won’t necessarily claim he’s in love with you, and you probably aren’t either yet, but you do think that he’s at least reached a stage of affection for you.

One very well reciprocated.

Your steps are light. Your memory filled with the overall gentle mood you just escaped from. Despite the partly feral touches, it felt like he was taking care of you more than anything.

So, maybe… drawing a conclusion from the goddamn grin on your face, you can look past all the misery that you waded through an—

“Why did you drag me here? I have somewhere else to be.”

The familiar dulcet voice stops you in your tracks.

It’s faint, not quite in your proximity, but close enough for you to register immediately; undoubtedly his. You’d recognise the sweet timbre anywhere by now, not least of all because you heard it whisper promises into your ear just minutes ago.

You step into its direction, noticing a door standing ajar. The room is dimly lit, and you can’t see him from where you are. There’s a curious urge to push the door open, see what’s going on.

But then, another voice speaks up, deeper, his absolute contrast, “I won’t keep you here for long.”

“What do you want?”

The other man is upset; if the click of his tongue doesn’t suggest that, the tone of his voice surely does, “Why are you talking to me like that? I thought it was you who wanted to leave the town.”

Hold on.

What?

Jungkook wants to leave the town?

Hmm. Odd.

He didn’t tell you anything about this…

“I know,” he confirms. You try your best to not let it get to you, not questioning what that makes of whatever is transpiring between you — because maybe, he wants to take you with him. “But it doesn’t have to be right away.”

“Why?” The other chuckles, clearly in mock. “What happened?”

Jungkook pauses. Thinks. You almost walk away again, fearing he might flee the room. But then, he simply says, “It can wait.”

“You begged for it for ages. I told you you can walk away, I don’t care. But not alone.”

“I know—”

“I meant it.”

For some reason, the voice sounds familiar to you. You rack your brain, because where have you heard him before…

You listen in as the man adds, his tone sharp, uncivil, “You get married, and you can leave. I’m not betting on you or giving you any money just for you to use it on your usual shenanigans, drinking and whores.”

“Stop. I know. You don’t need to repeat it to me every single day.”

This is…

You have a hunch who that man might be.

You blink. Your heart plummets to your stomach.

What?

Is that why… you’re here? He wants to leave, marry you, take you away just to escape this haunted place?

Are you an option for him to break free? To forget his old life, to start something better, but just for himself?

And if that’s what he wants… why you? Of all people. Because of your status? Your reputation?

“I’ll do anything to get out of here, so do not worry. I have it all planned out,” you hear Jungkook say.

Anything.

Like, make someone marry him for his own benefit.

You feel ill.

Stumbling back, you press your back against the wall. You should leave, run away, stop listening in on their deal and whatever else might’ve been discussed in the shadows.

Your throat dries out. You focus on staying silent, because if you do anything remotely loud now, you’ll be caught spying.

Shit. How could you dive head-first into such a thing?

He wouldn’t change. You knew from the beginning who he was, what made him, him. Why would it differ in a week? In a month? Just because he said it…

The sour taste on your tongue, the self-pity, and the bitter feeling of betrayal irk you.

Your eyes shut close, and only then do you notice that they’ve stopped talking. You move your head to the side just a little, nearly expecting that he’ll rip the door open, see you standing and slowly falling.

He’ll probably feign ignorance. Walk out in all his gorgeous, deceiving glory, and your disgust towards all of this will gnaw away at you until nothing’s left of you.

Jungkook will continue his act, and you’ll smoulder inside, just as you predicted.

But maybe you’re thinking too much. Maybe he’ll say that he was looking for someone, and found that someone ideal in you. Maybe you’re concluding the worst, being dramatic.

But for now, he says none of these things.

In truth, what they talk about next is worse.

“Uncle, is there anything else you need from me?” Jungkook speaks up; sounds tired all of a sudden.

That’s what you thought. The voice haunted the little girl that you used to be for nights, so it’s a given that you’d know it from somewhere, right? A frowning face levitating over a kid’s head.

You suppose you weren’t the only child fearing his presence. There was someone who was surrounded by it all the time, fearful and quiet.

Hesitation. Then, “How are you faring with the girl?”

Another beat passes, and your heartbeat halts, stuck in your throat. Optimistic.

He answers, “She is kind. I like her.”

A sliver of dull hope sparks, though you’re still barely done processing the aforementioned information. But maybe… maybe you can talk things out—

“Enough to swoon her, I assume.”

No… You can’t comprehend what his uncle’s deal is. Perhaps he’s aware of you lingering outside; or maybe he’s truly venomous enough to bring up ideas that shatter you.

But his nephew isn’t better, is he?

No.

“Yes,” Jungkook says, firmly, “I think so.”

“Good. Makes things easier.”

“Yes…”

“I told you it wouldn’t be too difficult,” his uncle says nearly cheerfully, as if he’s celebrating a long-awaited victory, “I know we failed with the older sister, but I do think you have the younger one wrapped around your finger. What was her name again?”

Like you’re a toy to beat up. To control and play with, like you don’t possess a bleeding, beating heart.

Or even a name.

Like you’re one in the faceless crowd.

Jungkook doesn’t respond, and the Duke claims, “It doesn't matter anyway, right? I told you it’s easier to proceed when—”

“—you make a woman fall in love with you. I know,” Jungkook finishes like a mantra, like something that has been preached to him on the daily, “takes no time for—”

“For a man like you.”

You remain without reaction, nearly numb to their words. Your eyes focus on a spot on the floor, unmoving; your body doesn’t want to budge.

“But I’ll take my time,” Jungkook argues, “I won’t propose right away. And I don’t understand why you want me gone so fast.”

“You do know. Jungkook, you’re a menace to our name.”

You take a deep breath. If Jungkook would just defy his uncle’s suggestions… if he didn’t play along…

He’s suffering under his tyranny, right? Perhaps that’s the only excuse you’ll allow; that he’s locked in a steel cage, unable to escape.

But it doesn’t hurt less. Because it means that anything he said, all the touches you shared were meaningless, a product of desire but nothing behind it.

Right?

“Every adult and child knows of your reputation, and I cannot fix it anymore,” the older man scolds, “Keep doing it, and even your brother, my heir, will lose everyone’s respect.”

Perhaps that’s where Jungkook’s patience ends, because he snarls, “Remember that he was already the heir when father died. You were nothing back then.”

“Careful. You were children, and your mother could do nothing for you, so be grateful th—”

That’s it.

You can’t take more than this; can’t freeze yourself against the wall, become one with it, numb all your senses and emotions.

So when you step away, breaking the dam holding back the overwhelming misery that treachery called forth, one single tear rolls down your cheek.

You’re embarrassed; hopelessly drowning in mortification.

You rush through the hallway in a blur, and stop at the railing of the staircase, catching your breath. When was the last time you had a sip of water? You don’t remember.

But the room is spinning.

You were too drunk on him, and he pulled you back into the agonising reality. You inhale the sob, fingers shaking when you lift them from your dress.

You’re so stupid.

Such an idiot to trust him.

That’s what your guts meant. What Byun meant.

And you let doe eyes play with you.

Perhaps it’s not the worst thing that he treated you like a lifeless body. You were used to it; you knew what he thought of you; understood that he didn’t have a shred of respect for you.

What you hate is that he pretended to change that opinion. That he pushed you into this fog of illusion, and double-crossed you as if it meant nothing.

And what if you’d fallen for him deeper? If you’d actually agreed to the betrothal? Would he have told you about his secrets or continued his act until the end of your lives?

It takes time until your chest stops aching; you wonder whether he’s still in that room, saying something worse that you didn’t hear anymore. But if he’s not… you should probably leave, right?

You can’t explain a fallen face just yet.

And you won’t lose yourself because of a man, will you? You shouldn’t dwell in pain, no matter how much it constricts your chest and squeezes your heart.

Your mother always said you’re only true to your feelings when you allow yourself to cry. That hurting is part of life, and that you will one day hurt, too.

But.

She didn’t tell you just how bad it could be.

You give your aching eyelids a rub. Then, you muster strength, once again flattening the fabric of your dress. You wear a neutral expression, tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Wipe at your cheek, fan air into your face.

You straighten your stance, and finally walk down the main hall and out the mansion.

People don’t regard you as much anymore as they did before — fortunately, though you already had an excuse or two at hand, should they ask for Jungkook.

I just needed a fresh breath of air. He surely must be inside somewhere.

The guests lingering outside seem to be having more fun than the ones inside. The atmosphere and weather are pleasant, ideal to get drunk on alcohol, laughter and joy.

You wonder if you can catch a carriage somewhere. Maybe there’s one to spare; usually, there is, in case of an emergency, right?

Because you won’t ride back home with Jungkook. Can’t think back to his lips on your neck, his fingers on you, eyes drowning in yours.

No…

You walk towards the entrance door, calling for someone, asking whether anyone’s available. You barely hear your own calls, working on reflex, tired out and desperate.

When your search seems fruitless, you walk back to the guests roaming around. You could ask one of the guests whether you could hitchhike. But then again, that would evoke questions, and you don’t think anyone here lives near your place.

And it seems that you took too much time just wandering around.

Because a moment later, Jungkook, wearing his usual smile on his striking face, is walking towards you. He calls your name, and you sigh deeply, hearing him question, “I was looking for you everywhere. Where did you go?”

Where were you supposed to go?

You weren’t leaving. It was him who suddenly disappeared.

“Just… here,” you tell him.”

“People saw you walking towards the carriages.” He nods to the exit, shifting his balance to the other leg. “Are you leaving?”

“No.” You gulp. “I mean. Yes, I was going to, but. I don’t have a carriage to bring me home.”

“...You didn’t tell me you wanted to go home.”

“I couldn’t find you, and didn’t want to burden you,” you lie; you’re not sure why you’re fabricating whatever truth. Maybe because you’re exhausted. “I’m not feeling well… But I can’t leave anyway.”

You look around, goosebumps on your skin. Less because of the breeze, more because it carries his scent to you.

Determined to avert his worried eyes, you watch the leaves of the trees oscillate. The cloudless sky allows a direct view to the crescent moon. Around it, a thousand and millions of stars paint the darkness, some brighter than the others.

There’s calmness in that picture, up above in heaven; but no tranquillity here on the ground.

Hell truly is empty.

“Did I do something wrong?” Jungkook suddenly asks.

You look at him; perhaps you’re easy to read, though you always deemed yourself inscrutable. You furrow your eyebrow innocently, shaking your head slowly to hide the true answer:

Yes. Unfortunately, stupidly, yes.

But you were worse.

Trusted just his words, laid your heart open to him, diving deep without asking for proper redemption of him. Just his damn words… his ask for another chance…

“No,” you speak instead. “No, I think it’s the corset. It’s too tight all of a sudden, and I am also starting to get a headache from the orchestra and the heat and…”

“I can help you with your corset,” he offers, shifting closer. You step back; his movements freeze. And just to pacify him a little, you move back to the prior spot again. He tries, “Should I get you something to dr—”

“No. I’ll try and rest somewhere.”

“I… take my carriage then.”

His suggestion is firm. You think he doesn’t quite believe you yet, but he doesn’t insist on an explanation either.

Of course not.

Because he doesn’t care enough.

His finger points in a general direction, and he adds, “I could pester my cousins until they permit me to ride along. You could have one of their chaperones—”

You shake your head. “It’s not very late. Barely nine, yes? I can take another carriage.”

“Which one?” he asks, gesturing around with an open palm. “There’s none left for you… so it’s alright. Go ahead.”

Guilt burns in your veins when you look into these wide eyes of his. Like a kitten.

He sounds resolute; you don’t think you will win this fight against him.

An inside voice chuckles when your knees threaten to buckle — after everything you’ve heard, you still think that deep down, he cares. That despite his battle plan, you took over at least a tiny spot in his heart; somewhere in the back, hidden but there.

But… you need to keep your armour intact.

“Are you well?” he asks.

Amidst the darkness spreading in your mind, you lift one side of your lips to a gentle smile, folding your hands as you say, “I will be.”

And as though he has read the contents of your heart, he puts a finger on your chin, lifting your face to study your expression. Of course he is — perhaps he remembers the hidden conversation just as well as you.

Maybe, looking into the depths of his cold, pumping organ, he’s good enough to overthink his wrongdoings, too.

Because he leans into you, and mumbles, “I am sorry if I hurt you anyhow.”

A tight knot appears in the pit of your stomach. “What…?”

“In that room,” he answers, and you sigh a breath of relief. No confrontation. No pain. Not yet. “I tried to be gentle.”

But not with your heart.

“You were gentle,” you assure, “I am fine.”

Such a vast number of people are gathered around you, and despite the nature of the moment, you still can’t seem to register anyone but him. You’re stupid. Truly stupid.

Jungkook nods, and brings you to the carriage silently. You climb in with your hand in his, and once you’re settled in your seat, he lets go; instead, immediately stepping up to you. Hiding you from everyone’s sight, here in the shade of the carriage where the moon doesn’t reach.

He doesn’t waste any time: grips your face, his thumb soft on your cheek. It’s a sudden movement, half scaring you, half intriguing you. Your breath hitches once more, your chest heaving.

When he looks at you without a single word, you think you’re panting.

He might be taking your reaction as a sign of affection. As he did on your way to this place, or in the room upstairs.

But in truth, his touch stings, akin to a thousand tiny needles pricking your flesh.

Flushed, lavish lips brush the tip of your nose when he leans in. You don’t hesitate or reject, because your own lips won’t push out and reveal your feelings yet. You have barely understood them yourself.

But what they will do is whisper his name one last time.

“Jungkook…”

“I… I hope to see you again soon.”

You smile.

What your lips will do is let him pull you in and kiss you. Will move against his. Will drown in the deep tenderness of his touch, no matter how much it hurts. Will permit him to slide his tongue through, dancing with yours.

When he’s done playing with you, and you’re done letting him, he pecks the apple of your cheek once more, and then mutters, “Good night, princess.”

He steps out. Waves you goodbye.

When the carriage finally leaves, your lips still stay sealed.

And you think another thing they do is… finally tremble.

thoughts? questions? theories? anger, sadness, love? what do we think, how do we feel?

ahhh seriously, i’ve never written something like this before, so it was a really fun yet scary experience. i’m very sorry if it’s not as good as expected; the next part will be better, i promise, but i worked very hard on this, too !! :D

whether you’re an old or new reader of mine, or leave short or long feedback, i absolutely love talking to you all. since support genuinely goes a super long way, please please like, reblog (!!), and talk to me in any way, like through comments; or better yet, as i always say come yell at/with, spam meeee <33

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