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yandere-writer-momo · 1 month ago

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This is more Harvey Dent centric, because I’m obsessed with him. So here is a part of something small, I can’t guarantee y’all make another part. I also noticed a trend with a neglected reader, so I wanted to do something different. I love the idea, and I might explore that in the future, but I wanted to do wife who was disinterested in Bruce. This is mainly a self indulgent piece. I hope everyone enjoys.

Harvey Dent would be so delulu. Fight me if you disagree

Yandere Batman Short Stories: The Heart Wants What It Wants

Yandere Harvey Dent x Married Fem Reader x Yandere Bruce Wayne

The chirping of birds filled the autumn air as Bruce sat at the dinner table in the Wayne Manor. His blue eyes studied the elegant figure of (your name) who enjoyed the breakfast Alfred had made.

“There’s rumors going around that you’re close to Harvey Dent.” Bruce’s fist clenched around his silverware to the point his knuckles turned white. His gaze narrowed at his plate.

“I do work at the legal office with him, Bruce. We’re coworkers.” (Your name) sighed as she rubbed her temple from the already oncoming headache. She’s been the Distict Attorney’s assistant for a few years now, so she wasn’t sure why it was an issue as of late… “Harvey is a really nice guy-“

“So you two are on a first name basis?” (Your name) sighed at Bruce’s jealousy. He had never been much of a fiancé prior to marriage and now he was a jealous husband. It made no sense to her since he had always instilled in her, since childhood, that there would be no romance attached to this arranged marriage their parents had set up ages ago.

“Bruce, I truly think you’re overthinking this. Harvey is just a really amazing friend.” (Your name) sighed. “If this is about the Wayne family image, you have nothing to worry about-“

“He’s in love with you.” Bruce’s blunt statement effectively cut her off mid sentence.

“Excuse me?”

“Mister Dent is in love with you.” Bruce repeated it as if that would magically make her understand his assessment of her coworker.

“What makes you think that?”

“The way he looks at you.” Bruce’s blue eyes are like a tropical storm of emotion at the moment. “You’re my wife.”

(Your name) sighed before she placed her silverware down and rose up from her chair. She cast Bruce a glare.

“On paper. There’s no romance involved in this arrangement, remember?” (Your name) walked through the door as she headed to her room to finish getting around for work.

Bruce sighed and put his forehead in his hand. He hated his younger self for what he had once told her… because he no longer felt that way.

Harvey came over to (your name)‘s desk with a bag of pastries in his hand.

“Good morning, (your name).” Harvey gave her a warm smile as he set the bag down in her desk. “I bought some muffins if you’d like one.”

(Your name) gave Harvey a weak smile.

“You’re always so sweet. Thank you.” (Your name) picked out a banana muffin, her fingers brushed against his for a brief moment.

“I think you deserve more sweetness in your life, (your name).” Harvey gave her a charming smile before he grabbed the bag. His blue eyes lingered on her for a few seconds longer than what was comfortable before he went to his office.

Harvey shut his office door before a blush enveloped his cheeks. Their fingers touched… god he was so pathetic. (Your name) was a married woman. Harvey couldn’t even have her… she had her fate chosen for her since a young age. One that he could not interfere with.

Harvey picked up his double sided coin off his desk as he absentmindedly flipped it. Would she have even chosen him if they would have been able to have a life together? Harvey didn’t have the same wealth as Bruce, but he would have been able to buy them a beautiful suburban home… give her a few children if she wanted them. The standard, American white picket fence life.

Harvey gazed at the files on his desk for his next, big case. (Your name) was truly a skilled and organized assistant, one he was grateful for. The two of them had worked so many long nights together on this… all for their mutual goal to better Gotham.

Harvey couldn’t help that he had fallen in love with her… he just wished she’d see his feelings. That they were soulmates- he was so corny.

Harvey was so pathetic for the way he felt about a married woman… but he knew she wasn’t happy. That it was all an arranged marriage. A union her parents forced on her.

Harvey could treat her infinitely better than some cold, Playboy billionaire. he would never run around on her, nor would he ever make her doubt that he had nothing but love for her.

(Your name) deserved to be pampered like a princess. She deserved soft and gentle… something Harvey was.

It was just such a shame he had been hearing strange voices in his head… perhaps they were merely auditory hallucinations from the stress of this upcoming case against the Falcone family?

Yes… that was it. Harvey Dent wasn’t a madman. He was a normal, upstanding citizen. The district attorney! Harvey “Apollo” Dent.

He was not crazy… even though he kept hearing a raspy voice in his head that wanted to snatch up his assistant for his own. She needed to be properly claimed and ravaged.

Harvey was just too scared of his own mind sometimes…

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” Bruce always recalled memories of a younger version of (your name). Back when she still made an attempt to get close to him. To the times she’d visit the manor to check on him since he was always ‘brooding.’ Bruce appreciated the gestures but never outwardly expressed it.

(Your name) was always so kind and sweet… yet he didn’t want to fall in love for fear she’d leave him or she would perish. Bruce now saw this logic as flawed since another man was now in the picture.

Bruce would be damned if he let a man like Harvey Dent snatch up what was his.

(Your name) was surprised her husband waited for her when she came home. She sighed when Bruce came to help her remove her coat.

“What are you doing?” (Your name) didn’t even put up a fight when he gently slid the suede trench coat off her shoulders.

“Can I not help my wife take her coat off?” Bruce asked with a quirked brow. (Your name) hated when he’d act like a doting husband. He was never interested before so she wasn’t sure why it changed now.

“You’ve been odd… or are you afraid I’m going to run away for some fantasy love affair?” (Your name) laughed at the expression on Bruce’s face. “You’re joking… you can’t possibly be jealous.”

“So what if I am?” Bruce asked softly. “Feelings can change.”

(Your name) sighed once again. “Bruce, I’m not interested-“

“Is it because of Dent?”

“No. It’s not because of Harvey.” (Your name) glanced at him. “I… I just haven’t no interest in romance with you.”

“…” Bruce remained silent for a moment before he pulled her into an awkward hug. “Let’s work on it then. I won’t push you away anymore… let’s make this real.”

(Your name) furrowed her brow in confusion but she didn’t put up much of a fight. She was too tired to argue.

(Your name) sat in her office as she watched the news. Harvey had a huge case against the Falcone family… the two of them had worked on his case together for months on end. She was hopeful the Falcone family would finally be knocked off the map… but she was horribly wrong.

(Your name) audibly gasped when she saw the reporter loudly scream and explain that Harvey had just been attacked. How was she attacked? It was a court room…

Turned out, his witness, Sal Maroni, threw acid on half his face. What kind of monster would do that?!

(Your name) rushed up from her desk as she grabbed her coat. She needed to get to that hospital and quickly, Harvey would need all the support he could get.

Harvey woke up with a start when he saw he was in the hospital. Agony consumed his entire being yet he couldn’t understand the warmth he felt inside him- (your name)?

Harvey was shocked to see the beautiful young woman beside his hospital bed in a chair. Her other body draped on the mattress, her fingers into locked with his. Had she… spent the night? Was there a possibility she loved him too?

Harvey’s fingers brushed a few pieces of hair from her face, his breath hitched at the contact. This wasn’t a dream… yet neither was his accident.

Harvey felt a sense of pride fill him when he saw that her phone vibrated with notifications from her ‘husband.’ He wanted to gloat in the other man’s face but he was more concerned about his face at the moment.

It couldn’t be that bad, right? It’s not like (your name) would hate him… she loved him. That’s why she came to be with him… and he’d make sure she knew just how much he adored her too.

Bruce slammed his fist into the wall, a small hole now there like a centered frame. Why wasn’t his wife answering his calls? She was supposed to be home yesterday. We are on this green earth could she be?

Bruce angrily ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tugged a bit at the black strands. There wasn’t a possibility that she was with Harvey right? She told him that she wasn’t interested in Harvey that way… he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that ate away at his mind.

He needed to find (your name) and fast. Bruce had a sickening feeling that she wasn’t safe… he needed to save his wife.

(Your name) stirred awake to find Harvey with his fingers in her hair. Her brow fur as she set up, her lips drawn in a thin line.

“ Harvey? Are you all right? I didn’t mean to fall asleep…”

Harvey shook his head to reassure, the bandages obscured his handsome face from view. There was no doubt in her mind that his face was permanently destroyed from the acid.

“I’m… I’m here.” Harvey gave a dry chuckle. (Your name) could tell he was on a verge of a mental breakdown. One of his eyes was twitched while his hands shook. She couldn’t bear to see such a wonderful man completely fall apart when she was there to catch the pieces.

“Harvey… come here.” (Your name) held her arms wide open for him, the man melted instantly. His arms wrapped around her like the coils of an anaconda. His grip was tight and escapable as his body was sob.

Harvey couldn’t say a word as he held her like a lifeline, but there was only one thing that was clear in his mind… she loved him too.

It had to be fate that she felt the same way… now all he had to do was get her to leave her husband and be with him. Where she belongs.

The heart wants what it wants…

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alphabetboyluvr · 1 year ago

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throttle - jjk | seven

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

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

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

word count - 13.5k

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeon Jungkook destroys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How is he?"

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

Well, almost unfiltered.

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

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

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

Someone worth keeping secret.

Someone a lot like you.

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

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

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

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

Pretty fucking awful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Save your energy. Might need it later."

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

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

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

He tried to clean it up.

He really did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Jungkook really hopes it stays that way.

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

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

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

Always his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

꾹: i can explain everything. just trust me.

꾹: go to yoongis. i need you safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The road ahead is clear.

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

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

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

He hates this place.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, fuck.

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

But he doesn't.

And he won't.

Not until he knows you're okay.

"The girl?"

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

"I don't know wha-"

"Driv-"

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

"Not fuckin' there!"

This is bad, he thinks. Real fucking bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dinner with JK <3

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

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

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

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

────────────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's betrayed them.

Been disloyal. Abused their trust.

Done things he said he never would.

"We in this?"

"In this shit for life."

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

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

More recently, it's happened with you.

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

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

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

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

And it's foolish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

"If anyone is gonna fin-"

"You've done enough, Kook."

"Jin, please-"

"Enough."

"But I-"

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

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

Thought their friendship went beyond business.

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

And this is how he repays him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook laughs. Namjoon just makes it so fucking easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My mother's corpse?" Jungkook almost chokes, legitimately in a state of shock over what's just left Namjoon's mouth. It's probably worse than the stench of his ashtray breath.

"What?" He laughs. It's bitter. "Her daddy's the reason your mum's dead, isn't she? She's the reason. So you're fucking your dead mum by proxy, aren't you? There'd be no corpse if it wasn't for her."

It's good. Jungkook's gotta hand it to him. It's pretty fucking savage. He's not sure of the legitimacy of such a claim, not sure it makes any fucking sense, but the shock value? Yeah, Namjoon has him stumped.

Part of him knows he shouldn't bite. Part of him knows that Namjoon is only after a fight.

In fact, all of him knows this - but Namjoon's breath is all clammy on his cheek, and it makes his skin crawl in a way that rivals nails on a blackboard.

He doesn't wanna react. Doesn't wanna lash out. Doesn't wanna make this a fair fight, but he can't fucking help it as his head lunges forward, smashing against Namjoon's nose with a crack.

"Kook," Jimin tries again, sterner this time, but Jin shakes his head and tells him, 'let the kids have their squabble.'

"This has nothing to do with my mother," Jungkook spits as he stands up straighter now, taller.

"Oh, but on the contrary," Namjoon says, his posture slightly cowered from the impact of Jungkook's skull cracking against his own. He's feeling for blood with the back of his hand, eyes narrow. "It has everything to do with your mother. She's the reason you're here. She's the reason you wanted to take that bitch out in the first fuckin' place."

The worst part is he's right. Jungkook knows he's right.

"So?" He says before he spits, crimson phlegm hitting the concrete floor with a slap, red with blood from the inside of his cheek. "So what? So what if I fucked her?"

Namjoon's not even really concerned about the fact Jungkook's been fucking you.

If Jungkook had fucked you and not let it sway his judgement, Namjoon probably would have congratulated him for getting his dick wet and the job done well. Issue is, Jungkook started fucking with you with heart and thinking with his dick.

"Coulda fucked any whore in the city. I know you know where to find them."

"True. Did find your sister, didn't I?"

It's not Jungkook's finest hour. It's not been his finest few months, if he's being realistic - except for the fact it has been. The time he's spent with you, at least.

The training sessions he'd cram between leaving you in his bed and heading to work were always his best.

The days at work when he knew he'd be heading to your gas station afterwards were always his most productive. His area manager had been eyeing him up for a fucking promotion. His good, honest work is better because of you.

He doesn't understand why, he doesn't understand how - he just knows if he hadn't constantly had this huge guilt weighing down on him constantly, that maybe he'd have known what happiness felt like again.

He hates the circumstances that lead him to you. Hates the reality of your relationship. Hates that he's pretty sure you don't even have one, now.

But he loves that he met you. Loves that he got to experience you. Loves that you gave him hope where he'd only ever seen hardship.

It's useless now, of course. Down the fucking drain. Should have trained to be a plumber instead, he thinks. Maybe he'd have been able to salvage things.

He's an electrician though, and all he's done is keep you in the dark, until he blinded you with a spotlight. He's short-circuted everything now. Fried the motherboard. Destroyed everything you once were together. He knows there's no salvaging it.

But he's also questioning if there was ever anything there to begin with. Questions whether or not you really liked him, or just the way you perceived him - but it was no different from any normal scenario. No one shows their bad cards first. You're drawn in by the best, and learn to adore the worst, too.

For a long time, you thought that his worst card was the fact he used a 2-in-1 shampoo and shower gel. Used to tease him about it.

And now he's thinking of the way you laugh and he wants to fucking cry.

Joon can see it. See the shift behind Jungkook's eyes. Thinks he's won. Pushes Jungkook away from him. Spits on the ground. Walks away.

"You're pathetic, Jeon. Good for nothing waste of fuckin' sperm. Thank fuck you ghosted Naejeon. Thank fuck. Could think of nothing worse than sharing a bloodline with a coward like you."

Jimin breathes for the first time in what feels like hours, hoping that this is it. It's done now. Jin remains as he was, but reclines into the sofa as Namjoon saunters to meet him. He throws himself down into a chair and sighs.

"What now, boss?"

Good fucking question, Jin thinks. The plan is fucked. Jungkook knows there's no way it can be rectified. You know too much now. Know what to expect, even if not when to expect it. You don't know his motives, you just know they're not as pure as you once thought. Know that it's safer to hate him.

He wonders if you already do.

He turns to face the ring; holds on to the ropes, lets his body lean forward, heaving a little. All of this feels like a nightmare. The kind that loop, and replay again and again until insanity is the only logical explanation.

But maybe he is insane.

Insane for thinking that this could ever work. Insane for thinking that maybe he'd be able to mastermind a plan in which everyone got a happy ending. Insane for letting you into his home, insane for letting you into his sheets, insane for letting you into a part of his brain reserved for memories of his family before it all went wrong.

You're there now, though. It's permanent. The way you make him feel is something he'll never be able to shake, and he knows damn well that he's ruined for the rest of his life.

"Without the girl, we have nothing," Jin sighs. "The girl was our meal ticket. We needed her to get the Mayor's attention. Need her to make this whole thing work. Without her, there's no leverage. Nothing to work with."

"Hear that, Kook? We've got nothing," Namjoon taunts. "A little bit of sour pussy worth it, huh? Maybe I should just fuck her. See what all the hype is about. See if it's worth it. How'd she like it, huh? She like it rough?"

"Can the pair of you just stop?" Jimin snaps now. "You're like a pair of twelve-year-olds."

Namjoon ignores him. Sinks further into the tattered leather chair. Crosses his legs, and hooks an ankle upon his knee. Smirks.

"Bet she's a dumb slut with a rack like that," he says instead. "Her titwanks must be pretty fucking good, right?"

He knows - much to Jungkook's dismay - that Jungkook is a tittie guy. They've had enough conversations about it. Vulgar shit. Objectifying. Laddish banter, that was really just juvenile shit they both knew better than to say.

"That's what got you, isn't it, Kook?" Namjoon laughs. "Her tits? Your mommy issues are showing."

Jungkook's blood is burning as red as his hair, but he tries not to let it show.

"Not really," Jungkook lies, and they all fuckin' know it. "Her tits were good, but I can live without them. I mean, Naejeon's flat as a fuckin' pancake - and I fucked her for long enough, didn't I? Might see if she's free later, actually."

It's like they're playing a game of table football, each one of them trying to get one up on the other. It's Namjoon's turn, now.

"You never answered, Kook. How does she like it? Is she the kind of bitch that likes it rough? Likes it when you make them cry? She'd be good at that, I reckon. Crying. How long do you think it would take to get her crying?"

The thought of it makes Jungkook sick. Makes him want to cry. He's still leaning against the ropes, but it's mainly to stop him from falling down. His head feels like it's gonna fucking cave in.

"I dunno man," Jungkook shrugs, but he's a little breathless. Knows he sounds weak. Knows he has to go extra hard with the next insult flung Namjoon's way. "Given how tight your sister was, how much I had to stretch her little pussy out-"

"Shut the fuck up."

"I'm guessing that size runs in the family - so I don't imagine you've got much to make CC cry with, to be honest."

He says it before he realises - but the rest of them do. Notice it immediately.

"Sorry, who?"

"The fuck did you just call her?"

There's silence. Jungkook doesn't speak. Not till the question is repeated, this time by their leader. Jin's voice is stern as he asks, "What did you call her, Jungkook?"

"Nothin'. Doesn't matter. Just a dumb fuckin' nickname."

"A nickname?"

"Yeah, a dumb one. What does it matter?"

"How deep does it run?" Jin asks, genuinely concerned for Jungkook. This is so much worse than just hooking up. "This little affair you've been having? How fuckin' deep does it go?"

"Doesn't. Doesn't run deep, doesn't run anywhere. It's nothing," he spits. "She's nothing."

Saying it out loud makes him feel like a piece of shit.

You're everything.

"I'm sure she finds the lying all very endearing, Kook, but cut it out," Jin scolds him. "We're in this together. Just be fuckin' honest with us. We know you told her to run. You chose her over us. The least you can do is tell us how invested you are. How invested she was. Let us know what we're dealing with, here."

"Can't invest in something that you know will never give you a return," Jungkook says as if that makes a difference. He always knew the pair of you were doomed.

"She's not a financial investment," Jin debates. "And yeah, you can."

"But she is a financial investment."

"Joon. Not now."

"Well, I mean, she was," Namjoon adds a little mindlessly. "She isn't now. Golden balls has screwed it all up for us."

"I haven't."

Namjoon laughs. Looks at Jungkook as if he knows every fib he's ever told. Perceptive and well aware of Jungkook's tendency to tell white lies, there's no fooling him.

"You've been shafting the plans for months," Namjoon says with certainty. "The first raid? Tell me that you didn't have anything to do with it."

But he can't. And he doesn't want to lie anymore, so he remains silent.

"See, I told you," Namjoon nearly fucking yells. He'd gotten into much trouble for picking a fight with Jungkook after the raid, only to go and be proven right. "I fucking told you. You all told me I was overreacting but I fucking knew it."

His rant is ignored as the rest of them process what's been divulged by Jungkook.

"Ever since then?" Jimin asks quietly. His tenderness is noticed. Appreciated.

And so Jungkook nods. "Didn't know her back then. Not really. I just... I was getting cold feet. I'd never really understood that there was another human on the other end of the plan, yanno? I didn't want us to do something we couldn't take back. She could have been useful to us."

"Not sure Jungkook's personal cum-dump would have been useful to 'us' as a collective - unless you were planning on sharing?"

"Namjoon, will you ever just shut the fuck up?"

Jungkook ignores it. He knows Namjoon is just trying to get a rise out of him at this point. His face is aching enough now. They've had their fun.

None of them feel aggression towards him anymore. Not really.

They're scared, more than anything, knowing they have Kang to answer to if they don't deliver on their promise, and none of them enjoy the prospect of that too much.

"Things spiralled. I didn't mean for them to-"

"Ah, but you never do, do you?" Namjoon interrupts, but again, Jungkook ignores it.

"She wasn't there on the night of the raid, 'cause I was standing her up on a date downtown. Thought I'd try and figure some other plan out, but when I saw her next I panicked. Was trying to keep her on side."

He's downplaying it, granted. They're all vaguely aware they aren't getting the whole truth, but a half-truth is better than none at all.

"We ended up going out a week or so later. Both drank a little too much and - well, I mean, I don't need to teach you about the birds and the bees, do I? Pretty sure you know how the rest of it goes." There's a murmur amongst the boys, collectively agreeing not to ask more. "Things got out of hand. I panicked. I didn't know what to do."

"It's not an excuse," Jin says. "No fucking excuse at all, Kook. Your panic has fucked us all over. I hope you know how to fix this fuckin' mess, 'cause Kang is gonna have our balls for breakfast if we don't deliver. We signed a contract."

"Not exactly legally binding, is it?"

"Since when has anything Kang's ever done been in keeping with the law?" Jin asks, but the question is rhetorical. They all know the answer.

The cash counting machines in the back office, and the hostess noraebangs are a dead giveaway. Old Man Kang is bad news. Such bad news that Jin even fears having this discussion in the boxing club... just in case.

"Go home. I don't wanna talk about it anymore. Don't even wanna look at any of you, right now," Jin almost laughs, but they know he isn't actually joking. He's deadly serious. "We'll meet at mine tomorrow. I don't want Kang getting wind of this. Kook, clean up your blood, then get gone. Jimin, clear away the chair for the girl. Won't be needing it now. Joon, just get gone. I'll see you tomorrow. 9 am sharp. We'll figure it out."

He looks at Jungkook, and shakes his head. What a fucking mess that boy has made.

"We'll figure it out," he repeats, before adding, "together."

They all do as they're told. Jungkook is the last to leave, his hands a little stained in his own blood by the time he's done. He ignores the tightness of the skin on his palms as he drives, heading in the direction of home.

Jungkook's apartment is cold. He'd left the bathroom door open before leaving for Busan, and winter wind howls into the apartment as soon as he steps foot through the door. He doesn't close it. Just heads into his bedroom-turned-living area, flicks on the ondol and falls face-first into his bed.

He regrets it as soon as he picks up the scent of you on his sheets. You've not slept in them for the best part of a week, and yet you're still there. It's too late to put a washload on - his neighbour will bang on the ceiling with the handle of her broom again like she did the last time you'd had morning sex - but he can't stay like this. Can't stay suffocated by you.

He sits up. Sniff back a sob, and kicks off his shoes. "Stupid fucking prick," he laments, then catches sight of himself in his mirror. Sees his hair. It fucking stings. So fucking red. Looks like a fresh wound. He supposes it is; the remnants of his heart that were torn from his chest the second your eyes turned hard.

It had been dark in your room, but he could see the lights of your kitchen reflect with more variance as water began to grace your lashline. He'd made you cry and he couldn't even so much as give you a fucking hug to make it any better.

There's no enthusiasm in his steps as he skulks toward his bathroom. Doesn't bother stripping his clothes off. Just flicks the light on, twists the tap and sits on the floor as the shower chokes into action. The water is freezing as he sits, legs pulled up to his chest, arms hugging around his knees.

Slowly but surely it warms up, even if his heart doesn't. He doesn't even know what his aim is. Perhaps he's trying to recreate the last place he felt happiness - back in your shower, with you - or maybe he's hoping the water will wash away the remnants of you from his hair.

He's a warning light; a red flag that screams 'stay away.' He wishes he could. Would rather be with anyone but himself right now.

But there's a comfort to be found in the fact that he knows you're a walking red flag, too.

Eventually, he stands. Discards his clothes - he'll sort them in the morning - and rinses his hair through. His shampoo bubbles up all pretty and pink, but it isn't enough to reverse what he's done. Your relationship has stained him for all to see.

He deliberately avoids looking in the toothbrush holder. Doesn't want to see your one. Instead, he looks in the mirror as he reaches for his brush - it's thicker than yours, battery-powered, so it's easy to distinguish from touch alone.

It's as he's rummaging around that he notices an inconsistency in his steamed-up mirror.

It's in the bottom left-hand corner, discreet and hidden unless you know where to find it: a thin outline in the shape of a heart.

Jungkook didn't put it there, and there's only one girl who he's ever let stay long enough for a shower to be needed.

He has to grip the basin of his sink to stop himself from keeling over. Thinks he'll be sick. Actually gags a little. Never been so close to it without actually following through.

It's hard to tell what's making him feel this way. The guilt? The hurt? He's not sure. All he knows is that he can't fucking breathe properly. His shower is still pounding down on his spine as he hunches over, painful as the water slaps against his skin. He doesn't realise, but it's tender because your scratch marks are still running down it.

You're in his skin. In his head, his hair, his bed. You're still here, and he can't fucking shake you. You're haunting him. Taunting him.

Except for the fact you're really not. You're doing the opposite. You've gone ghost, yes, but entirely in the opposite direction. Radio silence.

He tries sending a message through to your chat feed, but it remains undelivered. He calls - this number is unavailable - and he calls - this number is unavailable - and he calls and calls and calls - this number in una- this number is- this nu- until he gets so frustrated he throws his phone across the room. Hears a crack. Knows he's fucked his screen. Just another thing to hate himself for.

He considers going to Yoongi's. Gets dressed, puts a coat on. His hair is still damp. He doesn't care. Gets in his car. Drives in fucking laps around the city. Thinks he sees you twice - doesn't see you a single time.

And he won't.

Jeon Jungkook had the luxury of finding you once. You're never gonna give him that again.

See when you left your apartment that evening, you did it on your terms. You packed your bag with the essentials: documents - some forged, some not -, money, and the hard drive that has everything your father wouldn't want in the hands of the wrong people. Up until now, you've been the wrong hands - but it seems like there are far filthier hands in search of it now.

You upturned a few items, made your life look as simple as you could; just a regular girl who had fallen for a no-good piece of shit. You pinned up a few photos. Scribbled some dumb nostalgic shit on a receipt.

And as you sit in the waiting room of the first terminal of Daegu Airport, you smile.

You imagine all the ways that little note could fuck him up. Wonder if they'll notice the shirts of his you left out, but neglect to think about the one you're still wearing. The blue one. Your favourite. Smells like him.

There's no time to dwell on it, mind you. A bell chimes. It's not the one in your stomach - you may as well have swallowed cement with how still it is, now. The bell echoes, and then a voice sounds. "This is the boarding call for flight 711 to Jeju. Please have your passport and boarding pass ready for inspection at gate 3. Flight 711 for Jeju, at gate 3. Thank you."

You sigh. Pretend like you can't smell the scent of his aftershave as you hook your bag over your shoulder, and head in the direction of gate 3. Doesn't really matter where you're going. All that matters is that you are going - and that Jungkook will have no fucking clue where to find you.

And yet part of you hopes he'll show up. Beg you not to board that flight. Tell you he's sorry, and that it's all a huge misunderstanding. Will buy a ticket, fly with you. Stay with you. Make things right on an island that's done no harm to either one of you. Not like the city you're leaving behind.

It's a hope you hold onto, even as you board. Even as the cabin crew begin safety demonstrations. Even as you begin to hurtle down the runway.

Jungkook's not a mind reader though, and so he sits, body all hunched up and crooked by your apartment door, waiting for you to come home. He's aware it's a little creepy. Knows you won't be happy to see him - but he doesn't want to fucking stalk you. He just wants to know you're safe. Wants this nightmare to be over.

He's woken the next morning, back in agony from his position, by the ajumma who lives across the hallway. He asks if she's seen you. She tells him it's none of his business, and to get gone.

Good old Eunhee. You've always liked her. She's always hated your boyfriends. It's a win-win.

Jungkook leaves his number with Eunhee, but she bins it as soon as she's inside her apartment. She knows if you want to call Jungkook, you will. She's old enough to know what men are like. Wise enough to know he's probably been up to no good. The ones who grovel always have been.

He walks home, just so he has an excuse to walk back to your area later to pick up his car. Forgets he's supposed to be at Jin's for 9 until Namjoon drives past him.

He expects Namjoon to hurtle off, but to his surprise, he pulls over. Tells Jungkook to get in. Doesn't speak to him the entire way there, but still gets him there ahead of schedule.

There are three cars outside Jin's apartment by the time they arrive. Jin's sleek Merc, Jimin's red Mx5, and a car that Jungkook hadn't expected to see: a Rolls Royce. Blacked out. De-badged. Discreet, but screaming importance. The plates are illegal. Decoys. The kinda shit used by criminals - which is fitting, Jungkook supposes.

"Shitting hell," Namjoon hisses beneath his breath as he pulls his keys from the ignition. "Looks like we've got a date with the Devil himself."

Jungkook laughs. "Don't think the Devil wears Cuban heels."

Namjoon smiles, too. Knows smiling won't be an option once they're inside Jin's apartment.

"C'mon," he says as he encourages Jungkook out of the car. Neither of them really wants to go, but both know their arrival will have been noted. Any slackness will have to be accounted for. Better men have lost fingers for less than tardiness. It's not worth the aggro. "Time to go face the wrath of Old Man Kang."

────────────

When Jin arrives at the boxing club that evening, Jungkook's skin is already glistening beneath the frosty glow of exposed lightbulbs. They're LED, providing no warmth to the shell of a room he's in - but Jungkook's been going at it for so long - been going at it so hard - that steam wafts from his body.

There's something stern in the way Jin is looking at him, as if he's willing for him to slow down.

Jungkook doesn't even so much as look in Jin's direction. His gaze is wasted, much like all of Jungkook's efforts of the past few months.

If he's being honest, Jin is surprised to see him at the club. He hadn't expected to see the kid for at least a day or two after Jungkook had stormed out of his place earlier that morning.

With a face of thunder, jaw tense, his jugular vein throbbing beneath his honey skin, he'd been royally pissed.

Credit where it was due, Jungkook had just about managed to hold it together for long enough to see Old Man Kang out the door - but only just.

He'd sat as quiet as a broken record player in Jin's apartment, leg jittering, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. Had barely even looked at their boss. Didn't want to. Didn't trust his misplaced anger.

See, Jungkook has a thing for shifting blame; everything is always someone else's fault. Him losing you? Well, it couldn't possibly be his fault. Had to be Kang's. After all, he was the one who'd sent Jungkook on the first stakeout of GS25.

Maybe not the second one, though. That was all Jungkook's doing. As was the third, and the fourth, and - well, I mean, Kang certainly hadn't told Jungkook to ask you out on a date, the silly cunt. Definitely never told him to put his cock in you, either.

He'd got himself into this mess all by himself.

Didn't like that admission, though, so he stayed silently furious with Kang instead.

Which worked out in his favour, actually. Being preemptively pissed at the stupid old fucker meant that Jungkook's visible annoyance was minimal as Kang dropped a fucking bomb on them at Jin's dinner table.

"Forget about the girl for now. There's too much heat around her. That coworker of hers... he knows too much. You let him know too much. The second she's gone, he'll be pointing fingers - and if they land on you? They'll land on the boxing club too, and whose name is printed above the door? Mine. Too much risk."

Kang had been oblivious to the glances being thrown Jungkook's way - but of course he had been.

Again, Kang had nothing to do with Jungkook's quite frankly ridiculous choices. There really was no one to blame but himself.

And that's the worst part of it all: Jungkook knows this.

It doesn't stop the anger from fermenting in his chest though, so fucking torn apart by the fact that if everyone had just listened to him, just given him a little more time, he could have fixed things.

If Jin hadn't been so headstrong - had just given Jungkook one more fucking day - then he could have kept you. Maybe not forever, but for a little bit longer.

And there he goes again, shifting the blame.

The reality of it being his own mistake, his own failures, is too much for him to come to terms with. He'll deal with eventually, but for now, he needs to forget it all. Forget you exist. Forget the look in your eyes when you realised he'd been playing you like a fucking fiddle. Forget the anger that came when you snapped the strings before he could.

He thinks he's only ever felt sorrow once in his life, and it was what dragged him all the way to Daegu in the first place.

He's not sure that he would classify the way he feels right now as sorrow.

It's too strong of a word to associate with such a silly circumstance.

His heart isn't broken. He wasn't in love with you, for christ's sake. Was just fucking you a little too well. Forgot himself in the moments that he found solace in you; forgot who he was, what he was supposed to do.

This is all on him.

And that's what upsets him so much. He's usually good at this.

If his tryst with Namjoon's little sister had taught him anything, it was that it's easy to not care. It's easy to fuck around with the same person for an extended period of time and not catch feelings. Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy.

Was as easy as learning ABC's - except when it came to you, Jungkook found himself stumbling, mixing all the letters together, getting things all jumbled up. He was putting letters in the wrong order, but kept 'U' and 'I' side by side - 'cause even though he knows it's wrong, he likes the way it looks. Likes them together.

"Slow down, Kook." Jin's voice is stern as it bellows across the hollow room. "You'll tear something."

Beneath his breath, Jungkook mutters. "Good. Hope I fuckin' do."

"Heard that."

"Don't give a fuck."

He continues to spar against himself, the only enemy his own mind. There was no winning in this match, much like there was no winning in the life he'd chosen to live over the past couple of months.

"She's just a girl, Kook. There'll be others."

The statement hangs in the air like a rancid stench; foul and lingering for far too long.

Jungkook stops bouncing. Slumps his shoulders. Lets his gloved hands hang gamely by his hips. His laboured breaths fill the silence, but he wishes they wouldn't. Thinks it would preferable if he wasn't breathing altogether.

"I know that," he eventually says, rolling his head to his left shoulder and then his right. He bounces again. Taps his glove against the punching bag once, twice, then hits it with far more aggression than is really necessary. "Don't give a fuck about that. Don't give a fuck about her."

Jin wishes he wouldn't lie. There's no need to. The way Jungkook feels about you is stained into his fucking hair. It's not like it's black, or blue, or anything that could be explained away: it's fucking red.

Red like the blood that keeps him alive, and red like the heart that pumps a little faster whenever you're close by.

Red like the stop signs he charges through whenever he's in a rush to get to you, and red like the car you love to hate.

Red like your cheeks when you've had too much to drink, and red like the wires he'd cut on the night he raided the gas station, to stop the silent alarm from tripping.

Red like the sauce of the dakgalbi he'd shared with you on the first night you'd slept together, and red like his ears when his brother had asked if he was seeing someone new during the trip to Busan.

"You seem... I don't know. You seem a lot like the Jungkook we used to know. Jungkook before everything happened. It's nice. That's all."

He's covered in red, head to toe and - because he doesn't like to ever blame himself - it's all because of you.

It's funny, 'cause reds always been your least favourite colour.

You like green best. Wear black like it's a religion. Always thought that if Jungkook was a colour, he'd be dark brown.

The colour of his eyes, americanos on ice - whisky, too. The indulgence of a chocolate cake, the stability of a thick bonsai trunk. The fur of the dog you'd petted together on Dadaepo beach, and the box of dye you're eyeing up in an Olive Young on an island you didn't know.

And more importantly, an island that doesn't know you.

You put the box back in place, and reach for black instead. The last thing you need is to be reminded of him every single time you look in the mirror.

He doesn't know this, though.

Whenever he thinks of you in the months that follows your departure from Daegu - which is pretty fucking often - he remembers it as it was.

He has intrusive thoughts of your hair, how pretty and red it was, and how he'd never had the chance to live out that little fantasy with you; the one where you'd walk down the street, hand in hand, and people would know.

"Cute."

"Their hair! They must be so in love."

"I wish my boyfriend would do stuff like that with me."

And, in Jungkook's delusions, you'd laugh about it, for you still wouldn't actually be a couple. You'd revel in the fact other people assumed you were, though. There'd be no reason for your lack of commitment; just the excitement of the unknown. The thrill of the chase.

One day though, inevitably, he thought commitment would come.

It'd be in your shared loft apartment, a dog sleeping at the foot of your bed, your initial tattooed on his ring finger after a bet gone wrong. He still wouldn't have asked you to be his girlfriend, but he'd press a kiss against your hair and say 'we should get married.'

You'd be in a courthouse by the end of the week, him in a blazer that didn't really fit him anymore, you in a dress picked up from a vintage store downtown. You'd look beautiful in white, he's sure, but when he pictures it, you're in champagne. Rings are foregone - he imagines there'd be a wait on your smoky quartz stone, due to the short notice of your nuptials - but Hairbo rings would be used in their place.

They'd be worn for the entire drive back to the hotel - the one in Busan where he'd decided that you were 'it' for him - and then he'd eat them off as some haphazard form of foreplay.

Not that he's given it much thought.

Barely even gave thoughts of you the time of day after you left.

He doesn't notice when two days ticks into two weeks.

Doesn't think much of it when two weeks becomes two months.

He'll admit that he thinks about you briefly when your father wins the election.

It's only 'cause Kang makes a big fucking fuss about how it's all Jungkook's fault, and that if he'd have 'just done that one fucking job', then maybe Kang would have won it.

In fact, he's sure he would have won it.

He tells Jungkook that next the time he wants to fuck around with a target - 'cause everyone knows, by that point, what Jungkook had gotten up to in the dark with you (thanks a fuckin' lot, Namjoon) - then he could consider himself a target, too.

He's lucky Kang likes him. Or not so much likes him, but recognises his potential.

Has him in the ring most Thursday nights, fighting scrawny fuckers from the neighbouring clubs, fat cats placing bets on them for sport. He's become quite the fighter. Doesn't see fuck all of the bets placed on him. Gets a 5% cut if he's lucky.

But it's that or face the wrath of Kang, and he knows which he'd rather.

Plus he kind of enjoys it. Likes to fight without consequence. Hasn't been fucking without consequence as of late, so it's a good way to rid himself of his frustrations.

Jimin tries to get him back out there, but every club night turns into Jungkook getting off his tits on god knows what was sold to him in the bathroom. Normally coke. He thinks it's pretty harmless. Just a little buzz. Something to get his heart beating in the same way that you used to.

Because Jin was right. You're just a girl. There'll be others. But while there isn't, he'll get his fix in other ways.

"Slow down," his friends would tell him on the nights he got coked up a little too fast, the house key around his neck dusted in white powder.

"Slow down," his friends would tell him when he was training too hard with fractured knuckles.

"Slow down," Jin would tell Jungkook when he's in the passenger seat, but Jungkook doesn't listen, too busy running reds.

Everyone wants him to slow down, but he doesn't understand it.

Slow down? Spend more time withering away? Spend more time thinking about you?

Slow down? Take longer to get over the fact that he's never gonna get the chance to apologise, never gonna get closure?

Why would the people who care about Jungkook wish that upon him?

And so he speeds up. The coke becomes a cocktail of whatever gets him fucked up fastest. He spends every spare moment training. Jin stops hitching rides from him, 'cause he fears Jungkook is becoming too reckless.

They're all concerned.

It's been months, now.

His hair has grown out and is back to its natural shade. He's filling in his tattoos, numbing his skin, covering the art he once loved. Gets a DUI, and only gets off because the superintendent is a spectator of Jungkook's fights; just another one of Kang's Pawns.

See, Jungkook's fights aren't exactly legal. The money made from them definitely isn't legal.

It's then that he realises he's a part of it now; part of the corruption. The same system that killed his mother, the same evil that he'd wanted to destroy from the inside out.

He thinks about Harvey Dent, and the way you could quote the Dark Knight word for word if you really wanted to. It was something he'd learnt about you by accident.

The film had been playing on his television- the Netflix accompaniment to your 'chill' - and you'd stopped midway through a fucking blowjob to do a god awful impression.

'You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.'

At the time, he'd laughed; pulled you in for a dozen kisses and told you never to do the Harvey Dent voice while holding his cock again. That, and also that from now on, movies were strictly off the table whenever the pair of you hung out - only for him to snuggle up with you the next night, watching the Dark Knight Rises because you'd been too sleepy after work to do anything but nap.

The quote haunts him now.

He knows he's lived too long.

It's a Sunday - three months after you'd left - when he finds himself thinking about you again. Your father is launching a new campaign. Some bullshit about healthy family activities. Is opening more parks. A grand opening is being televised.

He doesn't watch it, 'cause why the fuck would he? Avoids that fucker like the plague. Has no idea how your father helped create someone so fucking perfect.

Then again, he supposed it does make sense. Your dad had ruined his life, and you'd ruined his ability to live one without you. Maybe the apple didn't fall too far from the tree.

Jimin is the first to enter the club that night. Keeps a safe distance from Jungkook. Doesn't think he's coked up, but hasn't been happy with him as of late. Is withholding his friendship until the stupid kid gets a fucking grip.

Tonight is different, though.

"Hey," he hums, slinking down into the sofa beside Jungkook. "How you doing, man?"

Jungkook shrugs. "Same old, same old. You?"

His question is met with a near identical answer. Jimin glances towards Jungkook as he sniffs, rubbing the tip of his nose.

"Clean," Jungkook tells him. It's been about a week since he last did gear. Didn't like the way it was fucking with his head. Was trying to cut back. "Just habit."

It's an answer Jimin accepts but doesn't necessarily believe.

Not after the broadcast today.

"You watch it?" He asks, nervous of Jungkook's reaction. The TV is playing on mute in the corner, and Jimin can't take his eyes off it.

"Nope."

Jungkook doesn't even need to ask what he's on about, for he knows. Of course he knows - just like Jimin should know that there'd be no way in hell he'd have been watching. His answer is met with a nod. Jimin nibbles on his bottom lip. Can't look at his friend.

"Kook, there's somethin-"

The sound of the side door opening interrupts Jimin, screeching against the floor because none of them had fixed the hinges yet. It's Namjoon, out of breath and a little flustered. Jin follows in behind him, completely stoic.

"Did he see? Did he fucking see?" He's looking at Jimin, but he's asking about Jungkook.

"See what?" Jungkook asks right back, not enjoying the wild beast look in Namjoon's eyes.

"Oh, Jesus."

"Joon," Jimin warns him, knowing that this was not the kind of thing Jungkook needed to hear so abruptly. It needed Jin's touch. Someone calm, someone able to manage a situation without freaking the fuck out like Namjoon was.

"You know and you haven't told him?!"

"Told me what?" Jungkook asks, knowing that whatever it is can't be good. News delivered like this could never be good.

Jimin glances over to Jin for a little guidance, who simply nods towards the TV in return. "Unmute it."

Jungkook's eyes fall on the screen, where a news reporter is talking about the new campaign with such little enthusiasm it's a wonder it ever got aired.

"Don't wanna see it," Jungkook says, despite the fact his heart is fucking racing. Forget the molly, forget the coke, forget the adrenaline that comes in the form of victories in a boxing ring - the anticipation of you outranks all of those. Has his heart resting in his throat. Threatens to choke him. "If she's there, I don't wanna know."

Oh, but it's a lie. Such a big fat glorious lie. His eyes have never been wider, the flickering screen reflecting in them as he watches some journalist try and set the scene. He doesn't recognise the place. Somewhere downtown according to the location stamp, but he can't place it. Can't get in his car and drive there just in case the campaign is still running.

In the top corner, the time reads 2:43PM. It's now gone 9. This was filmed hours and hours ago. Whatever his friends need him to see is long gone.

The camera cuts to your father. Jungkook's blood seems to rise in temperature. There's a ringing in his ears. Your father is spewing some bullshit about the importance of an active family.

Jungkook thinks that must be nice; having a family you can be active with. Shame the prick on the television screen had torn his family apart.

And then he's talking about his own family. His daughters. Plural. About how lucky he is to have them both. How grateful is he to have parented such intelligent, beautiful young women.

The camera pans.

He sees your sister. It's to be expected. She's always there.

But then the camera pans again.

And it's you.

It's fucking you.

3 months gone and then you're back, back in Daegu, back by your fucking father's side - and Jungkook is seeing red again.

Or he's just seeing you. Either or.

He'd somehow forgotten the effect you have on him.

Jungkook stands. Walks away. Paces a little. Takes deep breaths.

And then he crouches. Rests his head in his hands, wants to scream but is entirely silent.

Joon is the first to speak. "Thought you said she didn't agree with her Daddy's politics?"

Jungkook muffles a response. "She told me she didn't."

"Well, she was fuckin' lying."

He didn't think you were. You'd been riding his cock down a Daegu back alley at the time. Would have been pretty hard to lie, he thinks. Too much else going on. He doesn't tell Namjoon this, though. Doesn't want to speak about fucking you. Doesn't want to think about it either, but the mind is a cruel mistress.

"Does it really matter?" Jimin interrupts, knowing how the pair of them like to gun for one another in moments of heightened tension. Now was no time to be fighting. Not when Jungkook would already be fighting against the demons he's been running from ever since you left. "She's back, and she's untouchable."

It's smart. Oh, it's so fucking smart. Jungkook begins to laugh at how much of a clever little fucker you are.

"That's exactly why she's done it," he says. He'd be proud of you, if the circumstances were different, he thinks. "We can't fucking touch her. None of us. Not even me. Especially not me, actually. She isn't letting herself be vulnerable to us. She's protected by a public persona she didn't have before. Smart bitch." He pauses. Lets himself laugh. "Smart fuckin' bitch."

There's a smile as he says it. A little bit of awe, too. Far more sadness, though.

"Smart fuckin' boy."

The voice that echoes into the room has Jungkook frozen. He doesn't react. Thinks it's in his head. Thinks he really has been taking too much gear lately.

But then hears it again, and fucking hell, it hurts.

"What a pair we could have made."

And then there's the click of heels across the concrete floor. Jungkook can't bring himself to look in the direction of the noise - not that he really has a choice as you walk straight past his pathetically crouched body.

He's not the man he once was, you think. Shame.

His eyes are level with your hand, though, where a ring glistens underneath the cold lights of the club as you walk on by.

It's on the same finger he's been keeping spare in his imagination for months. The one reserved for Haribo rings.

You take a seat. Cross your legs. Smile at the dumbstruck faces of the stupid mother fuckers in front of you.

You had expected this reaction from one of them, but it's kind of satisfying to have them all choked out.

"Sorry I'm late, boys," you smile, all pristine and pure. None of them really understand what the fuck is happening. "I hear you were looking for me? Well, consider me found. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

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

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