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da-rulah · 1 year ago

Note

I hope you are having a wonderful day.

I humbly request some jealous cardi spice ♡

Thank you lovely! My day is going well, I've done nothing today other than write this filth.

So, listen... An idea came to me with this one... and I ran with it. I bloody love jealous tropes, as you may know if you've read Day 5 of Rituale Septem... But this one gets a little... sacrilegious.

Darling, this became feral. And I'm not sorry.

18+ MDNI! Papa Emeritus IV x f!reader.

TW/ Jealous themes (ofc), ex-boyfriend returns, mentions of past life in a christian church, violence, blood, fingering, rough sex, references to Satan and the Devil, possessiveness, breeding kink, ownership kink, creampie.

"Are. You. Mine?" artwork created by the incredibly talented @honimello!

Thank you so much, it's incredible and exactly how I pictured Copia's face in that scene...

If any artists are ever inspired by anything I write, please please do share it with me - I'd love to see what your mind's eye sees when reading my work. And this fandom is full of incredible talent. I love it here.

Frantic knocking on the door to Papa's quarters jolted you from the trance your book in hand had you in. Copia had been drifting off, his gloved fingers mindlessly playing with your hair as you read in his lap but he too startled to sit upright.

In a fumble of clumsy limbs, the two of you stood, Papa heading straight for the door to find Rain out of breath and panicked.

"Rain? What's the matter, mio amico?" Papa asked, waiting patiently for him to get his breath back. Clearly he had run as fast as he could to find Papa.

"Th-there's... a man... he's shouting about Sister ______ on the steps of the Ministry, Papa!" he explained frantically, waving his arm in the direction of the front doors.

Your eyes widened, Papa's head flinging around to look back at you. You had a sinking feeling in your gut. You know who it was... He'd found you.

"I-I'll go... I'll take care of it," you said, stepping around Copia and walking a little ways out into the hall when he grabbed your elbow, stopping you.

"What's going on?" he asked, "This sounds dangerous, why don't you let me..."

"He's not dangerous. He's just an idiot. I'll deal with it," you told him firmly. "Stay."

Copia let go of your arm and you continued to walk down the hall. He nodded in your direction at Rain, telling him to follow you and make sure you were in fact safe. Rain nodded and trotted behind you - you didn't mind him being your backup, but it was Copia you wanted to keep away from the situation.

As you got closer to the doors, you could hear the ramblings of the idiot on the Ministry steps, shouting at the top of his lungs.

"_________! Hey, I know you're in there! I know what they've done... They've stolen you away, told you lies and made you fall in love with the devil!"

You groaned to yourself, turning to Rain with an eye roll.

"Ex-boyfriends, eh?" you scoffed, before wrenching the door open and standing on the top step.

"Elijah, you sound like an idiot," you said, monotonous and feigning boredom.

"Oh, see? I knew you were here! Cavorting with heathens and the Devil! I need to take you home, _______. To bring you back to God!"

You knew your past in a Christian community would come back to bite you on the ass someday, but you'd hoped to be a little more prepared for it.

But no, here was your ex-boyfriend, now more religious than you'd ever known him when you were together, trying to... win you back? That was laughable.

"God only knows what you do within those walls... Filthy fornication, sacrifices to Satan..."

"That's rich, Elijah. I seem to remember you had no problem with fornication when we were together. But hey, one rule for you, another for the rest isn't it?" you laughed. Elijah saw read, stomping up the steps and standing on the one beneath you.

"I have seen the error of my ways, and I'm repenting every day for them, whore! You must do the same, come with me. Now!" he grabbed your arm, attempting to drag you down the steps and go back to the life you'd left behind many moons ago.

No way in hell were you going back there again.

You began kicking and yelling at him, flailing your arms as you panicked - he was strong, but Rain was behind you. No doubt he'd be jolted into action as he saw you being dragged away by this lunatic.

"I think you'd better let her go," a thickly-accented voice behind you stopped Elijah in his tracks, his head snapping around to look behind where you both were halfway down the steps.

Papa stood at the top, his hands behind his back and surrounded by three of his beefiest Ghouls - and Sodo. But Sodo was growling like the feral little raccoon he was.

"Or what, old man? You gonna take her from me?" Elijah challenged, pulling you against him with you back against his chest. He was scared, using you as a human shield. Pathetic. "She doesn't belong here, in this... this... vile place."

Copia laughed, stepping down the steps and holding a hand out to his side to keep his Ghouls at bay. He pried Elijah's hands off you, taking your hands in his and checking you were okay.

"Go wait up there with Rain, amore mio," he told you, his voice soft and his palm caressing your cheek to calm you. You nodded under his touch and headed back up to the top of the stairs, the Ghouls parting to let you stand behind them for safety. Rain came to your side, holding your hand.

Copia squared up to Elijah then, in a way you'd never seen him square up to anybody. He scared you, with how silent and yet, clearly livid he was.

"You're not taking her anywhere, stronzo." His voice was dark and commanding.

"Oh, I get it now..." Elijah began to laugh, cackling to himself as he doubled over at something so hilariously amusing to only him. "Are you... are you fucking him?" he asked you, pointing at Copia and dismissing him. "This weird, old guy? Really?"

You wanted to defend Copia, but the way he looked over his shoulder at you had you staying put and squeezing on Rain's hand.

"She's found her place here, able to live a life where she's not judged and vilified for living her fucking life. You people are all the same.. damning souls to Hell for the things you wish you allowed yourself to do. But oh no, they're sins, eh? You couldn't possibly..." Copia scoffed.

"I have sinned in the past, but I repented. I sinned plenty," Elijah's voice dropped so only Papa could hear, "I sinned with her..."

Copia's hands balled into fists at his side. Jealousy, no matter how warranted, flooded his veins like poison.

"I remember, too... I know what she likes, what she's into. Have you found that spot on her collarbone yet? She likes that..." Elijah was smirking, and you didn't like the look on his face as he whispered in Copia's ear. Copia remained still, fists clenched and staring straight ahead.

"I was her first, you know... Gave her her first orgasm, made her cum over and over... Can you do that, old man? One night with me again, and she'd forget your name if it was tattooed on her arm. She'll always be mine..."

A green mist descended in Copia's mind, and he couldn't help himself. He swung for Elijah, his fist connecting with his cheek with a sickening crack.

The Ghouls sprang into action when Elijah pounced on Copia, shoving him to the floor and trying to get a few punches in himself, but Copia was too strong for him. A man you thought would never hurt a fly, wouldn't be able to hold his own in a fight on account of his own awkwardness and his tender nature and yet... you were seeing a whole new, angry side to him. And it made your chest tighten, knowing he was fighting for you...

The Ghouls sprang into action, quickly restraining Elijah and dragging him to the parking lot around the side of the front building to the Ministry. You saw them throw him into the back of a van, two of them and Sodo joining him in the back whilst the remaining Ghoul got in the driver's seat.

You ran to Copia's side where he stood up, dusting himself off.

"Copia! Fucking hell, are you alright?" you asked, your hands pulling his face to look at you but he couldn't look you in the eye. Instead, he gripped your wrists in his and pulled you back up the steps, marching you back to his quarter's and ignoring Rain's protests he should go to the infirmary for the blood dripping from his forehead and lip.

You tried to slow him down, to tell him to stop and breathe but he ignored everything you said to him until he had you back in his living room, slamming the door behind him. He let you go, practically throwing you into the middle of the room as he stalked towards you with dark, hungry eyes.

'C-Copia... what did he say to you?" you asked him, terrified he was now angry at you for some lies Elijah may have told.

"You're mine, sí?" he asked, his voice deep and forced through grit teeth.

"W-what?" you asked; how could he ask that of you. He knew you were, body and soul.

"Are. You. Mine?" he asked, slowly. You took a step back.

"Of course I am!" you yelled, "Copia your head, your lip... Let me clean you up, okay? Just... Just take a breath, calm down," you told him, taking another step back as he took one towards you.

He ignored you, backing you up until your legs hit the couch behind you. He was in your space now, glowering down at you. The look in his eyes both terrified and excited you. With such a dark expression, the blood from his lip and forehead only served to add a menacing and yet, enticing air of danger to your predicament.

"Calm down? I am calm, amore mio. Why wouldn't I be calm, eh?" Sarcasm dripped from every word.

"Copia, please..." you lift your hand to caress his cheek, trying to check the damage to his lip and head but he catches your wrist in a tight grip, earning a gasp from you.

"I am a better man than him, sí?" he asked. You creased your brow in confusion for a minute, before remembering to answer him. Every millisecond of silence his grip on your wrist tightened.

"Y-yes, of course you are. Copia, you're scaring me..." Only half true, of course. He was absolutely a better man than Elijah ever was, and you were only... slightly scared in that moment.

"I love you more than he ever could, sí?" he asked.

"Y-you do, yes. And I love you, so much..." you told him, trying desperately to get him to just calm down, to snap out of whatever hex he was under.

"And..." he steps forward again, his foot between both yours as he presses his thigh between your legs. You can feel his hip against you, his groin pressing into your own hip bone. Was he... hard? "I fuck you better than he ever could, sí?"

Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, and you stuttered an incoherent response. You hate to admit it but his anger was having an effect on you; his jealousy. Whatever Elijah had said to him, it must have riled him up enough to make him jealous in some way. And honestly, the thought of Copia being jealous should have had you angry at him, because how could he be jealous of that asshole?

But instead, it lit a furnace inside you. This incredibly powerful, wonderful man, who would rearrange the nine circles of Hell for you if only you asked, was jealous for you.

"Answer me," he growled, and you stammered again, unable to form a two words to string together. He took your silence as a no; severely misinterpreting the situation.

"Perhaps you need reminding, amore mio?" Copia grabbed your other arm and twisted you to the side, pushing you down to the couch with your back shoved into the corner. He knelt between your spread thighs, hands on the arm and backs of the couch and hovering above you.

"Ti scoperò finché non dimenticherai che quel tuo dio infernale ha mai fatto parte della tua vita, (I'll fuck you until you forget that that infernal God of yours was ever a part of your life)," he growled, his jealousy and anger at your past life bubbling away inside him. You didn't know enough Italian to know what he'd sad, but you recognised enough to know he was growling about God in your life? Whatever it was, it sent a flood of arousal to your core.

Before you knew it, his lips were pushed bruisingly hard against your own. You could taste the metallic pang of blood on your lips, but you had no room to care at that point. You let him consume you, his tongue working against your own with no contest as your gripped onto the lapels of his tattered jacket.

Copia's hands came to grip onto your habit either side of the buttons, and with one sharp tug he ripped it open, the buttons pinging off in different directions. he pulled again, lower, exposing your body to him where you lay.

You felt so desperate already, needy beneath him as you scrambled to push his jacket off him, then pulling on the knot of his blue neck tie and lifting that over his head with a brief separation of his punishing kiss.

Like he had to you, you pulled on either side of his shirt to try and rip it open, but you simply weren't strong enough. Copia chuckled, sitting up between your legs.

"My poor toppolina, let me help, hm?" he mocked, before ripping into his own shirt in one fell swoop. You ran your hands over his chest, marvelling at the structure of a well exercised man, his chest covered in an expanse of salt and pepper speckled chest hair. You traced the '666' over his heart, earning you a low growl from him.

"His mark, toppolina... You pledged yourself to Him now, sí? And to me..." You had, yes. Completely.

Before you could reply his lips were on yours again, licking and sucking at your bottom lip, biting down and earning a whimper from you. You bucked your hips against his thigh, already beginning to soak through the panties on display to him.

He noticed the damp patch, and his head twitched with a smirk. Without hesitation he was ripping them down your thighs and pulling them off your legs, exposing your glistening folds to him.

He swirled his gloved fingers through the mess a few times, before immediately sliding his ring and middle finger inside you. You took him with pleasure, back arching from the couch and a moan ripping from your throat.

"Tell me, amore mio, who makes you see stars every time he touches you, eh?" he taunted, hovering above you as you writhed, his fingers pumping and curling inside you bringing you so much bliss already.

"Y-you do, Copia... Fuck," you gasped when his thumb came to draw circles over your clit. "Don't stop, please..." you begged.

He had no intention of stopping, dragging you further and further towards a climax until finally, the gasp rising in your chest got stuck, and your orgasm burst inside you.

"C-Copia!" you stuttered a scream, hands flying to grip onto his wrist while his hand continued it's onslaught on your core until he was satisfied he'd got every ounce of pleasure from your orgasm as possible.

Your grip on him loosened as you came back down, and he took this as his chance to manhandle you, flipping you over onto your knees and bent over the corner of the couch lazily. When you gazed dreamily behind you, still hazy from your orgasm, you saw him unlacing the front of his tattered pants, pushing them down just enough to release his cock. He leant forward, gripping onto your hip with one hand and lining his length up with your folds with the other. He dragged the tip of his cock - an angry shade of red and leaking precum - through your juices.

"You're mine, amore mio," he growled through grit teeth, his bare chest pressed against the habit he'd bunched up around your hips, "I claim you as such."

In one swift motion, he slid home, filling you to the brim as his hips came into contact with your ass. He grunted when he bottomed out, the warmth of your inner walls sending a pleasurable shiver through his body.

Before long his hips were smacking into your ass over and over, his cock filling you deliciously while he angled himself to hit your g-spot over and over again. The slew of nonsense tumbling from your lips had him chuckling to himself between deep breaths as he exerted himself.

"So good you can't even talk, amore mio? Sí, no one can fuck you like I can, eh?" he taunted. "Say it. Say 'no one can fuck me like you can, Papa'!" he ordered.

"No one... can... fuck me... like you... Papa!" you cried, his titled coming out as a scream at a particularly hard thrust.

"Mine... you're all mine," he claimed, "Gonna fill you up, amore mio... Give you my seed to carry, make sure everyone sees you and knows you're claimed."

If his thrusts weren't already enough, his words were turning you on above and beyond anything he'd ever said to you before. Whilst you were your own person, and proudly so, you couldn't help the way hearing how possessive he was in this moment made you clench on his length.

"G-gonna... cum... Papa!" you yelled again, dangling on the edge, just a little too far from where you needed to be. He sensed you needed a nudge, his hand snaking around between the both of you and his fingertips rubbing over your sensitive clit once again.

"You'd like that hm? If Papa fucked you so hard, filled you so much with his seed everyone could see it? Everyone would know... They'd know I'd bred you so good, amore mio..." He was spewing utter filth, and it was having the desired effect on you...

"Papa..." you cried.

"Papa's here, amore... Papa's fucking you so good, eh? Fucking the damn antichrist into you!" he growled.

You lost control then, your cunt spasmed around him as you violently came around his length. He wrapped his arms around your chest, heaving you back against him with a hand gripping your chin. His hips continued to rut into you, fucking you through your orgasm as you gasped and reached for something, anything...

"That's it, eh? So good for me, cumming on Papa's cock like that... Just for me, hm?"

All you could do was whimper weakly as your body spasmed in his grasp. He held you so tightly against him, owning you, fucking into you over and over as he whispered filth into your ear you could barely pay attention to in your haze.

Before long, he was moaning wantonly in your ear and stuttering in his pace, a sure fire sign he was about to finish. With a little more clarity now, you figured you'd help him along.

"I-I'm yours, Papa..." you told him, "Devoted to you... Cum inside me, Papa. M-mark me... as yours..."

A fierce growl erupted from his chest, his fingers digging into your flesh as he tightened his grip, hips slowing but remaining powerful in a final few thrusts to prolong his climax. He filled you with his spend, so much you could hear the way it leaked from you with every last thrust he gave.

When he stilled, he buried himself deep and stayed put, tumbling onto the couch with you in his arms and holding you still so close to him. You stayed like that for a while, content being full of him and wrapped up in him all at the same time. Both of you needed a moment, just to catch your breath and come down from the immense high you'd experienced together.

After a while, Copia began to press kisses to your neck, little hisses in pain each time he did where his lip was bust and swollen. The blood on his head had dried but now the ache of the wound was starting to set in.

You turned your head back to him, assessing the damage finally and sighing.

"You should let me help with that," you told him softly. He nodded quietly, both of you now moving and separating from each other. Killing two birds with one stone, you decided a shower for the pair of you was the best idea, and so you both removed the remaining clothes you had on and stepped under the hot water together.

In a comfortable silence, you washed the blood and paints from his face, dabbing at the wounds while he took care of washing you too. You felt the stark contrast between the way he'd taken you earlier and the tenderness of this moment; in their own ways both made you feel wanted, loved, needed.

"Copia..." you whispered to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and stepping into him. "You know I'm yours, don't you?"

You hoped he really did, part of you was terrified he doubted your loyalty to him in any way at all.

"Of course, amore mio... And I'm yours," he told you, wrapping his arms around you too and enjoying the warmth of the water cascading over both of you. "Perdonami, I fear I was too rough, eh?" he chuckled insecurely.

"Not at all... I can't pretend it wasn't hot as hell to see a side of you so angry at the idea of me being with anyone else..." you smirked up at him, resting your chin on his chest, just above his '666' mark.

"That stronzo... I can't believe you dated that fucker," he scoffed, pushing your wet hair from your forehead.

"A past life, my love. I was under a spell back then..." you sighed. He hummed in thought.

"And now, you're under mine..." he smirked. You giggled happily as he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a far sweeter, tender kiss.

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hoseoksluna · 3 months ago

Text

SMOKE, iv. | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x smoke!oc (ft. jungkook)

genre: angst, heart-wrenching fluff

word count: 6.5k

summary: everything that hurts must begin to stop at one point.

pinterest board: smoke / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: DOMESTIC ABUSE, oc gets triggered a lot in this chapter, dissociation, anxiety, alcohol consumption, a brief mention of physical violence, religion, praying, jk and oc smoke together.

note: hi, my babies. i'm here with another chapter. i really like this chapter a lot and i like where it's heading, so i hope you like it as much as you do. let me know what yout think. sorry, this is a bit short, but i didn't want to drag it out, esp. if everything that needed to get settled did. i love you all soso much, mwah.

When Jungkook appears, uncanvassed, damp and abysmal, in the field of my swimming vision, I have to stop dead in my tracks to see if my inebriated brain isn’t playing tricks on me.

He’s sat on the half-wet stone of the staircase leading up to the street where I live. My apartment complex is just straight up, a minute away from where he’s waiting for me, and the wheels within my brain cells begin to whirr and turn, reminding me that I tapped on the crescent moon icon on my phone before I absconded to my girl best friend for a heart-to-heart conversation and a new set of nails. Misty-eyed, I recounted to her the monochrome poetry lines that bloomed through last night between me and Yoongi and wilted in my bare, sleep-cloaked hands this morning while she filed down the freshly baked acrylic powder. The moment she heard the deadly words that were spat at me, she flung her rosy, tiger-print file across her station, got up to her feet without a word and came back with a bottle of my favorite pink nectar in even pinker, fancy glass, certainly not meant for wine.

And I downed each and every refill in one, singular gulp everytime she moved onto the next step and my hand was free.

And Miyun… as much as she erupted in her idiosyncratic rage, her work on my nails was immaculate and untouched by her vivid lava. Curses and funny remarks, that yanked the weight off my shoulders and wiped it out using her vigor and red-hot magma, shattered the room until I laughed so hard that the alcohol dipped into my system far quicker than usual. She glued on the crosses I had asked for while I chortled, and she shushed me, breaking into a soft, non-obvious laughter that she tried to keep at bay while her hair fanned around her. Cherry-red, long and lustrous, curling on the smooth skin of her arms. The laughter died down and silence replaced it as she laid down the last layer of top coat over her artwork—and I felt a certain inspiration seize me.

“What if I dyed my hair red, too?” I voiced it out, a seawave of different kinds of co-existing emotions ebbing and flowing in me. Airiness and offense, care and distance. And they were all roped around the memory of Yoongi in me like the roots of flowers in a colorful meadow soil. Vast and expansive, yet delicate and frail. One sweep of the wind’s harsh breath and they tilt—and remain tilted.

I do, too, despite my efforts.

Despite my ingrained fight to straighten and my strivings to be unaffected, unagitated and undisturbed by the way I was disrespected by Yoongi. They were all fruitless, however. Barren of my long-exercised resilience against the violence of men, my wariness and vigilance of them only strengthening.

He took me to the far north side of paradise with his tongue and fingers in the middle of the night. And when the sun rose, he treated me like I dragged him to the deepest of hell and left him there to perish of starvation and thirst.

I should have seen it coming and prepared myself for it, especially when I had decided in my heart to take care of him, take care of the deep-sunk, nameless agony in him that prevented him from coloring our stanzas. But alas… it came to face me too soon, in my gossamer defenselessness.

Yoongi metamorphosed into the vermin that Ji-hoon was. His face faded on top of his while my ex-boyfriend’s body remained intact, broad and fear-instilling. And when Yoongi stood up so quickly, I sailed back, against my will, to the sheer realm of brutality that I had dwelled in, years ago. Yoongi with Ji-hoon’s body, abandoning me after I got myself into trouble. For wearing too much make-up, for having long manicured nails, for dressing a certain way that was impertinent in our relationship. He would leave a bruise for every mistake I made to discipline me, to ascertain that I would learn from it and never do it again. And I did learn after I was depleted of color-correcting concealers, the sinews I would use to raise my hands and tap the cream product in, erasing my foolish mistakes from the eyes of Jungkook, Minyun and my parents.

I fought for too long during the relationship. For my freedom, for my dignity. And I fought for too long after the relationship to go through it all over again.

I dreaded being hit when Yoongi stood up from my couch. Flinched when he went around the coffee table past me because I anticipated the swing of his arm with my eyes boring holes into my carpet. I had flexed my muscles to brace myself against the incoming physical pain so hard that I nearly gasped, pathetically, for air when he walked on into the corridor.

But I still couldn’t look at him.

Although I knew, rationally, that Ji-hoon wasn’t present, I didn’t let up until he shut the door behind me with a soft click because my body didn’t connect to my clear-headedness. It was caught in a fight or flight response like an ensnared bird.

And this must’ve been what Minyun was seeing when she contemplated me, paused in the middle of dusting her station clean with her pale-pink kabuki brush. Because she resumed right after once I reciprocated her gaze and curled her lips under her teeth.

“We can go to Olive Young then, and stop by 7-Eleven after to get some snacks and drinks.”

She reflected on my wound and didn’t hesitate to cradle my head and bring me to a safe refuge.

And I didn’t hesitate to wrap my arms around her and hug her until all those oxymoronic emotions, which I felt towards Yoongi, dulled in the smallness of me.

I let her take the lead. Choose the vibrant, deep cherry tint that would annul my trigger and dye me anew. I sipped on my iced cherry drink for the occasion while she glided the brush along my strands, splattering most of the orange paste on the thick wisp of the symbol of my connection with Jungkook, the only man in my life who never used his manliness against me. I thought about him as she rubbed it in; and I thought about Grookey. Thought about how, in that very moment, I was saying goodbye to the self I possessed while being attached to them.

And when Minyun washed my hair and curled her round brush through it, the stark contrast to who I was before overwhelmed me so much that I began to weep.

I couldn’t recognize myself, I didn’t know who that girl in the mirror was. But something told me that she was stronger than who I used to be. And while it felt petrifying to be standing alone in the crook of my past self and my current self, the longer I gaped at myself, the more I adapted to the assurance that she was emanating.

She wasn’t going to take any shit from any man ever again. Certainly not with darkly, sequoia-kissed hair like that.

Minyun brushed her thumbs under my eyes and shifted me deeper into the refuge by grabbing my shoulders and guiding me to her balcony, where she sat me down on her chair while she crouched in front of me. Sliding a tiny cigarette into her IQOS and taking a puff, she leaned over to the square table and grabbed her pack, nudging a longer, classic cigarette between my chapped lips.

I never smoked on my own. I would take hits from her slender, pink case of flavored air or steal her cigarettes when I had enough buzz from the alcohol in my veins. Forget about it the following days and weeks that we wouldn’t see each other because I was such a hermit. But I didn’t want to be one anymore—I wanted to spend more time with her from now on. With Jungkook, too.

“You look so pretty with your new hair,” Minyun said, sweetly, leaning back on her sock-clad heels in her Louis Vuitton slides, wrapping her arm around her knees like I did around my chest last night, and I inhaled her compliment along with the drag of her cigarette. “We’re twins now.”

I had become such a fragile egg shell that her words multiplied in me as they settled in my lungs, bursting and imbuing me with pigments of confidence. And I beamed through my tears, a light protruding through clouds, as I exhaled the smoke.

It felt as natural as breathing—to claim her cigarettes and make them a thing of my own.

In place of Grookey.

It’s what Jungkook spots first, instead of my hair, once he senses my presence and lifts his head, standing up to his feet, towering over me. And he must’ve been waiting for a long time because his scolding words are flung out first before anything else.

“Where have you been? Do you know how scared I was? I called you up. I rang your doorbell and you wouldn’t answer. All day.”

I take a long drag just to stabilize myself, gratitude unfolding in my sternum for the way he isn’t manly.

He’s merely caring.

Hovering above me, moving his arms in my proximity, features stern in his soft manner, and yet I’m not threatened by my fear because I know him, because I trust him. Trust that everything about him is securely soft and boy-like, round and endearing—even when he raises his voice a little at me.

Minjun and I took another bottle of rosé to her balcony that we finished by passing it to each other and smoking like there was no tomorrow, so the liters of the nectar that flit in my bloodstream elevate how I see him and my body is naturally inclined to do something I normally wouldn’t do.

And much to Jungkook’s surprise and a little bit to his dismay, I listen to that hushed tone of my heart and obey it—discovering that it is an aid and nothing else.

“Since when do you—”

I silence his stupid, yet valid question by wrapping my arms around his neck, careful not to nip his skin with the hot prickle of the cigarette. Its orange tip envelops us in a soft glow in the middle of the darkening evening, the smoke surrounding us like a protection ring. It takes three beats of my heart—which in reality must be his and surely not mine considering the numbness that has descended, fully, in me—for his arms to move and swathe me in complete safety.

He’s rescuing me, like Minyun did. Bouncing off of her and finishing the job, without knowing a thing about it.

We become one, singular form of a penumbra, dressed as we are in this unlit shade. Jungkook with his cargos and baggy sweatshirt; me with my tracksuit that’s too big for me. His neck is cold and I scatter a little bit of my warmth upon that skin, regretful that he waited for me this long because of my foolish forgetfulness.

My dearest boy best friend.

I squeeze him harder and Jungkook buries his nose in my shoulder, fisting the fabric of my hoodie on my back.

And then, he sniffs my hair. Makes a Korean sound of discovery and surprise. Pulls back just to look at me with narrowed, inspecting eyes. Drags me to the nearest street lamp—and I watch his eyelids grow to their original, bulbous size.

Roundie.

He has noticed my hair, at last.

Fluffs it and completely destroys the impeccable blowout that Minyun gave me.

“What the fuck, Jungkook?” I grumble, pushing his hand away, but, like my hoodie, he fists both of my wrists in one hand and sinks the other one into my length, following the diligent curve that Minyun created.

I huff, and the sound is deadened by the devastating words he utters, disappearing into the prickling coldness of the air.

“What did he say to you that made you do this?”

I dwell in silence, my numbed emotions leaden, dented and yet sharp enough that I feel their resurfacing pain.

I look away, untangling my wrists from his hold. Jungkook unclenches his fist, but the ash from my cigarette lands on the back of his hand. I gasp, quick to brush it away, however he’s quicker. Doesn’t make a sound in response. Shakes his hand and steals my cigarette, puffing on it.

My mouth parts. Shock strangles me.

He smokes?

Jungkook’s seriousness droops as he chuckles, dryly, at my reaction. He takes a step back, slides a hand in the pocket of his pants, coalesces into the shadows of the early blooming night.

“I didn’t know you smoked either,” he says, smiling in that lopsided way of his, a large dent in his cheek. And it feels as though I’m getting to know my best friend for the first time. What else is he hiding? What does he do, in utmost normalcy, when he’s not with me?

He dips his chin to look at the cigarette before he flicks his thumb across its ivory butt. The ashy particles fly to the rocky ground in tandem with his smile. And his mind travels back to this morning’s misfortune, as rapid as a rocket shooting up beyond the clouds.

“I’m not giving this to you until you tell me what he said. The last time you did something to your hair like this was when you left that good-for-nothing son of a bitch.”

A fleck of memory appears before my eyes. Me dousing my hair in black dye with my own hands while Jungkook stood by; him putting my star clips in my no longer virgin strands to distract my tears, me sliding the same ones into his, making a middle part and laughing until my stomach hurt. He had healed me by just being with me, not expecting words, not expecting any explanations.

Him asking me for them has a great meaning, a certain hastiness that I know full well has a stabbing pain, and I feel his fear, instead of mine. Understand, all of a sudden, why he waited for so long.

And I put him first, just so that emotion unclenches its fist from him. Nod my head to let him know that I’ll tell him, bare my heart for him.

I walk backwards and sit down on the stony stairs. Jungkook joins me, right beside me. Takes a long drag of the cigarette as if to prepare himself for what I’m about to share with him—and I need the same smoky courage. I take it from him, puff on it and give it back to him. He gives me a gentle smile and I recognize the reason behind it.

A new form of bonding settles between us.

I reciprocate the smile and gather my words in the brief silence. The wind helps me as it breezes through my hair, fondles my face ever so gently and when I lift my chin at its attention, my eyes stumble across the full moon.

I breathe in its pristine energy. Let my lungs be full of its beams—and let it cleanse me, thoroughly.

Jungkook’s patience helps me, too, as he quietly finishes the cigarette, stubbing it out on the step. Ready to listen.

And so I begin.

“I invited him upstairs because I wanted to,” I start and realize that I have to come forth with the truth. Deem that he deserves to know. I look inward, quickly, and try to detect any obstacles in me—but I find myself empty, cleansed, a dried fountain with no drops of water, yet I am free. With the alcohol still trickling in my bloodstream. “I didn’t feel sick. That was a lie.” I flick my eyes to his reaction, catch him widening his eyes and parting his mouth and I decide it’s time for another cigarette. I pull one for him and myself, lighting it up for the both of us. “I didn’t want you to know that I got triggered. I’m sorry for that.”

Jungkook blows the smoke in the other direction, away from my face. He furrows his brows in pity as he leans his elbows on his outstretched knees.

I expect him to yell at me… but he does the exact opposite, soothing me down to the marrow of my bone.

“Triggered? How?” he asks, his voice so muted that I barely hear it, lips pursed in that eternal pout of his and mine mirror it, naturally. I appreciate his gentleness so much that I lean the side of my head against his shoulder. And he leans his against the top of mine.

“I guess I wanted to be alone when I left the room and I found Hobi at the end of the hall. I sat with him for a little while and when he started talking, I realized he was drunk and my body gave up on me. I dissociated like I used to after the breakup. I thought I was better, that I healed from it, but it’s been a long since I was in the company of men, you know? I didn’t want to disappoint you, especially when I’d promised you that it wasn’t happening to me anymore.”

I hear him take a strong puff and I reflect him, doing the same. Then, he sighs and extends his legs, his back rounding forward. I watch the smoke make patterns in the night-tinged air and I breathe differently, now that I’ve pulled the skeleton out of the closet. And even though my emotions are numb, my softness deepens when Jungkook takes the bony creature into his arms and begins to dance with it.

“You could never disappoint me,” he whispers, his words the music for the dance, and I wrap my fingers around his clothed forearm, just holding him there, needing it. “You should’ve told me. Did you think I would tell you off for it? Of course not, you silly goose.”

I chortle, and the smoke comes out in staccatos that are guided by my tender laughter. And he melts it with his following words.

“How can I help you? Should I get you a therapist? I don’t want you to take meds for it…” he trails off, clicking his tongue and fishing out his phone from his pocket. His fingers move on the keyboard of his screen and the letters I read fracture my heart and glue it back together all the same. “Grounding techniques. Breathing slowly while counting. Different sounds, walking barefoot, blanket, ice cube or cold water—”

My mouth opens before my brain registers what my weakened heart longs to say.

“Yoongi splashed cold water on my face and neck and that brought me back,” I spew out, tiny tears lining my vision at the memory, at the feel of his cold, solid hands, at the sight of his wide, fearful eyes that relaxed when he realized that I was back in the present times. “He saved me.”

I blink them away; I smoke them away.

Jungkook sucks in a breath, clicking on an article about dissociation and scrolling down. “Yoongi and I will be your therapists, then. For free.”

I look away and withdraw from him, twiddling with my fingers. My heart enlarges, yearns for it—yearns to create a link to his beyond the physical bound we have, reach out for him like a child for its father, but my fear of being triggered again, of being afflicted by his pain slaps its arms away from him.

It’s not meant to be—Yoongi is not the one for me because if he were, there wouldn’t be any barrier between us. And with that knowledge, my obsession with him, slowly and painfully, dissipates, leaving my frailty and my willingness to help him, if he’d ever need me, in the hands of God.

But knowing the faces of manliness and ego, Yoongi won’t allow himself to be helped by me. And that bruises me more than the words he flung at me.

Jungkook senses my absence more vividly than I want him to, and his head swivels in my direction, the article momentarily forgotten.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, prodding me, and it’s me who sighs this time.

I take the last drag and gaze at the moon as I speak. “Yoongi can’t help me when he needs help himself.”

The yellowish face of the bulbous planet nods at me and I feel, ever so slightly, at ease, leaning my elbows back on the steps. That is until a lump forms in my throat and, inertly, I ask the feminine luna for her strength, for her resilience, and I ask her to help me become my new self that resembles her so much.

Jungkook locks his phone and stares at me. “What happened this morning?”

And perhaps she does nurture me with what I need through her radiance after all because I don’t hesitate to tell him.

“I wore lingerie to bed that was see-through and when I looked for him and found him crying on my couch, he told me, ‘can you, please, put something fucking on?’ and left,” I unravel, violently, mimicking Yoongi’s coarse morning voice, and Jungkook scoffs, averting his gaze. He sucks hard on the last of his cigarette before throwing it away with the same nerve, shaking his head as he thinks about those poisonous words. Validates me, like Minyun did.

It takes several heartbeats and several more moonbeams puncturing my sternum before he turns back to me.

“Check your phone.”

A wrinkle between my brows. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

Without understanding why he wants me to do that, I comply. I pull out my phone from my purse, the light from the screen bathing me in stark blue. Jungkook chews on his bottom lip as he watches me read my notifications from him, Minyun and Netflix. And when I say nothing, he tilts his head and reads them on his own, only to groan and place it in his hands.

Then, he stares off into the distance.

“What?”

He takes my hand and drags me to my feet. “Come on.”

I yelp and Jungkook yanks me to the patch of grass by the street lamp, kneeling by the gravel. And I can’t speak as he builds a praying altar of rocks, leaves and sticks. I can’t speak when he holds it in place and makes sure it doesn’t collapse, as small and sturdy as it is. And I can’t speak when he adorns it with an abandoned, pink flower petal that he finds nearby. Places it on the top of the last stone, against the flesh of the damp, green leaf that is propped by a petite rock.

And in my silence, once he’s done, he tugs my hand down, sinking me to my knees. Sits back on his folded legs and presses his palms together.

“God, I know that you know I don’t believe in you. My dad probably talks to you a lot about me, so I’m sure you know who I am. I don’t come to you because of me, though. I come to you right now because my friends need you,” Jungkook prays, his voice mellow and subdued, meant for my ears and the ears of God that I myself believe in, but don’t have a relationship with. I settle down into my respect for his bravery and kindness, closing my eyes, and I feel him enveloping his fingers around mine on my lap. My heart thumps and my other hand finds the way to it—I pin my palm to the left side of my chest, cradling those full-blooded strikes, willing the corners of my mouth not to quiver. “My dad says you know everything and right now I really hope that you know what Yoongi went through. I ask you, sincerely, to give him strength to be a better person. To make sure his feet don’t walk backwards but forward with the girl beside me. I also ask you to help her to not dissociate anymore, help her not remember that son of a bitch, sorry—that guy that broke her. And altogether, I ask you to heal them both. Also, make sure Yoongi mans up a little and texts her like I wanted. Or just do something, anything. Give him ideas. Make his balls grow or whatever. Thank you. Sorry for all I did. Amen.”

The tears fall and I can’t halt them, nor do I want to. Lightness floods my chest, my mind, spreads all over my bones, and I breathe out in hiccups. I agree with his prayer by whispering the same ending word and when I glance at Jungkook, I see him meditating, privately, on something on his own.

It inspires me, comforts me and impassions me to do the same.

I flutter my eyes closed and quieten my breathing.

Dear God, if I was wrong and this is for me, allow me to take care of Yoongi. Help us find a way towards each other and cleanse my heart from all the pain.

And then the words spill, my prayer prolonging, and I discern that they don’t root from me, bathed in the glimmer of the moon as they are.

I forgive him and I’m giving him another chance. Give us the opportunity to better our actions and communicate our pains. Give us the strength to do so. Give us the words. Give us peace of mind and clarity. Thank you. Amen.

My tears have dried by the time I’m finished with my internal prayer. Jungkook has patiently waited the whole time, holding my hand, and he gives me the lovingest, most wholesome smile I’ve ever received in my life when I face him. He kisses my knuckles and I feel, strongly, that it seals our prayers.

Helping me stand, it’s him who hugs me this time around. I bury my face in his chest, fisting the back of his sweatshirt like he did to me when I arrived. We remain like this, underneath the lenitive moonlight and the merciful eye of God that I sense upon us. And I know, in the abyss of my weakened heart, that I shall never forget about this moment.

“Did you also feel that lightness in your chest?” Jungkook asks onto my hair, and I nod, too lost in my brimming, alive emotions—no longer numb, but erupting in tender colors—to answer. Love, thankfulness, delicate joy and that persisting lightness.

Grabbing my shoulders, he breaks the hug and grins down at me. He glows underneath that street lamp, a pure whiteness lining his form, the tiny twinkling freckles of stars scattering upon his skin and I love him.

I love my best friend.

And the more I look at him, the more I’m reminded of the way I put the star clips in his hair and I think it would only be right if he were to wear them right now.

I link my arm around his.

“Let’s go inside.”

The moonlight shone upon our way, ascertaining that we didn’t stumble. Reached a standstill and formed a ring around us when we stopped by the door to my apartment building and had another cigarette together, this time another shared one because I felt as though I had inhaled too much smoke throughout the day.

The stars poked at my back in our silence, encouraging me to break it, and I did—once it was my turn to puff. I thanked him, earnestly, for the prayer, showed him my nails embellished with little silver crosses, ones he gaped at with utmost fascination before it all spurred something in him enough for him to share with me what went down earlier in the morning after Yoongi left my apartment.

Crestfallen Yoongi, drenched from the rain, murky, cloud-bearing; the very one I know. Jungkook had to, essentially, extricate him from the force of his innermost downpour, and I waded through the torrent with each information he provided me.

He was profoundly regretful and made a fool out of himself by choking at the sound of my name—something that made my cheeks ignite with coy flattery and my fingertips to tingle. The knowledge that he rued his actions wove through my prayer and quelled me, my heart and my mind, until there was no ounce of ache that bothered me.

I entered a state of sobriety, plopping down onto my couch with a small basket of hair ties and clips. Jungkook wasn’t really cognizant of what I was doing as he focused on telling the story, describing, in his teasing manner, the way Yoongi looked like while he spoke of me. The way his cheeks flushed and light burst in his eyes. He was so preoccupied with the task that he didn’t flinch when I brushed his hair with my Kuromi tangle teezer, nor when I put up his hair in two pigtail buns and secured them with matching, violet Kuromi hair ties.

His hair felt brittle in my fingers from all the bleach the stylist used on his hair. Briefly, I remembered the way he specifically asked her if there was a drugstore alternative to the professional dye and he went to buy it for me that very day and we splattered it on together, with him choosing the strand, of course. I made a mental note to talk about his hair with him later.

I grew hot when he shifted to the part, where he read to him the message I sent for him. I had cleaned the whole apartment in effort to rid myself of the residue of my trigger, but my care for him remained because I understood where he came from. What I hadn’t known was that after listening to my heart and typing out the message, I would get tormented by my mind so viciously that I had to seek my girl best friend. My care for him sank to the bottom of me and the offense I felt resurfaced, swallowing me whole.

To know, in the present time, that Yoongi thought it too good to be true, grew smaller when Jungkook began to tell him off, washes it all out and I am a brand new canvas.

I take off my hoodie, aflame.

“He really thought about what I said to him and he even put your number in his phone. I visibly saw him opening a new text message and typing something,” Jungkook says, exasperated, and I have to chuckle to myself—he looks so damn adorable with the two minty buns, but he’s still missing those clips. I search for them in my basket, reveling in that fire of his, which his words are permeated with, the heat stifling me. “I thought he sent it to you. I didn’t see him do it because I got a call from Namjoon, asking where we were. We had a meeting right after—and that’s also something I need to talk to you about.”

My ears perk up and I freeze with the clips in my hands.

The smile Jungkook gives me this time is cheerless.

The sweat that coats me morphs into a layer of iciness.

“We’re going on tour abroad next month,” he imparts and my heart closes. I disintegrate, the clips falling out of my hands. And the stars blanketing the heavens outside must do the same, plummeting to the ground, conjointly, with me. “We were supposed to have another concert tonight, a secret one that would be made into a docuseries, but then America fucking called.”

That means no hanging out with Jungkook, no star clips; no seeing Yoongi and leaving things as they are—unfinished and still aching on his part.

And that leaves me alone with my thoughts.

I pout, my heart dead silent.

“When will you be back?”

Jungkook gathers the fallen clips and sets them down upon my open, vulnerable palms. Manages to warm them up in that brief exchange.

“There aren’t many tour dates. I’ll be back before—”

My phone pings in the kitchen.

And before I can breathe, Jungkook scurries to his feet and flees.

Grabs my phone and holds it in front of my face, so the detector can unlock what the notification hides. And once it does and his eyes sweep over the lettering multiple times, he squeals. Springs. Beams like the warmest star he is, personified firelight. And I’m more happy that he’s happy than I’m happy about the fact Yoongi has done something.

For me.

Jungkook slides the phone into my clammy hand and I let out a little breath. Instagram has notified me that a certain person that goes by the name agustd liked my post. I smirk, cupping my face, while I click on the notification to see what exactly he liked. Jungkook sits beside me and looks over, laughing, vehemently, through his nose before he starts clapping.

My stomach jumps, stirring my butterflies awake.

I’m wearing a knitted set in the picture, nearly pellucid with how stretched out and purposefully ripped the fabric is, and I’m sat on my vanity table in my room with my arched back facing the mirror, my long black hair obscuring most of the sheerness of my spine.

Is that a truce? Liking a picture where I’m wearing something so akin to the slip that broke us this morning? If he did, then that’s an intelligent move in the chessboard of all toxicity.

And I like it.

I blush, profusely. But then another notification rings through my living room and Jungkook stills beside me. We share a look, both of our mouths parted, before he steals my phone, though I slap his back and retrieve it from his grasp, the shifting causing the message to get opened.

I run a hand down my face. “You clicked on it and now he can see I’ve read it, Jungkook.”

He merely laughs. “So what? Read it.”

I groan, tipping my chin, focusing my gaze on the letters, and my heart thrashes in my ribcage. And their meaning propels it to fly on the wings of my butterflies.

The letters tremble in tandem with my hand as I read them.

“I’m sorry for my behavior this morning, you didn’t deserve that. I hope you allow me to make it up to you as best as I can. Car drive tomorrow at 8 PM? Food’s on me, you just bring your playlist, moon kitty. And your sneakers. Yoongi. Jungkook gave me your number.”

My heart stops mid-flight. And I don’t see Jungkook’s eyes abounding in the glow of the stars. Neither do I hear his laughter and his praises for Yoongi because I walk backwards into myself.

Bring your sneakers.

I see myself getting hit for wearing heels. I don’t feel the pain, but I have a glimpse of the bruise forming on my cheek, a patch of red and purple staining me for weeks only because I wanted to feel pretty and feminine on our date night. And before Jungkook’s voice can get to me, the echo of Ji-hoon’s command fans out in me.

You won’t dress like a slut when you’re with me. Take them off. That dress, too. And wear your sneakers.

I was forced to wear jeans and Nike’s to a fancy restaurant while he sported nice pants and a polo. And much to his dismay, and later to mine as well, I still received stares and smiles. From men and women alike.

The memory splinters at the sound of Jungkook’s voice. And I perceive that it’s just that.

A memory.

I didn’t dissociate.

And vulnerability clutches me so tightly that I shrivel and don’t think before I fold myself into Jungkook, hugging him until the memory completely evaporates.

Jungkook pets my head as I bury it deeper into his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a memory,” I heave, blinking rapidly, and Jungkook holds me to him, sifting his fingers through my hair.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, continuing with the movement that intersperses mollification all over my being, and I nod.

As long as I have my best friend, I will be okay.

“It happened this morning, too,” I admit, unafraid, and Jungkook stills for a moment. “When Yoongi got up from this couch, I thought I was gonna get hit again. And now when I read that he wants me to wear sneakers, I remembered the way Ji-hoon hit me because I wore heels that one time. But it wasn’t so bad. I didn’t dissociate. Your prayer helped.”

Jungkook curls around me and holds me tighter, putting me back together, and I let him.

I let him because there’s nothing else for me to do.

There’s no one else for me.

“He’s not here anymore. He’s not in your life. I broke his leg, remember? He can’t walk back into your life.”

It’s the only memory, where he’s present, that brings me pleasure: Jungkook finding out I was a victim of domestic abuse and chasing him all over the city until he yanked him by the back of his shirt and beat him until he was unrecognizable. He broke his leg by purposefully driving over it with his motorcycle upon leaving, considering the deed done.

“Every time your bad memories come back to haunt you, remember this one,” Jungkook advises and I pleat his words, stuffing them somewhere inside my sternum, where I can return to them and remember them like he said. Use them as a weapon.

Something tells me that now I shall need it more than I ever have before.

“Yoongi isn’t like him, I promise,” he continues, seeping his boyish warmth into my skin as he cups my face and makes me look at him. I feel as though I have run a marathon with the way I breathe spasmodically and Jungkook sees me, composes me by leading me to take deep breaths that subdue my nerves. “I regretted letting him take you home but for a far different reason. Underneath all that pain is a good person. A romantic that has lost his hope, but if there’s anything I can depend on, it’s the fact that Yoongi will find what he’s lost. And he’s halfway there. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have texted you.”

I ponder his words, my heart collecting all those stars that have plummeted from the heavens, and, internally, I use their light to help me comprehend the deeper meaning behind his words. A romantic that has lost his hope. I wonder what meadow of agony he walked through—and I wonder how much it would devastate me if I ever were permitted to place my bare feet upon his footprints on that flowery soil.

“You can trust him because I trust him.”

I slide the star clips beneath the space buns I twisted his hair in and I nod.

“Let’s text him back.”

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk.

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