#myimaginationsrunningwild

[eoieopda]

Hello lovely lady :) I’m here to pretty please request a JK drabble because I miss him terribly and if you have the time because I very much am in love with your writing 🥹🥹 Tattoo artist JK who gets a crazy stupid adult crush on a customer who comes to him to do a very meaningful tattoo for her and they spend all night eating and talking afterwards and it’s all giggly and cute because he will find any reason to touch her 😭😭 and now I’m going to jump off a cliff bc I miss him so much LOL

sorry for the wait, sweet bean!

cw: mention of needles, general reference to trauma (not described); description of a bad tattoo i've seen in real life; reader gets one of my actual tattoos because fuck it, we ball.

Jeon Jungkook considered himself an artist. This wasn't based on his literal job title, but on the immeasurable time and effort he spent studying, practicing, and working as an apprentice. On the sheer number of oranges that went off to rot in dumpsters with shakily tattooed skin.

For years, he placed permanent art on the bodies of strangers for tips only — if clients bothered with the courtesy, that is. Little designs off the flash sheet, last-minute friendship tattoos for university students who'd fall out of touch upon graduating. It was grueling work, but it was worth it.

When he finished his apprenticeship and was promoted to resident artist, Jungkook figured that he'd spend his days seriously — on serious shit that took hours to design and even longer to translate onto a living, breathing, squirming canvas. That was the hope, anyway.

In reality, Jungkook had spent the entirety of his day doing unspeakably stupid shit. He'd just finished tattooing "Seoul" in hiragana for a tourist who didn't seem to know which side of the Strait he was on — and then you walked in.

You shouldn't have been the only person he'd seen all day that already had tattoos, but you were. You clearly knew how this was supposed to go; and Jungkook almost started floating when the crushing weight of his exasperation finally fell off his shoulders.

Finally.

He didn't mean to audibly sigh with relief when you stepped up to the counter. He did, though, and he was well past the point of giving a shit if that should have embarrassed him.

"Rough day?" You tilted your head to the side when you asked and you looked genuinely concerned, even with that tiny, sideways smile.

Jungkook was torn. Yours was a face worth staring at, but the gallery spreading over both of your exposed arms was one he wanted to get lost in. He knew more than anyone how fucking it weird it was when strangers gave themselves permission to run their hands over his skin — but he might finally understand the urge.

Swallowing down that intrusive desire, Jungkook gripped his Red Bull can even tighter in his left hand — twenty ounces, reserved exclusively for the most severe instances of brain rot — and balled his right hand into a fist. He rapped his knuckles against the countertop and shot you a grin, "Nah, it's golden."

Jungkook had been right about two things. The first was that you weren't a fainter, a flincher, or a cry-baby.

If he hadn't stolen so many glances at you throughout the session; and if your quiet laughter wasn't the pacemaker preventing his swooning heart from stopping; he might've thought that you were meditating. Sleeping, even, or hit with a freeze ray. You were still, entirely unfazed like you weren't being stabbed thousands of times per second with a bouquet of needles.

Jungkook was also dead-on that this day, despite its frustrating start, was golden. Better yet, it didn't end when your session did. When he'd blurted out an invitation to dinner, you said yes.

Sitting down across the table from him with your forearm dutifully covered in cling-wrap, you shot him an adorably sheepish smile. "Could you, um —?" You gestured to the perilla leaves on your plate with the chopsticks in your non-dominant hand. "I'm not as dexterous as I was two hours ago."

"I'm on it, boss."

He didn't have time to cringe over that statement or the wink that accompanied it because your knuckles brushed his when you slid your plate to him and — Are you a child? Why are you blushing? For fuck's sake, get a grip, Jeon.

You sipped your beer as you watched him; and it had Jungkook fumbling as if he was using chopsticks for the first time in his life and not the thousandth. Thankfully, instead of laughing at him, you asked, "So, what's the dumbest tattoo you've had to do for someone?"

"Cartoon corn-on-the-cob," Jungkook responded without hesitation. The memory was burned into his brain, a tattoo in its own right. "But that alone isn't the worst part, and neither is the fact that its face looked like it was moaning with a pat of butter sliding down its front."

You groaned, but you were grinning, "Jesus. Do I even want to know the worst part?"

"Butter me up, daddy."

Automatically, you raised your freshly-tattooed arm and slapped your hand over your mouth to keep your drink inside it. You winced at the sting on your skin and, no doubt, the burn in your chest as you coughed, "Come again?"

Jungkook slid your plate back over to you with pursed lips. Then, he took a deep breath. "That was the script they wanted to go with it," He sighed, "I spent a decade of my life on my craft and that is what I do with it."

"I'm sure the linework on the horny corn was beautiful, though." Your eyes sparkled when your tone softened. The sight of you stopped him from laughing at the words you chose.

He gestured down to the vintage floor lamp he'd etched in fine black ink on your forearm. "Looks better when the person I'm tattooing sits still," He smiled, "And you can correct me if I'm wrong, but I think you put thought into that, rather than thirst. Otherwise, I will have follow-up questions about whatever kink that might be."

Ugh, that giggle.

"Have you heard of ghost lights before?" You asked between bites of your kimchi.

When Jungkook shook his head, you cleared your throat to explain. "When you close up a theater after a show, you have to put a lamp on the stage. It's primarily a safety thing — keeps people from falling over set pieces or into the orchestra pit — but it helps out with ghosts, too."

Jungkook shifted in his chair and leaned in a little closer to more clearly hear what came next. He was riveted, and there was no hiding it.

"There are a couple of different superstitions about why it's done, but the one I grew up with was that it keeps ghosts from messing with your props and technical equipment while you're gone."

You quieted before you tacked on the amendment, corner of your mouth momentarily twitching up into a sad smile, "Figured this tattoo might help me ward off some of my own."

Your hand was close enough to his on the table that he could've pretended it was an accident. He didn't, though. The microscopic movement until his little finger touched yours was intentional; and he wanted you to know it.

Not daring to move that hand away, Jungkook grabbed his drink with the other and raised it. He waited for you to raise yours, too, before cheering, "To ghosts that mind their own fucking business!"

[xjoonchildx]

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kanalia | jhs x reader | chapter five: the king is a fool

banner by the amazing, incredible @kth1

⚜️summary: secrets and uncertainty plague a young queen in her arranged marriage to a kind but distant king. the farther she drifts from her husband, the closer she gets to one of his most trusted men.

⚜️pairing: queen!reader x royalguard!hoseok

⚜️rating: mature, 18+

⚜️genre: royal AU, historical AU, smut

⚜️warnings: infidelity (it’s complicated, y’all) mentions of pregnancy, fertility issues. OC struggles with depressive thoughts and episodes.

⚜️word count: 10K

⚜️notes: the queen is hot and bothered, literally & figuratively. the king puts several Ls in the disappointed but not surprised category, everyone gets drunk at some point. lord min is a terrible archer, yeona remains round and winning. the queen could melt steel with her sexual frustration, lord jung is not faring much better but at least he knows what he's doing, slightly awkward marital smut. the queen fights with everyone.

i could never have finished this chapter without these amazing authors & minds @miscelunaaa and @vyduan and one person who would probably level us all with her first fic if she decided to write one, @hobi-gif. please let me re-iterate how much it means to me that any one of you reads my stories, and it would make me endlessly happy to talk to you about it. you can talk to me here 💕

previous chapter

Hyeri is curious.

She examines the stains at the hem of your walking dress with narrowed eyes, pausing her thorough study of the red-brown splotches only to steal the occasional furtive glance your way.  

Her lips purse as she shakes dirt loose from the grooves of your walking boots. She watches the sediment fall to the floor with a raised brow, uncharacteristically quiet as she reaches for the broom to sweep the mess away.

But her bewilderment only grows as she draws closer.

The older woman’s posture stiffens as she regards you, lips pulling into a thin line as she takes in the state of your wind-swept hair and grimy fingernails. You must reek of the ill temper you’ve brought back from your ride, the smell of it as pungent as the sweat and horse on your clothes. She tests your temperament in much the same way as she tests your bathwater, query as feather-light as the fingertip she skims along the surface.

“Are you… well, this evening, Your Grace?”

“As well as I ever am,” you answer succinctly, accepting her hand and stepping carefully into the tub. Woven into the spaces between each of your clipped words is rebuke; a silent warning to proceed no further. Your handmaid, who is by no means a meek woman, has the good sense to heed it.

So Hyeri says nothing as she takes a comb to the tangles in your hair, working them apart with peach oil. She says nothing as she scrubs away the dirt embedded beneath your normally pristine fingernails. And she says nothing still when you wince at the ache in your thighs as she helps you from the bath.

When the heavy chamber door finally pulls behind her, shutting the stares and the questions safely out, you make your way to bed. You extinguish the lamp on your nightstand and welcome the shadows.

And then you succumb to the darkness that envelops you, inside and out.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Steamy heat has put an end to weeks of pleasant fall weather. 

You’ve sought refuge this afternoon beneath a tree at the edge of the castle’s sprawling open field. The oak, though grand, offers scant protection from the midday sun. A bead of sweat trickles down your neck and disappears into the linen at your décolletage. 

“Between you and me, I’ve always found hunting to be an appalling sport.”

Boram shakes her head at the scene in the distance. The King and his men claim to be training for an upcoming hunt, but by all appearances, there is little training taking place. Instead they look to be bandying about like mischievous little boys, scrambling for position in front of the straw targets with bows in hand. 

“I find it to be an exercise in vanity more than ability. Little more than male preening disguised as sport.” Boram dabs at her brow with a handkerchief and sighs. “What do you think?”

You don’t answer Boram’s question on account of your distraction. Try as you might to keep your eyes on the dashing elder Lord Kim or the charming young Lord Jeon or – heaven forbid, your husband – they wander to Lord Jung instead, over and over and over again. Your gaze pulled to his strong face as though drawn by a magnet.

He turns his head and his dark eyes find yours across the distance.

The butterflies you’ve felt in his presence before are not to blame for the unsettled feeling that comes over you now. The very sight of the man makes your stomach turn over, as though you can taste the vivid recollection of the last time you saw him. 

The memory of that wonderful ride – and of the horrible way it ended – are still bitter on your tongue. Like picking the most beautiful fruit in the orchard only to find it sour and decaying inside. 

“Your Grace?”

You blink.

“I say this to you as my friend and not my Queen,” Boram says, pausing to clear her throat. “You don’t seem yourself today. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Nothing at all,” you lie quickly, smoothing down the damp curls springing up around your ears. “I’m fine, truly. Though I suppose it is possible the heat is making me cross. I can barely think in such conditions.”

“Awful, isn’t it?” Boram laments, reaching over to give Yeona’s belly a tickle. The baby curls into herself like a starfish, giggling as she rolls around on the blanket. “Yoongi says it will take a rain to break it. But until then, we must all suffer.”

“And suffer we shall,” you echo under your breath, watching Lord Jung load his bow in the distance. He sets his lithe body in a precise stance then draws his arm back and releases his arrow. It flies in a tight arc and lands just below the bullseye on the target. The men erupt into raucous cheers. You resist the urge to scowl.

“As for the hunting,” you add, “I think men are just as guilty of the frivolity they so often accuse women of. Not that any one of them is likely to admit it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Boram laughs. “Men are not known to be skilled in the art of introspection.”

“They certainly are not.”

And why should they be? Men never have to stop and consider the consequences of their actions. They alone decide the rules of engagement. They are free to be as vain and as frivolous and as thoughtless as their hearts desire. Horrid, infuriating creatures.

Lord Min steps up to the target. His stance is uneven and his arrow is wild the very second he lets it loose. It flies yards from the target and lands off in the grass. The men jeer loudly.

“Poor Yoongi,” Boram winces as she watches the men tease him. “He’s never been much of an archer, I’m afraid.” But the good-natured Lord Min appears to take it all in stride, shrugging off their taunts as he trades his bow for a fresh tankard of ale.

The King takes his turn next – the lines of his body thicker and stronger than Lord Jung’s, but no less elegant. The men circle around your husband as he draws the bow back with one strong arm. He takes careful aim with his arrow and deftly plants it just above the target’s bullseye. The sound of the men’s whooping echoes across the field.

And so it goes for a while, with the men taking turns loosing their arrows to varying degrees of success.

Lords Park and Jeon both prove to be adequate archers, hitting the targets more often than not. The elder and younger Lord Kims are less skilled and spend the lion’s share of their time plucking arrows from the grass behind the targets. Lord Min quickly gives up on the endeavor entirely, opting instead to sit with his ale and heckle the others.

But the two best archers on the field refuse to be distracted by drink.

The King and Lord Jung set an arduous pace, loading and firing their arrows in quick succession. Even at a distance, even with your meager knowledge of archery, you can discern that both men are quite evenly matched in terms of skill. They load, fire, and strike their respective targets with precision.

On and on they persist – despite the brutal heat, despite the fact that the other men have begun to tire. One by one the other Guardsmen surrender, abandoning their bows and collapsing onto the grass to watch. 

“These two seem quite serious, don’t they?” Boram notes. 

They certainly do. The air of silly fun that’s sat over the group for much of the afternoon is all but gone now and what began as a diversion for all of the men has clearly become a challenge between just two. The other Guardsmen seem to sense the shift in atmosphere as well, their faces earnest as they watch the King and Lord Jung compete.

Physically, the two men are quite different. The King’s muscular arms and chest serve him well as he steadies his bow and fires. In contrast, Lord Jung’s body is lithe, sleek. He moves with an agility the King cannot. But both wear matching expressions of determination. And though this competition might have been amiable at the start, it’s now evident that neither man is willing to leave the field without a clear victor.

Lord Min calls out to them both – voice too distant for you to make out his words – and the men appear to nod in agreement. They both step back from the targets, increasing the difficulty of each shot. But it takes only a few more arrows to prove that the added distance is no hindrance to either man. Both set their stances again, both aim and fire, and both land their arrows with ease.

The Guardsmen sitting nearby fall silent, and in the absence of their racket the King’s answering growl of frustration echoes over the entire field. 

“Oh my,” Boram whispers. “I’d heard there was some tension between them, and it would certainly appear to be so.”

It certainly would. Right now, the King and Lord Jung look more like rivals seeking to settle a score than lifelong friends. 

The King’s agitation is apparent in every move he makes, in the way he jerks the arrows out of the straw targets and stalks back into position. Lord Jung’s agitation is equally apparent. He accepts a skin of water from Lord Min without so much as a thanks and hands it back once he’s drained it.

It’s a strange thing to see the handsome Guardsman challenge his King with the very same passion in which he’d defended him just days prior.

“Has the King spoken to you about it?”

“No,” you admit stiffly, “He has not. Are you determined to keep me in the dark, as well?”

“Heavens, no,” Boram protests, pulling Yeona into her lap. She hands the baby a rice cake and Yeona sets to gumming at it right away. “I would never want you to think that I’m speaking ill of the King, is all.” 

“I could never think that of you.”

There is hesitation in Boram’s face when she flicks her dark eyes back to meet yours. 

“Well, the details I have are few,” she starts slowly. “But what I know is that the King expressed a wish to see Lord Jung married again and Lord Jung, from my understanding was – ” she pauses, carefully considering her next words,“ – less than amenable to the idea.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Yoongi says they fought over the matter. Quite thoroughly, from what I’ve been told.”

“I see,” you say, taking great care to keep your expression impassive. “And did Lord Min explain why Lord Jung is so opposed to marriage? He’s still a young man. I can certainly see why the King would think it a logical proposition.”

Boram’s lips purse as she thinks.

“I do not know that I can say. Though I consider Lord Jung to be a dear friend, he can be terribly private about some matters.”

You cut your eyes towards the field to search for the man in question. 

Does she really know Lord Jung? Do you? Today there is no sign of the man who’d leveled you with a smile in the Great Hall, no trace of the man who’d teased you about riding clothes before helping you onto your mount. The man you see now wears a strained expression as he watches the King take aim, his energy volatile like a pot ready to boil over. 

Perhaps you’d been foolish to think him so different from the King. Perhaps they are as evenly matched in the art of duplicity as they are the skill of archery.

“So what will come of it?” you ask after a while. “Will the King – make him marry?”

“I don’t know,” Boram admits. “And therein, I suppose, is where much of the tension lies. Lord Jung has already taken a bride once in service to the Kingdom. I can’t imagine he’d be inclined to do it again.”

There’s a sudden commotion on the field then, an outburst that has Lords Park and Jeon on their feet. The younger men rush to meet the King and Lord Jung mid-field, nodding as the King speaks. Both take off running at once. 

“I’ve no clue what that is all about, but I do wish they’d end this already,” Boram grumbles, watching the young men disappear behind the tree line as they go off in search of whatever it is the King’s asked for. “I don’t know how much longer I can last in this heat.”

“Nor I,” you agree, watching the King and Lord Jung speak to one another. Both men look sober, the lines of their faces hard. “But it seems we’ll all have to endure it for just a bit longer in order to humor this contest of male prides.”

Some arduous minutes later, Lords Park and Jeon make their return to the field.

The dust kicked up by the horses they ride precedes them, the ground parched from weeks without rain. Both men arrive in a cloud of grime – Lord Jeon on the King’s mount and Lord Park on Lord Jung’s– and dismount without delay, handing the reins over to their elders.

So this is how they will decide the victor.

“Well, let’s hope they keep their wits about them,” Boram sighs. “Lest they both break their legs in the heat of competition.”

“Yes, let’s,” you mutter.

The King is first to take his turn, of course. 

He mounts Jeonsa with ease despite the horse’s grand height and takes his time warming the warhorse up. The King runs his mount in circles around the target until he’s satisfied with his plan and the timing of his shot. He steadies himself against the jostling with his strong thighs, pulling his bow back to fire. The arrow hits the target just below the bullseye. 

The men, who’ve spent hours now drinking in the hot sun, erupt into a chorus of ruffian cheers. 

Lord Jung wastes no time taking to his own mount. His horse is leaner and quicker than Jeonsa, and it’s clear that he commands complete control of the animal’s every step. Both horse and rider move as one as he urges his mount faster, straightening his back to fire. The arrow hits the target just above the bullseye.

The men are getting rowdy now, egging on both competitors as they circle on their horses. Their shouting is louder, more animated, and you would not at all be surprised if there were a few healthy wagers underway. You wonder which of the men they’ve bet on. 

You wonder which of the men you would bet on before pushing the thought away and reminding yourself that you’re not particularly fond of either at this moment. 

The King circles Jeonsa around the target once again, taking his time about it. He seems to consider every circumstance surrounding his next shot – the angle, the speed, the light wind that blows east. After a great deal of circling and thought, he rears back to release his arrow.

It lands on the target, just above the arrow planted by Lord Jung. 

The shouting from the men becomes a low roar.

Lord Jung pointedly ignores the commotion, rolling his shoulders as he stares down the target, brow knit in concentration. Soon he’s urging his mount to move, the pair fluid as they circle the target. 

Just like the King, Lord Jung circles longer for this shot than he had for the first. Twice he draws back as though ready to fire and thinks better of it. But after painstaking deliberation, he finds his stride. He pulls his arm back and sets his stance. Then he releases his arrow. 

And it misses the target entirely.

It flies off the end of Lord Jung’s bow with astonishing speed, gliding just to the right of the straw and landing off in the distance. The men are on their feet now, jumping and yelling and slapping one another on their backs. Lord Jung shakes his head in disgust.

“Well,” Boram reaches for her basket, loading her things into it with haste. “That’s settled now. I certainly hope at least one of them feels better. Let’s move into more liveable conditions, shall we?”

You open your mouth to agree just as you spot the King barreling towards you atop Jeonsa, leaving the men celebrating his victory on the field behind. 

You nearly stumble over the hem of your dress in your rush to rise to your feet. Your husband is grinning widely when he reaches you, stopping his mount long enough to extend one large hand. You place your hand in his and he dips his head to plant a kiss on your fingers.

“Well done, You Grace,” you demur, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “A hard-fought victory.”

“Thank you. I’m quite pleased with the outcome.”

The King acknowledges Boram with a smile before turning his mount to ride back to his men. You put a hand to your brow to shade your eyes and watch as they cheer for him – reward him with the adulation he’s clearly worked so hard for. 

But a thought occurs to you as you examine the scene in the distance. 

There is no sign of Lord Jung. 

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King comes to you that night – hair damp and smelling of fine soap, breath tinged faintly with ale. 

He coaxes you to your knees just as he’s done so many times before. His fingers slide against your most secret place, slippery just as they’ve been so many times before. And then he’s pushing inside you, hard and hot just as he’s been so many times before.

But there is something different about him tonight.

Your husband’s touch is rougher than you remember. His grip on your waist is harder than you remember, large hands moving from your waist to your backside to dig his blunt fingertips into the soft flesh. His thrusts are more forceful than you remember, more erratic, powerful enough to push you up the length of the bed. 

You fist your hands into the bedding and push back, refusing to allow your knees to buckle under the pressure. That earns you a low groan from the King – a sound that strikes a strange chord inside you; sends a shiver racing up your spine. You press your hot face into the sheets.

Perhaps Namjoon is still feeling the effects of an arduous afternoon in the hot sun. Perhaps he’s still in his cups after a night of drinking with his men. 

Or perhaps it is all just a trick of your mind.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Morning brings no improvement in your mood. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

You wake snappish, jarred from a fitful sleep by the sudden appearance of light in your chamber. Shafts of it – hot and harsh – stream through your windows, spill across your duvet, assault your eyes. You bury your face in the pillow in a futile attempt to avoid it, sweat beading at the nape of your neck until the uncomfortable warmth forces you to quit the bed.

But the rude manner of your awakening is only one reason for your irritation.

The other is the lingering tenderness between your legs, a dull ache you can feel with each careful step. The sensation is more an annoyance than a true discomfort, but it vexes you nonetheless. Each muted throb serves as an unwelcome reminder of your visit from the King, of the peculiar way he’d bedded you last night. 

Your face flames as you think of it.

What is he about, your husband? And what of the juvenile, chest-thumping nonsense you’d witnessed yesterday afternoon? The combative way he’d gone up against Lord Jung and the grand show he’d made of coming to you to fête his victory. Boorish, absurd behavior – all of it. 

You go about your morning ablutions in silence, unwilling to meet Hyeri’s eyes for even one moment. You are in no mood to withstand her meddling today – well-intentioned or otherwise – and so it is for the best that she helps you wash and dress in relative silence. 

If there is something the older woman means to say, she has the good sense to swallow it, murmuring only a quiet warning about the heat as you slip out the chamber door.

And heavens, how you are wholly unprepared for the heat.

It, too, has worsened overnight – the air around you nearly thick enough to drink. You hurry towards the aviary, spurred on by the promise of the shade beneath its trees, but by the time you are finally seated at your desk you are soggy and sticky all over. Slick with sweat between your thighs and beneath your arms and breasts. 

Perhaps you should have heeded Hyeri’s warning. 

The thought rankles you as you open your book and attempt to pick up your story where you’d left it. You start and stop the same sentence over and over again, the heat so tyrannical that you can barely breathe, much less think. Even the King’s prized birds refuse to fly under such conditions – opting instead to perch on the highest branches, wings lifted to cool themselves with the occasional passing breeze. 

The stillness unnerves you; makes your aggravation mount with each unbearable minute that ticks by and before long, you throw your novel down in frustration. This will not do.

Loathe as you are to spend another day confined to the castle’s thick stone walls, there is no avoiding it. You’ll not survive another half hour in this heat, which means you’ll certainly not be able to pass an entire afternoon in it. You huff as you throw your things back into your basket and stalk off towards the aviary’s entrance.

But perhaps you should have been more mindful.

Immersed as you are in this black mood, you don’t notice the brambles growing at the edge of the heavy gate. You brush past them in a hurry, only to be wrenched back by the thorns that take hold of your skirt. You tug at the material with your free hand, successful only at tearing a hole in the fine linen but unsuccessful at pulling yourself free. You drop your basket in the struggle and the contents spill out, an apple rolling to a stop at your feet.

It is then that you do something very unladylike, something that would have earned you an exaggerated gasp from your sister or a sharp rebuke from your mother. 

You swear. Loudly.

You summon all of your frustration and scream what is perhaps the most undignified word you know at the very top of your lungs, the vulgarity echoing in the aviary’s eerie quiet. And though it’s done nothing to solve your current predicament, there’s something truly satisfying about speaking the nasty word out loud, about shouting it into existence.

That is, until someone coughs.

“I take it you need some help, Your Grace?”

You clap a hand over your mouth as you whirl in the direction of the voice.

Lord Min approaches slowly, eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes in your sorry state. You’ve no idea where he came from, but at this very moment you’ve never been so horrified and grateful to see him, all at the very same time. 

“Yes, I – ” you start and stop, flustered by both your behavior. “ – I’m stuck. The brambles are caught in my skirt and – ”

“Oh yes, I see,” he says, leaning down to examine the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. He tugs at the bottom of your skirt and you wince at the sound of the fabric tearing. “You’ve got yourself quite tangled up here, haven’t you?” 

“I believe I have,” you admit with embarrassment. Lord Min gets down on his knees and begins plucking thorns and burs out of the fabric, brow knit with concentration as he attempts to extricate what remains of your fine linen dress.

You clear your throat.

“My Lord, I hope I didn’t – Well, rather, I hope you were not offended by that word you heard me say. It’s not a word that I usually use, not really. Well, not ever. What I mean to say is that I know of coarse language, of course, but I’m certainly not in the habit of using it.”

“What word?” Lord Min interrupts your rambling from his perch at your feet, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Did you say something, Your Grace? I must not have heard it.”

The corners of his mouth curve into a cautious smile, which you return with a timid one of your own. His teasing is welcome. It brings badly-needed levity to your embarrassing situation and lightens the heaviness of this atrocious day.

“What’s this, Min?”

At once, the gesture dies on your lips.

Lord Jung comes into view by way of the same path taken by Lord Min, though his sudden appearance does not bring you the same kind of relief. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

The very moment he’s standing before you, critical gaze moving from you to Lord Min and back, you feel absolutely lightheaded with anxiety. You wonder what he must make of the scene he’s stumbled upon: Lord Min on his knees, at your feet, hands fisted in your skirts. 

“You Grace.” The lines of Lord Jung’s beautiful face are hard as he acknowledges you, his voice stiff and formal in a way that makes it foreign to your ears. He bows to you much in the same way, body rigid as he performs the required motion.

“My Lord,” you return with similar formality.

“Her Grace is stuck,” Lord Min explains, unaware or perhaps unbothered by the provocative position the two of you have been discovered in. “I’m trying to free her without ripping this linen to shreds. Could use your help, seeing as you’re standing there. Push that branch back for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Oh, but now you feel a migraine coming on. Lord Jung squeezes into the space beside you, leaning over Lord Min to push the brambles back so that the older man may have both hands free to work. At this point, both men are too close, but he is far too close. Heat blazes a path up your neck and into your cheeks. 

Inhale, you twit. Exhale.

“Last few, Your Grace,” Lord Min announces, voice muffled by your skirts. “I think the linen will need a bit of mending, but not much more.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Lord Jung’s gaze connects with yours. His dark eyes, normally so warm and expressive, are flat as he regards you. In fact, everything about the handsome guardsman’s countenance is uncharacteristically severe today, from the deep knit of his brows to the way his bow-shaped mouth presses into a firm line. He looks away from you without so much as a smile.

Is he – is he angry with you?

Your mouth nearly falls open at the realization. What right would Lord Jung have to be angry with you? It was he who’d laid the trap with the promise of a perfect afternoon spent riding and he who’d sprung the trap by defending your husband’s dishonesty. 

If either one of you had a just claim to animosity, it would most certainly be you. 

The awful word you’d uttered at the very start of this ridiculous dilemma springs right to the tip of your tongue. If only you had the courage to spit it at him. Horrid, infuriating man.

“There now,” Lord Min announces. “I think we’ve got it. Hang on to that bramble for a bit longer while Her Grace steps away from the gate.”

You start forward slowly, steps mercifully unencumbered by gnarled plants. Though Lord Min has done his best to salvage the fine linen, your skirt is now covered in a fine dusting of grime, torn in places from your knees to your ankles. Hyeri will have a fit when she sees you, but you couldn’t care less about the state of your ruined dress. The only thing that matters now is quitting this place at once.

“Thank you so much, Lord Min,” you breathe, dropping to your knees to gather your scattered things. The elder guardsman helps you retrieve the wayward charcoals and papers, which you hurriedly stuff back into your basket. “I’ll be off now and won’t take up any more of your afternoon.”

With that, you rush to your feet and turn on your heels to leave. You try not to think about the scene you’re leaving behind – Lord Min puzzled by your sudden exit, Lord Jung affronted by the fact that you’d pointedly ignored him in your thanks. 

You make haste with those first few steps towards freedom, only to be pulled back once again. Only this time, not by jagged brambles.

“Your Grace.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand at the sound of the gruff voice behind you. You turn around slowly, acutely aware of both men watching your every move. When Lord Jung steps forward, your eyes fall to the gently worn leather binding in his hands. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

You take great care to school your features, though the panic rising inside of you threatens to spill out. Your most private thoughts are inside that book. Fragments of poems and unsent letters and one horribly incriminating sketch of a man who is most certainly not your husband.

“Thank you, My Lord,” you mumble, resisting the urge to run to him and snatch the book right out of his grip. You can feel him watching your every move as you approach to accept it with unsteady hands.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

A storm is coming. You can feel it.

Never mind that the sun is shining – or that the sky outside is a perfect, crystalline blue. The clouds dotted across the horizon hang in the air, unmoving. There is no wind to rustle the leaves in the trees. The calm is ominous. Foreboding.

“... think none of the people in this kingdom have ever seen this kind of display before. I imagine they’ll be quite awed by it. I’ve only ever seen it once myself, in a village far North. A strange lot, those people are. After all these years, they still dabble in the dark arts.”

At the other end of the long dining table before you sits the King. He’s been prattling on like this for the better part of ten minutes now; far too absorbed in his grand talk of the festival to note that his audience of one has yet to engage with a word that’s come out of his mouth.

“It’s strange though, to think of celebrating a Fall Festival in this heat. Though I generally prefer the heat to the cold, these conditions are quite beyond the pale. We’ll have to have just as much water on hand as we do ale.”

You make a sound under your breath that you hope will pass for discourse.

“Of course, there’s still much to be done. But the stewards assure me that everything will be ready in time. And there will be much to celebrate this year as I’m told the crops in all our holdings are faring well. The wheat has – ”

The King’s jabbering comes to an abrupt stop.

“You’ve barely eaten,” he notes, in a sudden fit of awareness. He regards you over the rim of his wine glass, curious. “Is the jajangmyeon not to your liking?”

“It is to my liking,” you insist, pushing the wheat noodles around your bowl in a half-hearted attempt to appease him. “As always. I suppose I’m just not very hungry tonight, is all.”

“I find that surprising,” the King says, as though you’d asked his opinion on the matter. “I understand you were brave enough to venture out into that awful heat this afternoon. I would have thought you’d be famished tonight.”

Every muscle in your body tenses at once.

“Oh?”

“I spoke with Hyeri this afternoon,” the King elaborates, oblivious to his misstep. “She said she’d warned you against leaving the castle under those conditions, but you’d off and done it anyway.” He chuckles under his breath as he recounts the conversation. “I think you surprise her at times with how strong-willed you can be.”

Beneath the table, your hands ball into fists.

The thought of Hyeri disclosing the details of your day to the King, no matter how trivial, incenses you. You imagine them together over tea, sharing a laugh as they trade observations about your shortcomings. Or worse – meeting with one another somber-faced as they commiserate over your inability to produce a child. 

That thought is the most insidious. Your nails dig savagely into your palms.

“Do you and Hyeri discuss my comings and goings often, then, Your Grace?” 

Your husband shrugs, helping himself to another generous serving of noodles.

“Often enough, I suppose.”

“So am I then to assume that when you ask me about my day, you are merely standing on ceremony? Surely you must be, given that you’ve already had a full report from my handmaid.”

The King sets down his chopsticks to look at you, perplexed by the contentious turn in this conversation. But he’s careful to school his features as he considers what to say next.

“Of course not,” he starts slowly. “I ask after you because I genuinely want to know about your day. It’s a consideration that I would think customary between husbands and wives.”

Is he – is he toying with you?

What on earth would His Grace know about what’s customary between husbands and wives? He is the one who’s made this marriage into a farce with his deceit and adultery. He is the one who’s held you at arm’s length from the very start in order to protect the woman he truly loves. Your husband’s hubris is as astonishing as it is aggravating. Horrid, infuriating man.

“Well I, for one, would genuinely like to know about your day, Your Grace,” you say, unable to keep venom from seeping into your every word. “So tell me then – as is customary between husband and wives – how did you pass the afternoon?”

The color drains from the King’s face. 

You should shut your mouth now and say no more, you know it – but by now you are far too consumed with anger to give much thought to the consequences of sharp words. You push the bowl of jajangmyeon away and get to your feet.

“Nothing of interest to share, then?” You raise a brow as you stare down at your husband, unwilling to look away for even one moment. “What a pity. Perhaps tomorrow.”

The King’s eyes narrow but his mouth stays shut. He says nothing in his own defense, says nothing to attempt to placate you. 

And he says nothing as you turn your back on him and walk out the door.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The first crack of thunder sounds just as you’re readying for bed. You stand at your window and watch the storm roll in. 

Black clouds build off in the distance, discernible only by the occasional flare of lightning. Each bright flash is followed by an earth-shaking rumble that satisfies you somehow, as though you’ve manifested this squall with your thoughts. The violent wind and rain it carries with it a mirror of the tempest inside you.

“Do you require anything else, Your Grace?”

Hyeri’s voice comes from behind, timid and small. She’s been tiptoeing around your chamber all evening, clearly disquieted by the cold reception you’d given her upon your return. The well-bred, well-behaved woman inside you whispers that you should turn to her, do something to reassure her, but you refuse. 

Fortified by your anger, you keep your back to Hyeri and go on staring at the storm clouds.

“No,” you say firmly. “You can retire for the night.”

“But I – ” Hyeri starts, stops, and then sighs. “Very well. As you wish, Your Grace.”

And you do wish. You wish for Hyeri to leave you – not just tonight, but every night. And you wish not just for Hyeri to leave you – but all of them. You’ve grown quite tired of humiliating yourself in this kingdom; of placing your trust in people who’ve made you into a fool time and time again. 

There is rustling as the older woman hurriedly gathers her things, then a brief pause before she slips out the door. The heavy thud that finally announces her departure brings you some small measure of peace, but it does not last.

Your bath-damp body is warm when you slip beneath the heavy duvet. Too warm. Though the storm raging nearby brings with it the promise of cool rain, it is still too far off to displace the humid air in your chamber. You toss and turn beneath the heavy covers for a while, your thin nightgown soaked through with sweat by the time you finally kick your bedding away.

So you lie there in the dark, close to feverish with heat and unable to settle down. Every time you close your eyes, you’re taunted by images – of Hyeri, of the King, of the child that never comes. What you would give to be able to quiet your mind, to have some respite from the reality of your circumstances.

But there will be no respite, not any time soon. The thunder outside is close enough now to shake the castle’s heavy walls with each new blast that rips through the sky. You feel the tremors right down to your bones, the sensation causing goosebumps to scatter across your skin. 

In spite of the heat, you shiver. 

There’s a prickling that starts at your scalp and goes right down to your toes. It makes you itch with the desire to drag your nails down your arms and legs. It makes you want to squeeze your thighs together, tight and tighter still until your agitation is gone. Perhaps that is the solution. 

You cup your breasts through the damp, thin material of your nightgown. They feel sensitive, tender — and the very moment you brush your fingertips over your nipples they come to life, pebbling against the gauzy fabric. 

You close your eyes and try to imagine that your hands are not your own. That the fingers that close around the aching buds, teasing and testing, are not your fingers. That the dormant pleasure the pressure rouses inside you has instead been roused by someone else. 

In your mind, the hand that steals between your thighs is not your own. It’s larger than yours, the fingers longer and rougher than yours. You imagine that hand parting your legs, coarse fingertips slippery against the wetness gathered at your entrance. And you imagine it caressing you there, expertly stroking the spot that makes the air leave your lungs. 

What would it be like to be touched like this? To have a lover’s lips at your neck and his hand between your thighs? To have the weight of him pressing down on you, the scent of him enveloping you – to feel his warm breath fan over your skin?

These thoughts only serve to make the ache between your legs more pronounced. But the more you attend to it, the sharper it becomes. Pleasure blooms with each inexpert pass of your fingers over that place, but in its wake your desperation grows, too. 

You whine under your breath as you touch yourself harder, faster – a heaviness building at your core that makes you feel full, overripe. There is relief on the other side of whatever this is, and you know it. 

But can you reach it? 

Your imaginary lover would know how to help you reach it. He would take you in his arms and in his mouth and leave no inch of your body untouched. He would fuse himself to you, skin-to-skin, and show you how to beckon your pleasure at will, help you realize its full potential. 

In your mind’s eye you can see him – legs and arms strong and lean, golden skin illuminated by firelight. The mouth he sets to your aching nipples would be soft, lips pretty and bow-shaped. And his hair would be dark and his eyes would be a rich chocolate and his face would be – 

A clap of thunder explodes in the sky. 

Your eyes fly open – unseeing – as you gasp from the shock of it. It leaves you trembling, body slick with sweat and limbs tingling from the sudden fear. You lie there in the dark, panting as you wait for your heart to stop racing. 

And just like that, the pleasure you’ve been chasing is gone. Quick as a rabbit. 

Outside your window the heavens weep, the rain beating against the ground like a hail of arrows. 

The dry earth enjoying a relief that always seems to elude you.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

“Magnificent, Your Grace.” 

Hyeri passes a hand over the embellishments in your bodice, chest puffed with pride as she examines the dressmaker’s handiwork. Though her brown eyes have long gone dull and gray with age, they shine as she steps back to take you in from head to toe. “Just magnificent.”

It is magnificent – far and away the finest garment you have ever worn. 

Rich, plum-colored velvet embellished with gilt thread, the plunging neckline and bliaut sleeves lined with pressed bezants. You hardly recognize the woman looking back at you in the mirror, the one with her hair swept off her neck in an intricate braided bun, eyes darkened with kohl, ears and neck adorned with sparkling gold. Whoever that woman is, she is far bolder and far more sophisticated than you.

“There’s nothing like his work,” Hyeri muses, running a thumb over pattern pressed into the hem of one sleeve. “Frail as he is, it takes him ages to complete a dress. But he’s worth it. Worth the wait and worth every single won.”

You study the intertwining gold patterns stitched into the bustline. No doubt the King has paid dearly for this dress and all its fine accoutrements. The thought of your husband spending an obscene amount of money on it nearly puts a smile on your face. 

“You look remarkable in this dress,” Hyeri remarks quietly, wrinkled mouth lifting at the corners with a cautious smile. “Well, of course, you look remarkable everyday, but especially tonight.” 

Her expression is bittersweet as she reaches for you, gently tucking a strand of hair that’s fallen loose of your braid behind your ear. This newfound emotional distance has been hard on her, you know. It’s been hard on you, too. And though holding her at arm’s length has proven difficult at times, it feels somehow vital to your self-preservation.

“Don’t forget your shawl,” Hyeri says softly. “It’s gotten quite cold out there.”

It certainly has. The storm that ripped through the kingdom just days ago took the insufferable heat with it, leaving behind a pure, crystalline cold. The night sky is clear enough to see for miles. 

So you accept the shawl from Hyeri with a quiet thanks, avoiding her eyes as you slip out the chamber door.

By the time you make your way to the great hall, the revelry is already well underway. You can hear it pulsing through the slats of the heavy wooden doors, the music and commotion contained within powerful enough to stir the ground beneath your feet. The footmen posted at either side of the entrance bow deeply as you approach, then move to pull the doors open.

You raise a hand to still them, wanting a moment to steel yourself before entering the fray.

“I’m not – If you’ll just give me – ”

One of the guards steps forward to speak when your words falter.

“No need to explain, Your Grace,” he says earnestly. “Just let us know when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” You take as deep a breath as your elaborate gown will allow. “Truly.”

You already know what awaits on the other side of those doors. Artificial smiles that hide whispers about your empty womb, honeyed and hollow words of praise from your exasperating husband. Pity too, perhaps, from those connected enough to be privy to the true state of your marriage. 

But you’ll bear it. You must. Because it’s what’s expected of you and because your political survival in this kingdom depends on it.

“Well then,” you say, smoothing down your velvet skirt with trembling hands. "I believe I've had time to collect myself."

The very same footman that had spoken to you just moments earlier gives you a sympathetic smile as he places one hand on the door’s ornate wrought iron handle. He pauses to look at you before signaling to the other footman, one brow raised as if to say are you sure?

You swallow thickly and nod your affirmation.

Slowly, the heavy doors are pulled open, creaking as they part. You step forward to enter, feeling a rush of cool air at your heels. The brief hush that falls over the great hall makes your heartbeat quicken.

But then the King stands. 

He rises to his feet and bows to you, and every person inside the great hall follows suit. You return his bow and then straighten, holding your head up high as you set off to fulfill your duty.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King makes no mention of the tense meal you’d shared just a few nights prior. Not that you’d expected him to. If anything, your husband’s predilection for avoidance has been one of his most consistent traits. And if he’s harbored any ill feelings about the curt words you’d spoken that night, surely they’ve been washed away in a torrent of ale.

He’s already a bit drunk when you take your seat beside him – pleasantly so, if his ruddy cheeks and leisurely smile are any indication. His dark eyes are glassy as they sweep over your form, taking in the grandeur of your dress. But they linger at your bust for just a heartbeat too long and it takes all the self-control you can muster to not kick him beneath the table.

“You look fetching in that dress,” the King notes, reaching for his tankard. “The color suits you.”

“Oh? Then you’ll be pleased to know I’ve dozens more just like it on the way.”

You startle a laugh from the King just as he’s taken a drink and he splutters on it, coughing until tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “Very good of you to warn me before the bill comes due,” he wheezes.

“But of course, Your Grace.” You infuse your words with cloying, contrived sweetness, putting a hand over your heart for emphasis. “It is the very least I could do.”

The King chuckles as you turn to look out over the room. 

The tables below the raised platform on which you both dine are teeming with people, their long wooden benches bowing beneath the substantial weight. They are littered with food and drink, tankards and platters and goblets scattered for as far as the eye can see. 

You sip your wine and watch partygoers reach over one another for noodles and steal dumplings from their neighbors’ plates.

It takes a minute for you to spot Boram. She and Lord Min are tucked into a corner, cozy and close. Your dear friend is the very picture of contentment; resplendent in a royal blue gown, glowing in the torchlight when her husband presses a kiss to her temple. Your heart aches as you watch them. What you would give to have what they have – to know the fulfillment they’ve found in one another.

In fact, the Mins make for such a compelling tableau that you nearly overlook the one behind it. Lord Jung is dressed in an arresting black and gold tunic, dark hair styled away from his face and a tankard of ale in his hand. And he is not alone.

Seated close to him – so very close – is a woman. A beautiful woman, as best you can tell from a distance. Her dark red dress in perfect contrast to her shiny fall of dark hair, the garment cut to accentuate what can only be described as a generous bust. She leans in to Lord Jung as she says something, décolletage on full display when she throws her head back to laugh.

Your grip on the wine goblet in your hand tightens.

The woman is brazen, that much you can tell. Her proximity to the Guardsman is far too close to be proper, her scandalous –  if stunning – manner of dress far too self-indulgent to be benign. And though you cannot make out clearly how she’s been received by Lord Jung, the very fact that he has not sent her away is telling. Is this the woman he intends to marry, then? Or just a diversion for the night? 

You drain the wine that remains in your goblet and signal for the serving girl to bring you more.

Moments later Lord Jung, too, flags down a passing servant to fill his tankard. For a man who once took great pride in extolling his discipline with spirits, he seems to be exercising very little of it tonight. In fact, he looks to be indulging as much or perhaps even more than his fellow Guardsmen. Perhaps that is why he does not he does not move to distance himself when the alluring woman at his side places a hand on his arm.

You swallow another large sip of wine.

“It’s nearly time for the evening’s entertainment,” the King says. “I think you’ll be impressed by what’s in store.”

You cannot tear your gaze from the scene before you. You cannot stop staring at the comely woman at Lord Jung’s side – stiffening in your seat when she leans over to whisper in his ear.

“I’m looking forward to it,” you say absentmindedly, lifting your wine glass to your lips once again.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

When you were a girl, barely ten years old, your father had come home from a long journey with a fantastic tale. 

He’d spoken of fire – in shades of red and green and gold – launched into the sky, embers raining down on the earth in a magnificent display. You’d been spellbound by the picture he’d painted for you, wishing desperately to see this phenomenon for yourself.

And now you have.

The King’s promise of a surprise well exceeds your expectations. Each new flare sent up over the open field is met with a hush from the crowd, followed by loud cheers and applause as it explodes into color.

“I brought them back from a village up North,” the King explains, preening at the crowd’s reception. “And though I wanted to show them right away, I made myself wait until the most advantageous time. What do you make of them?”

“They’re splendid,” you answer earnestly. “I’ve never seen anything so grand.”

The King hides a satisfied smile behind the rim of his tankard. By this point in the evening, he’s crossed the line from agreeably drunk to good and well soused – as have many of the others in attendance. You, too, are feeling the effects of your wine, experiencing that strange weightlessness that can only be brought on by drink.

And you are glad for the distraction of the fire display. 

It’s helped pull your focus away from Lord Jung and that woman. Though each time there is a brief break in the presentation, you cannot help but search the throng for any sign of them. You wonder where they are right now. What they might be doing. But then you drown the bitter thoughts with the wine in your goblet.    

The night wears on and the crowd around you becomes rowdier, louder – the ale barrels slowly disappearing one by one. Even the King is looking a bit worse for the wear. He’s sagged into the chair beside you, heavy-lidded as he watches the bright detonations that light up the sky.

You are not faring much better. A dull throb taps at your temples, no doubt the consequence of drinking too much wine, and you suspect that it will be far more pronounced come morning. You ought to retire for the evening now, while you still have some of your wits about you.

You open your mouth to say as much to the King at the very same time you catch sight of a slim man ambling away from the crowd. Though he’s hundreds of yards away and though there’s little light beyond the torches and the occasional embers in the sky, you recognize him right away. 

You would recognize him anywhere.

Impulsively, you get to your feet and utter a rushed goodbye to the King. He bids you farewell with a sluggish smile and not a moment later he’s gone back to gazing skyward, mesmerized by the lights. Just ahead, Lord Jung slinks off into the shadows, moving with an unsteady gait. 

And you follow him. To what end you cannot be sure.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Clearly, you’d given no real thought to this course of action. 

If you had, you’d not be scurrying across damp grass right now, struggling to keep your balance in your beautiful velvet dress. The heavy fabric weighs you down with each step, making each footfall precarious. In fact, if you’d stopped for even a moment to consider the implications of stealing away to pursue a man who is not your husband, you’d have ended this lunacy long before it even began.

But here you are in the dark, following Lord Jung. With only the moon to light your way.

The slender man moves quickly, unburdened by the trappings of women’s formalwear and assisted by his long legs. You lift the hem of your dress off the ground and do your best to keep up on the shadowy path. Just a short distance ahead you can make out the lines of a thatched roof and wooden fence. 

It’s the stables, you realize, and the pieces start to fall into place.

He’s come here to meet that woman. The two of them must have agreed to leave the festival and come here for a secret tryst. Were you a woman in your right mind, that realization would stop you cold and send you running straight back to the castle. But you are absolutely not in your right mind. You are dangerous tonight; fearless from the wine flowing freely in your veins.

As such, the very thought of Lord Jung arranging for a passionate liaison with this woman has the opposite effect. It infuriates you. And you’ll not be satisfied until you can see the proof for yourself and then end this fixation once and for all.

Overhead, a flare of light illuminates the darkness just as you’re nearing the horse stalls. It’s followed by the sound of sizzling gunpowder, and it draws your attention skyward. You look up just in time to see wisps of fire tumble back to the earth. But when you fix your gaze forward again, Lord Jung is gone.

What on earth?

You’ve barely begun to consider your next move before your body is moving of its own volition, jerked right off the walking path by a hand that wraps around your arm like a band of steel. Lord Jung drags you behind the horse stall with one hand and claps the other over your mouth to smother the sound of hysteria that threatens to escape.

“What. Are. You. Doing?”

He hisses the words, one by one, his low vibrato thrumming with barely-contained anger. You’ve yet to recover from the shock of being accosted in the dark and so you stare at him, bewildered and mute.

He releases you, dropping the hand covering your mouth to walk to the edge of the stables. You watch as he ducks his head around the corner to check the walking path. Once he’s satisfied you’ve not been followed, he rounds on you.

“Anyone could have seen you.”

“No one saw me,” you scowl, rubbing your forearm where his fingers dug painfully into your flesh. “They’re all far too drunk to see anything, I assure you.”

He shoves a hand through his dark hair and exhales deeply.

“What are you about tonight, Your Grace?” 

A fair question, and one you ought to have considered before dashing off into the night. But you’d been so hellbent on hunting the man down that you’d given no real thought to what you’d do if you actually caught him. You hesitate for so long that he grows impatient, closing in on you.

“What,” he repeats slowly, “Are you about?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Well, you ought to know,” he growls. “You ought to know damned well exactly what you’re about before you go off following men into the dark.”

But it’s not as though you’ve followed just any man into the dark, is it? You’d followed him. The admonishment riles you, bringing your temper back to a full boil. You straighten your spine and sear him with a withering look.

“That woman tonight. At the feast. She wants you to bed her.”

Lord Jung’s dark eyes go wide just before they narrow into slits. He stalks towards you slowly, forcing you to retreat until your back is flush against the stable’s rough wooden slats. Slivers of moonlight play off his angular face, making the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced. He’s beautiful – even like this – even when he’s so irate that he can barely keep still.

“I know what she wants,” he says, voice sinking to an octave that raises goosebumps on your arms. “What I do not know is what you want. What I do not know is why you are here.”

“So you intend to bed her,” you challenge.

Something dangerous flickers in his expression as he regards you, gaze potent enough to almost make you regret your sudden bout of daring. Almost.

“No.”

And so there is no tryst. No agreement between secret lovers. At once, adrenaline floods your veins, bringing with it a clarity that you’ve not had since you began drinking tonight. You’ve been reckless – so, so reckless – and now there is no undoing what you’ve done. 

“I’ve answered your question and now you will answer mine,” Lord Jung warns, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “What. Do. You. Want?”

All the fire has left you now. Whatever force possessed you to confront this man in this way has disappeared, leaving behind only a sickly taste in your mouth. You’ll feel more than just the wine in the morning, you know it. 

“Brave enough to follow me into the dark, brave enough to demand I explain my plans for bedsport,” he continues, brows knit as he stares you down. “But somehow, not brave enough to tell me what you’re doing here in the first place.”

“I – ” 

“Tell me then,” he goads, growing more agitated by the minute. “Open your mouth and speak. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

You ought to have slapped him across the face. At the very least, you would have earned the look he’s giving you right now – this frozen mask of incredulity that’s come over his face. He backs away from you slowly, as though poised to run. But he doesn’t.

“You’re mad.”

“I am not mad,” you say evenly, with a poise you’d not thought yourself capable of. “You asked me what I want and I’ve told you. I want you to kiss me.”

Another burst of color explodes in the sky. A loud cheer goes up over the field nearby, a disquieting reminder of the hundreds of people milling about just a short walk away. The commotion seems to sober him.

“Go home, Your Grace.” His words are strangled, forced. “You are playing with fire. You have no idea what you’re doing here.”

You stiffen, lifting your nose in the air. 

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you lie.

Your insistence only serves to make him even more agitated. He begins to pace back and forth, glowering at you as he moves.

“Go back to your castle, Your Grace. Go back to your fine life and your fine things and no one will ever be the wiser.”

“I will not,” you refuse, defiant.

He delivers his last blow, the fatal one, in a voice so graveled it sounds as though the words are spoken by a stranger. And perhaps he is a stranger, this man you’ve been so infatuated with. Perhaps he’s nothing like what you’ve made him in your own mind.

“Go back to your husband,” he growls. “Your King.”

Your humiliation is both instant and acute. You burn with it, the embarrassment so intense that it nearly makes you see stars. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears, feel your heart pounding in your throat when you speak.

“The King doesn’t want me,” you say coldly. “Though I am certain you already know that.”

“The King is a fool!” he explodes, surging forward and slamming his hands down on either side of you. The outburst is violent enough to shake the horse stall and the venom in his countenance nearly makes you come out of your skin. His mouth hovers terrifyingly close to yours, so close that you can nearly taste the ale on his breath. You stop breathing altogether. 

Then he wrenches himself away from you, staggering backwards as though he’s been burned.

“The King is a fool,” he repeats. “And so am I.”

i’d love to hear from you about this chapter! you can talk to me here. otherwise, i hope you enjoyed it and only the final chapter is left 💕

[stylesprimes]

myimaginationsrunningwild replied to your post: GOT NOSEBLEEDS FOR SEATTLE AND A FRONT ROW LOWER...

IM INTERESTED! Are you selling for face value?? And is it in your section as well??

yep! i’m selling it for $145, but it’s section 117 row 19 and i just got a ticket for a different section!

[gukyi]

I am here to say that I have literally just sat in my room bawling over ITW and what an INCREDIBLE writer you are. I am literally speechless. This felt so damn real and so true to anyone who has ever been a counselor with an unrequited love (literally me way back in the day). The raw emotions of YN’s feelings towards Jimin had my heart crying. I felt her pain, and her sadness, and her joy all at once. This reminds me SO MUCH of Dirty Dancing LOL. Ugh TY for this. This was truly A++++. 💔😭

oh my goodness thank you so much for reading it !!!! i feel like ITW really does encapsulate that sort of wistful summer feeling, the kind where you just enjoy what you have because you know it’ll come to an end soon. i’ve been told quite a lot that ITW is reminiscent of past memories, and for that i’m honored to have written something so nostalgic for so many of you !!! thank you so much for all of the love that you’ve given it and i’m so glad that you enjoyed it!!

[icanseeyourholo]

OMG KILL ME NOW! I loved this chapter so much!!!! The near kiss killed me!!! I can’t wait to see this unfold again! ughhh you’re amazing!!!

you are amazing! thank you so much. sharing this story would only be half as fun without you cheering me on

[harrytourdates-blog]

NYC!!

It seems Ticketmaster is now listing two events for NYC, Oct 29 and Oct 30. 

You can see them searching for TM, unsure how codes work if you can access either with a code, if you need a code or anything. Please check twitter and try your luck, I have no further information. 

Good luck all! @myimaginationsrunningwild thanks so much for alerting us!

[eoieopda]

Hi Jade! I just wanted to send you big hugs on this Monday to make your week go by fast! Just started following you but I can already tell you’ll be one of my favorite people on here!!! 😊🥹💜

thank you so much, qt!!! have a great day 🥰

[kasiopeiae]

I’M OBSESSED WITH THIS ONLY LOOKS LIKE LOVE!!! THANK YOTHE FOR BEING SO AMAZING!!!

obsessed?? omg you’re too sweet!! thank you so much for enjoying and sharing you’re thoughts with me. you’re pretty amazing, too @myimaginationsrunningwild

[wwilloww]

Joanna!!! omg I've missed you dearly 💕💕💕and I am crying reading this. your thoughts, your feedback... MEAN EVERYTHING. I swear, I think you were one of the first readers who interacted and left notes on my writing consistently and i still get just as excited to see your name in my notifications as I did that first time. Thank YOU SO MUCH YOU SWEET SWEET ANGEL. I am so wildly grateful for your presence in my life. xoxoxoxoxoxo ❤️❤️❤️

sh. | ot7 | chapter six

PAIRING ot7 x reader

RATING Explicit.

GENRE smut. fluff. angst. nonidol au. wildnerness au. roommates au. friends to lovers.

SUMMARY Six months of quarantine have kept you apart. Somehow the distance sparks something new in each of you: questions, unfinished conversations, threads once chased now left cold. So when your roommate invites you to come with him to a mysterious house in the mountains with your friends, how could you even think of saying no?

WC 3.8k

WARNINGS AND TAGS themes of exhibitionism. fingering. unprotected sex. creampie. sensitivity during sex. dirty talk.

AN: I have been stuck at this impasse of what's going to happen next for literal mONTHS and somehow in the span of one week I got the ball rolling again. Thank you to the incredible support you all have shown. I am so grateful for each of you. You bring a light to my writing.

Thanks to @lcksndkys and Calix for helping me waddle through my thoughts and to reach the finish line on this chapter. Much love to @jinpanman and @thatlongspringnight too, just for being incredible.

← || series m.list || →

©️ wwilloww do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.

Chapter Six

Present day.

“Something like this doesn’t need to be so extraneously complicated.”

Yoongi’s words spiral in your mind as Taehyung graciously picks up your breakfast dishes from your hand and you smile absently.

The images whirl in your mind. Seven friends, fucking. Unacceptable, some snotty voice in your head chides you, a voice you quickly shove aside. After all, it’s the 21st century. Emotional intelligence on the rise. Sexual education at its height. Self control… at it’s very lowest.

Back in January you would have run screaming for the hills. And that impulse, well, it’s definitely still there. But all there is to do is recognize it, take a deep breath, and instead of letting the panic take over, try to act from the place in your chest that feels safe and secure. The place in your chest that wants this.

The place that wants this: Your friends. Fucking. But a fluttering in your chest reminds you: it’s not just the sex. Well, it is. Undeniably so. But it’s also something more — you trip over the unspoken words in your mind — it's something about wanting them all closer. What is the word?

“You and Jungkook are on kitchen duty this morning,” Taehyung says as he fills up one of the huge kitchen sinks with warm soapy water, and you snap out of the forest of your thoughts.

You scoff. “I was on kitchen duty like, two days ago!”

“You might be surprised to know that two days later, it is again your turn.”

You huff. “Fine.” Dish duty was always your least favorite of all housework. But the reason things worked so smoothly around here in the first place was that you had all sorted out responsibilities, roles, and communication. The only way it worked was by sticking to that. With a grimace, you roll up your sleeves and prepare to dive into the soapy lukewarm water.

“I can do that,” Jungkook says from behind you, and before you can respond, he gently hip checks you to the side and snatches the sudsy sponge away.

“You sure?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.” He nods at the drying rack. “You can dry. I know you like it better anyway.”

This morning’s feast has produced an abundance of dishes - but even with that, you’re sure that Jimin and Jin used every single bowl in the very large kitchen to measure out each ingredient individually. It takes a bit of time before the kitchen is sparkling clean once more.

“Thanks for your help,” Jungkook smiles, some kind of shyness playing in his gaze. You stare a moment too long, trying to catch the elusive thought dancing behind his eyes. As you’re reaching up to put a mug on a counter, he bends down to wipe a comically large sudsy bubble off of the floor and looks up and he freezes.

“You-you’re not wearing…?”

You laugh. “I’m not.” He stands slowly.

“Why—?” Curiosity sings in those doe eyes.

“Jimin asked me not to. It’s a little game we’re playing.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “You’ll do anything he says, huh.”

“Not anything,” you say, running a finger up his chest. “But a good amount of it, yes. Wouldn’t you? Didn’t you?”

Even as he speaks, his ears redden and he tugs at one, eliciting a bubbling laugh from you. “I did.” He leans close as if he’s going to tell you a secret. “And I loved it.” He grins and then pauses, taking a moment to gage your expression. Your cheeks are already warm from his prying gaze and the mention of last night’s activities. He leans in close. “You like being told what to do.”

“I do.”

His breath catches in his throat. He hesitates and you let him. Let him take his time.

“Will you let me tell you what to do?”

You love his duality. It might seem surprising or even incongruous at first, but the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. There is something about his desire to simultaneously be cared for as the object of someone else’s desire and to indulge his own drive to play the game and be the spark that ignites your falling apart, to be the thing that drives you towards the edge again and again. You nod.

“Then turn around.” His voice has dropped lower. “Before anyone catches us.”

You do as he says, turning, arching your back just enough, and presenting your ass to him. Your hands rest firm on the counter. He bends down behind you, and before you know it you’re gasping as he licks a broad stripe up your pussy.

“Are you already this wet or are you still leaking all the cum Jimin stuffed you with?” The double edged sword of his meaning strikes straight through you.

“Why don’t you find out?”

You love the boldness that rises confidently to the surface under Jungkook’s careful but greedy hand. The untethered desire that slips from your tongue like water. How, despite everything spinning in your head, your friend finds a way to dive beneath it and serve delight. Jungkook too, seems to love it, as his eyes darken and drift over your body.

“I haven’t swallowed enough of Jimin’s cum to be able to tell quite yet,” he says casually.

“We’ll have to rectify that then.”

“We will.”

Jungkook slowly works a finger into you. Then two, the long digits stretching you. You do your best to keep your sounds of pleasure to the level of a contained whisper, but you can’t help the gasp that slips from you as he presses against your g-spot and a deep ache of bliss spreads through your abdomen.

“Shit,” you hiss, clenching your teeth and letting your nails dig into your palm.

“Such a needy little brat,” Jungkook says as he begins to draw circles around your clit. “Jimin lets you orgasm once and now all of a sudden you can’t get enough.”

He adds more pressure to his movements and suddenly the biting retort that had sprung to mind dies on your tongue.

“What? Nothing to say?” You can hear the smirk in his words, even as you squeeze your eyes shut, hissing in pleasure, trying to get your footing again. “I’m starting to think you’ve had enough. How much can you take, really? I wouldn’t want to push you too far.” He pulls his fingers from you and you gasp.

“No—”

You spin around, your shirt falling back down around you again. Jungkook stands back, his eyes dark and hungry. You reach for him, grabbing his shirt to pull him against you.

You press your lips against his and he stills in surprise. His surprise stings through you like ice, slowing your motions, adding a question, a doubt, a — but then he’s kissing you back, kissing you with the fullness of resounding and final punctuation. There’s no room for question in the way his hands twine into your hair, teeth nipping, tongues wrestling. Within a minute, you’re out of breath.

“I can take you, I promise,” you murmur against his lips. “Please, Jungkook.”

“How could I deny you?” he whispers back. There’s a softness to his voice that you don’t quite recognize. A softness that leaves you thirsty for more.

He motions for you to hop up on the counter and with a skilled movement, helps you up. The bare and heated flesh of your bottom hits the cool granite, but the shock is quickly forgotten though as he slides between your legs, a large tattooed hand pressing your thighs wider for him. Bare for him.

“You really want this?”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him as tight to you as you can.

“I really want this — you.”

With a swift movement, he pulls himself from his pajama pants and slots his cock against your sopping entrance. As you wiggle against him and try to pull him into you, he raises an eyebrow.

“One of these days I’m going to make you beg for it, you know that, right?”

“Another day?” You grimace at the whine that slips into your voice, but he chuckles at it.

“I like when you’re needy.”

And then he slams into you, his cockhead spearing through your wet folds in one go.

“Ah!” Your head falls back and a cry of pleasure spills from your lips before you can bite it back.

“Feel good?” He begins thrusting in and out of you and you have to grit your teeth to answer.

“Incredible.”

He grins.

“Good.”

Your previous two encounters with Jungkook had been fast. Needy. It was a race though, the two of you sprinting neck and neck towards the same end goal: release.

But today, the race is long over and you find yourself on a different trail. One where you can simply sink into your own pleasure. You relish in the sensation of his cockhead dragging against your walls. You let your breath move quickly and heavily, brushing against his shoulder as you pant. There’s not necessarily anything particularly graceful about this fuck, but it’s easier.

Delight fogs through your body as he hits all the right spots, his hips rolling against yours. You glide your hand beneath the collar of his t-shirt, fingers splaying against his warming skin. You love the way his breath catches in his throat when you squeeze around him and before you know it, both of you are edging your orgasms.

“Just,” Jungkook breathes heavily, “Slow. For a minute. We don’t have to rush.”

“Good—” you say, a kiss fluttering against his lips. “Yes—ah—” He chuckles at your inability to pull together a sentence.

His hand comes down to grip your hip and he moves you to his will, setting a slower, deeper pace. You find his pace and push against it, against him, your breaths tangling. This close, his pelvic bone presses against your clit and you grind yourself slowly against it.

A different kind of pleasure builds in your abdomen. One stoked slowly, carefully, tenderly. It builds to a height that quickness could not reach, it teases you at the edge of its altitude.

“Jungkook—” you gasp. “So close.”

“Good. Keep going.” His grip on you loosens enough to allow you to move freely against him, but stays firm enough to feel like you are so wrapped up in him you wouldn’t know where to begin to untangle yourself.

Your orgasm washes over you with a kind of warmth that is entirely foreign to you. Your breath stills in your throat as it seizes you, freezing you in its hold. Jungkook coos at you, pretty words falling from his lips and drifting somewhere towards your subconscious as you ride it out and finally collapse into his arms, your arms pulling him into a hug as you pant against him.

“Well fuck — that was ho—”

The last syllable is choked out of him as you grind your hips against him again.

“Want you to cum,” you say, your movements sloppy but determined in your post-orgasm bliss.

“Oh?” Jungkook thrusts once into you. Still sensitive, you wince at the overwhelm. “And I thought you needed a minute to recover.”

“No—”

“No?”

“No.”

“So good for me.” You can hear the smile in his voice and the tension that you draw from him too, the way it laces through his voice with urgency. He’s barely holding himself together as you grind against him.

You can tell he’s getting close. His pace picks up, his forehead pressing in concentration, his face tightening in focused pleasure. “You know…I still haven’t cum in this pretty pussy.”

“Well, technically—” you begin to say, thinking of Jimin’s fingers last night scooping up Jungkook’s still-hot cum and filling your cunt with it. The way it had spilled down your leg as you walked back to your bedroom.

“Sh, just—”

“Yes. Do it. Cum inside me.”

That’s all he needed to hear. With a shuddering gasp, he presses himself tightly against you, a hand coming to cradle your head, the other pressing firmly against your back. He presses himself as far into you as he can possibly manage and cums, his cock twitching within you as he groans.

“Fuck,” Jungkook curses, his voice graveled.

“You sound rough,” you laugh breathily, tucking a piece of long, dark hair behind his ear as he recovers. He looks up at you, those large, round eyes too pretty for the deed he just committed.

He lets loose a long, shaky breath, one that turns to a laugh as he watches the smile bloom on your face. “What the fuck did we just do?” he says.

“We just fucked in the kitchen.”

“A second time.”

“A second time indeed.”

“What, you got a kitchen kink or something?” he smiles.

“If anything it’s a communal kink. A communal kink for communal spaces.”

“Really, if anything you’ve got a bit of an exhibitionist streak. Undeniably so.”

The heat that pours into your face doesn’t make sense when paired with your unabashed attitude about the act you and Jungkook just accomplished on the kitchen counter. “Maybe,” you say, tucking your head beneath his chin, pressing your lips to the little dip beneath his adam’s apple. “And so what if I do?”

“Then I would want to take every opportunity to explore just how far that specific interest of yours is able to take you,” he says. “How far it would push you, uh, us.” You can only imagine what he’s thinking of. “You know, as this keeps—” He pauses for a moment. Searching for the word. “Moving forward.”

Forward? Something in your chest stills and freezes. Whispers, run.

Your breath, too, turns to ice in your throat. Jungkook notices the shift in your countenance and brings his hand up to your arm, kneading the flesh softly.

But you’re quick. You know what to do when this happens. Even as the song of old fear sings in your veins, you know it has very little — if anything at all — to do with the man standing in front of you, the way he makes you feel, and the things that the two of you are — deliciously — doing together. So you look at it. Look at the fear that won’t quit. Know that it’s old, a visitor from the past, and take a deep breath.

Then another.

Then you press a kiss to the hard shell of his collarbone, just as you wanted to do, feeling the warmth of his body sink through your skin into yours, warming the freezing bits into something human, something present again.

“Forward?” you manage to say, breathe in, breathe out.

“Forward, yeah,” Jungkook says, letting his short nails skate up your skin and tangle into the back of your hair, raising goosebumps to your skin. “Forward. With us. This.”

“Jungkook,” you murmur as you kiss up his neck. “I don’t know what this is.”

“Do you need to?”

The answer comes automatically. “Yes.”

“I’m not sure you do.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“Well. Then, tell me. Do you want this to stop?"

In, out. It’s easier to breathe with his hands running over your body. With his presence so close to yours, his strange, calming individuality singing even in the silence. You know this. You want this.

"...No."

"Well, that’s good to hear,” he chuckles, his hands still roving in lazy patterns over your body. “So then, whatever this is, does it need a name?"

You flounder. That's not what he's supposed to say. He’s supposed to push you. To ask more of you. Right? That’s how this kind of thing always goes. DTR: define the relationship. Give it a name. Put it in a box, like every other one of your previous relationships. Act by the script, because with each label there is a preordained script that everyone is supposed to follow. But without the name, what is left? The gap left by the question swallows you up. But it also promises something else: freedom. A loosened chain around your heart.

"What—" you shake your head. "What do you mean?"

"If you don't know what this is, that’s okay. If you don’t know exactly what you want, that's okay. You don't NEED to know what you want, especially not a month, six months, a year from now. You just need to know if you want this — me — right now."

You do want him. That’s undeniable. Looking at him, it’s almost impossible to manage all the different ways you want him. His softness, wrapped around you. His compassion, leading you forward. His unrivaled energy, like some furious and kind beast, always waiting around the corner with a new adventure. And not just all of the little pieces, but the whole too. You want Jungkook.

“I do, I do, Jungkook,” you say. And then you press in, letting yourself kiss him, a frown of confusion tugging at your lips. He can feel it. “I just… I don’t understand.”

“That’s okay,” he whispers. “I can explain what I mean. If I am what you want right now, if Jimin is what you want, hell, whoever — then take it. It’s okay for you to want like this. And when that want stops or it changes or it grows into something else, that’s okay too. Just… tell us.”

You swallow. Why is it that his kindness, his understanding feels like it’s ripping you open? It’s not as if what he’s saying is particularly new to you. It’s just that your history has held such rigidness, such control, that the airy taste of flexibility before you feels an awful lot like fear. But with Jungkook’s earnest eyes shining down on you, you know it can’t be fear. It has to be you, standing on the precipice of the unknown, knowing nothing before you but the next step: your own desire. And you’ve been doing it, letting yourself open up to it.

But when was the last time the world opened up to you too?

“What I’m saying is,” Jungkook continues, “I don’t need a name for this. I just know I like you and I really like cumming in that pretty pussy of yours and — if you’ll let me — I’d like to keep doing that.”

“Cumming in my pretty pussy?”

“Yeah. And maybe your ass sometime. Or down your throat. Or on your face. Or—”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh. “I get the picture.”

He takes a long look at you.

“What’s going through your head? You seem… concerned.”

You smile softly. “Am I that easy to read?” He nods, laughing, then lets you continue. “Well, then. I should… I should talk to Hobi. About, um,” you gesture between the two of you. “This.”

“Why?” He leans in close. “You wanna fuck him too?”

The question strikes something in your chest and you feel the blood rush to your face. For a split second, you let yourself imagine it: fucking Hoseok. How would he look, fucked-out? Would he be gentle? Intentional? Furious and fast and full of desire? But no. No, you have to stop yourself there, before thinking of these things turns to wanting them (although a small voice in the back of your mind warns you that you’re already there). Hoseok had already made his interest — or lack thereof — clear to you.

Jungkook notices your gaze shift and nudges you.

“It’s okay if you do. I guess, this is exactly what Yoongi meant when he said think about it. Right? But also—” Jungkook runs a hand through his dark hair, pressing his lips together as he thinks of the right words to say. “I know you two are close, but you don’t owe him any explanation of your sex life—” He chuckles, “Now that you have a sex life.”

You shove him lightly. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

You shake your head.

“I don’t know. It just feels… right. Like I’ve been keeping a secret from him.”

“Well, you’re not.”

“I know,” you say, even as the words feel like a lie on your tongue. “Do you know where he might be? At this pace I’ll find him by dinner time.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw him heading with Namjoon towards the library. Namjoon said he wanted to show him some new collection he discovered.”

“There’s a library?” Jungkook nods. “Of course there’s a library.”

“Not surprised you didn’t notice. You been spending too much time fucking me — or eyefucking one of our other friends. But I really shouldn’t complain about that.”

You scoff. Shove him a little. Brush your hair out of your face and stand.

“Well — thanks, dickhead.”

“You’re welcome, love bird.”

You startle a little at the softness of the nickname and look at Jungkook. His ears are reddened.

“That’s a new one. Usually it’s asshole or—”

He recovers quickly. “Well until you let me fuck your asshole or we find a strap-on for you to fuck mine, we’ll leave it at love bird.”

“Hmm. I like it,” you say, smile spreading across your features and you reach out to pinch his cheek. “I guess I’ll have to think of something sweeter for you than dickhead, huh?”

“Dickhead is fine. At least it means you’re thinking about something important.”

“Oh my god, I can’t with you!” you laugh. “Well, thanks. Really.” You reach out for him, a hand lingering perhaps a moment too long on his arm before turning towards the dark hallway where Jungkook pointed you, and you trip over nothing, giggling as you catch your step.

“You’re blind, you know!” Jungkook calls after you, laughing.

“Shut up! Stop saying that!”

Jungkook watches you as you leave. You’re always too quick to leave, aren’t you? he thinks, the taste of something like bitterness flickering in his mind. As he watches you round the corner, all he can imagine is the image of running after you, pulling you back into his arms, and fucking you silly until the sound of you screaming his name finally slips through the impossibly thick walls of the mansion.. Until everyone in the house knows exactly what you’ve been doing almost every day of the past week. Who you’ve been doing. The thought almost makes him laugh at the ridiculousness.

He shakes his head, a failed attempt to clear the build up of words, of things he’s not quite sure how to say to you, burning at the tip of his tongue. “Get your shit together, man.”

← || series m.list || →

THANK YOU FOR READING!

→ liked what you read? want to chat about the characters, story, and series? → want to read more?

[wwilloww]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ONE OF MY FAVORITE PEOPLE EVER!!! You deserve the world and more!! Hope your day is amazing!!

Joanna ❤️ you sweet sweet bean!!! 

i have a couple of fun little things planned for myself tomorrow, i hope it will be a good day!!! thank you so very much. 

[kpopfanfictrash]

@myimaginationsrunningwild oh my gosh, this is such a nice compliment 😭 I'm so glad you enjoy how I write jimin! Thank you for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy!

Raise the Barre (Ch. 7)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jimin / Reader

Rating: 18+ (Eventual Smut)

Genre: Enemies to Lovers / Dance Academy!AU

Warnings: mention of vomit, intense physical training, blood blisters 

Word Count: 6,829

Summary: You and Park Jimin have been rivals for as long as you’ve known one another; ever since he tripped you in the front row of your first dance convention. When you graduate from high school and enter Russet Ballet Academy, you tell yourself you’re leaving all past quarrels behind. The main problem with this though, is that your past seems determined not to leave you alone.

Worse still, the obstacles you face while out in the real world might prove more challenging than anything your enemy has to offer.  

Keep reading

[icanseeyourholo]

Please never stop writing!! I’m in love! You’re inspiring me to get back to writing!!!

excuse me what??? that is so cool! i can’t believe i inspired someone to write? i need to go lie down.

[randi-eve]

takingthepayne replied to your photo “Lunch dateeeeee👌 I don’t know why I looked pissed off I’m really not 😛...”

OMG I love love loveeee your hair!! You look so pretty 😊

myimaginationsrunningwild replied to your photo “Lunch dateeeeee👌 I don’t know why I looked pissed off I’m really not 😛...”

RANDI YOU ARE SO GORGEOUS OMG

woahhhstyles replied to your photo “Lunch dateeeeee👌 I don’t know why I looked pissed off I’m really not 😛...”

So pretty!

thunderstormsandlightening replied to your photo “Lunch dateeeeee👌 I don’t know why I looked pissed off I’m really not 😛...”

Gorgeous, Love!

I LOVE ALL OF YOU THANK YOUUUUUUU

[wwilloww]

this is unacceptable @myimaginationsrunningwild

WHO MADE THIS AND WHY?!! I AM ABSOLUTELY DECEASED!

[myimaginationsrunningwild]

Randi came up with a BRILLIANT plan. We are buying the guys drinks and sending them over to their VIP table at the after party. Which will basically signal to Harry and Niall if you want it come and get it na na na.

[eoieopda]

Hi! I just want to say how OBSESSED I am with Camp Bangtan so far. I absolutely LOVE campy vibes BTS and I can’t wait for this story to unfold. You’re a wonderful writer!!!

Thank you so, so much! I was super hesitant to start a series because it seems like most people are looking for one-shot smut (which is fine!!) so I’m very grateful for your kind words 🥰🤭