#this one turned out longer than I intended...

[hivemuthur]

hello hive, I'm glad you opened your requests 🎀

viktor and reader both are students in the academy and go to the library most of the time. One day Viktor found a handwritten note left between the pages of a book, it may be a question about something in the book with no name or anything and viktor decided to answer it before returning the book, days later he was curious if the mysterious person answered and they did, and added another note to him, over time it turns to a habit, talking about studying, telling eachother about their day, gossip and unspoken confessions about how they enjoy their talks, until one day one of them didn't answer for a while and made the other worried and desperate for their reply (idk if the last thing is a good choice but i want it to be a slow burn, and i want them to kiss passionately at the end of this 🤧 so i leave this to you)

Hi Anon! Sorry this took so long!

Bookends

viktorxgn!reader, but viktor-centric for the most part, general/mature - some pining and making out :v

word count: 2,5K

author’s note: Artist of course is @petitesieste.

—

How does one truly know when they've crossed a line between curiosity and obsession?

It falls out of an old textbook on mechanical theory as Viktor flips through the pages. A question he himself has asked glares at him mockingly from a small piece of paper wedged into the book’s spine. The script is barely legible, written in haste and left there—intentionally or not, he doesn’t know. But the very nature of the question is what compels him to answer.

Perhaps when the object of your curiosity becomes something you can't stop thinking about, even when you should be focused on something else.

His handwriting is almost too precise for the nature of the exchange, a stark contrast to the wobbly letters on the parchment. He folds it neatly in half, redoing the uneven crease, and places it back in its spot.

And then, Viktor thinks nothing of it.

For an entire week, the memory lingers at the back of his mind, barely a passing thought—until his feet carry him to the academy library once more. He beelines toward the mechanical engineering section, eyes scanning the spines until he spots it: the same textbook as before, wedged tightly between others, sticking out by an inch, as if put back in a hurry.

Excitement shakes his hand as he reaches for it and takes it to a secluded corner obscured by bookshelves. He flips through the pages in one sweep, his heart skipping—only to deflate when he realises it’s just a dog-ear. And of all pages, it’s on one of the most unremarkable.

He sighs, leaning back on his chair when he sees it—the tiniest triangle of white peeking from under the cover. He opens the book’s end and there it is, another note. Fresh paper, though folded roughly, like the last one. Writing less surgeon-like too.

What if the object of my curiosity is also the one I should be focusing on? What then?

Viktor smiles under his nose, breath light, forming into a chuckle as he conjures an answer. He wishes his tone—teasing and gentle—could be poured into paper and hopes you will read his good intentions from it.

Then you must ask yourself—are you studying it, or surrendering to it?

He stares at it a little while longer, finally deciding no touch-ups are needed. Like last time, he puts corner to corner, edge to edge, as his neat fold overrides yours—uncaring and hasty. He places it at the book’s end and wedges it back onto the shelf.

Next, only three days go by before Viktor finds himself lurking in the library again. He doesn’t even pretend it’s for any reason other than a quick trip to his now-favourite section.

When he opens the book and sees the same piece of paper insistently folded at an angle, he can’t help but think this is you making some point. And then he knows—that intended tone of his was, indeed, not read as he wished for.

I am not surrendering to anything. IT consumes me—do not presume this is a consensual capitulation!

Oh. Something sinks in him. Quickly, as if scribbling would fix it in an instant, he bleeds his apology in ink, letters less neat than usual.

Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude like this. I hoped you’d read my tone as light, but jest doesn’t transfer to paper, it would seem. You can speak freely, I promise I won’t judge.

To reinforce his pliancy, this time Viktor doesn’t iron the page out with his palm. This time, he folds it just as it was—crooked—as if telling you he’s on your side.

What his heart does when the next little letter he finds is folded neatly is indescribable.

No harm done, forgive my short temper. And thank you, truly. I’m just afraid I’m going mad, my secret confidant.

Viktor sighs. A breath leaves him, leaving a smile behind—and a blush. Secret confidant is such an intimate title; his heart flutters again, and he writes down a question before his brain manages to deem it too eager.

Am I a secret of yours?

Scratch that. Again, scratch. Scratch, until it is obscured enough, Viktor thinks. Instead, he writes:

What are the symptoms of your madness? And the object of the curiosity? Or, should I say, obsession?

As a sign of good will, he folds unevenly.

It’s day by day now. Sometimes twice, as he swings by the library in the evening, just to check. One evening, it proves worthwhile, as you’ve replied sometime in the afternoon.

I keep things close to my heart a secret, so nobody takes them from me.

Scratched—yet not enough to obscure the text. His heart swoons at the thought of how carefully you must have traced each letter, deciphering his attempt at confining the reckless scribble. Further on, you say:

Patterns. I see them everywhere I go; they haunt me day and night. My friend is sick of me, says not everything has a meaning. What do you think?

For a minute, Viktor closes his eyes. Uncanny, how the universe has thrown him someone equally tormented—and by the same hand, too. He rubs his thumb over the paper, caressing it, as if you could somehow feel the comfort meant to be given through the gesture. Then, with a soft smile, he writes:

I’m afraid I might be the worst thing that has happened to you, as I wholeheartedly agree—there is a pattern in everything. But therefore, I don’t think it is obsession, but loneliness you are experiencing.

He presses it to his chest before folding it. Then, he adds:

You are my secret, too.

Bravely, he scratches it out with one neat line only. And it requires a heart emboldened with courage because Viktor feels as if he’s just exposed himself in a way he never has before. When your next message arrives, he’s relieved that the effort proved worthy.

If you are the worst, why do I feel less lonely?

It’s a rhetorical question, which I believe you know, but also, given the history of our past conversations, I wouldn’t be surprised if you answered it in some elaborate way. I will be blunt then: thank you for making me feel less lonely.

Can you tell me what’s the most recent pattern you’ve noticed? I observed that Professor Heimerdinger’s poro acts uneasy when one of my classmates, who is particularly fond of unsolicited petting, sits at the front bench during lab class. As soon as the poro gets disturbed, the professor’s attention splits, and his test questions are hasty. I tend not to do well without a properly structured quiz, so as soon as I see his grabby hands—no, as soon as I see him sit his ass in that front chair—I know my quiz score will be lower than usual.

So many words from you make Viktor feel blessed. He reads them over and over again, and three things strike him. One—you’ve said he makes you feel less lonely. Two—you take class with Heimerdinger, so as the professor’s assistant, he’s most likely already seen you. And three—you keep these conversations with you. That’s why it’s a new piece of paper each time.

That is both a fascinating and highly practical observation. It seems you have developed a contingency plan for academic sabotage, courtesy of a poro and an inconsiderate classmate. I admire the ingenuity—though I must ask, have you considered distracting the poro yourself?

I, too, have been noticing patterns lately. One in particular stands out: my favourite book in this library always seems to shift slightly out of place before I get to it, as if someone has touched it before me. I wonder, do you think this is a coincidence?

I’m glad you feel less lonely. I do too.

From this, it just flows. Stories, jokes, gossip (apparently Heimerdinger has a lady friend that Viktor had no idea about?), heartfelt confessions sometimes—you even left him some doodles. Attached to the main paper with a paperclip, you wrote a short note: This one is for you. Heimerdinger’s poro asleep under a desk, a sweet way to say thank you for his idea of diversion against that one student’s grabby hands.

And Viktor feels ridiculous, blushing to himself as he writes longer and longer messages, almost letters at this point. He scans the classroom when he pops in to pick up Heimerdinger’s notes, wondering which face belongs to you, visiting the library three times a day, poking at the already worn-out tome, until—one day, it’s gone.

Borrowed.

A gaping hole in your communication method that neither of you had even considered. He rushes to the reception desk to check who took the book, but the grumpy librarian refuses to provide such information.

Days pass without a message from you, and with the book still gone, Viktor finds himself at his wit’s end. Shoulders hulking sullenly, brows furrowed, and mouth lopsided, he steps into the dusty rooms on any given occasion, until the sodden thought runs through him—he misses you.

Instead of leaving such a great revelation to something as gambable as fate, he decides to go to the source. He takes his usual seat in the secluded corner, scribbles down a few words on a note, and waits. He half-stands each time when someone enters the dim corridor made of books, only to retreat, deeming it the wrong section.

Until someone’s shuffling feet walk timidly between the bookshelves. Lips sucked between teeth, hand tracing the spines, and, finally, a disappointed sigh.

And he can’t help himself when he asks, “Is something the matter?”

“Oh,” you startle, glancing toward him. You instinctively step back, your gaze briefly dropping before meeting his. "Viktor, I did not see you there," you say, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of your lips, as if you've been caught in the act. “Uh, have you by any chance seen that one old textbook on mechanical theory?”

That’s it, Viktor thinks. He almost says too much, because oh, your voice is sweet and you... you are so heart-wrenchingly pretty, he has no idea what he’s done to deserve such kind fate. But he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t test the theory first.

“Sadly, no.” Viktor puts on a schooled pout, shaking his head and taking a step toward you. “I have been hoping to find it too, but it has been rented out some time ago.”

“Oh—” you say, your brow furrowing slightly. Trying not to give away that you’ve already picked up whatever Viktor has put down and are currently playing with it in your hands, you ask innocently, “What’s… what’s your interest in it?”

Another step. "Other than me being an engineer myself?" Viktor’s lips twitch slightly, a trace of a smile. "I have a..." he says, slowly extending his hand toward yours, fingers brushing as he slips you a tiny piece of paper, "personal relationship with it, in a manner of speaking."

You stare at him for a long moment before unwrapping the paper tube.

I missed our talks. V.

“It’s you,” you whisper into the note. “Oh, I was hoping it would be you,” you whisper again, louder and breathy, clutching the sheet to your chest. When his brows furrow in question, you explain, “Your handwriting—it’s very neat. I’ve seen it once or twice and, uh… it got my attention.”

He smiles, and there is a ghost of blush dusting his cheeks. “Would you… be willing to participate in some verbal conversation from now on then?” Viktor asks, leaning into your ear. It’s a library, after all.

You breathe a soft, airy yes, and your lips brush against his cheek, the touch lingering there, leaving warmth behind. He pulls back slowly, breath held up. He licks his lips, eyes scanning your face, seeking. He’s been so far all this time, now closer than ever, and the space between you, even though small, is charged, taut like a bowstring.

Your hands meet, and his fingers weave through yours, long enough to reach your wrist. He hooks his cane onto a nearby shelf, its gentle clang against the wood unnoticed by either of you, and presses his forehead to yours, his warmth seeping into you.

"I missed you too," you murmur, the words clinging to the air between you. Your lips brush against his, just the lightest touch—an accident, or perhaps not. But Viktor’s lips press back with a soft, almost apologetic insistence, as though he’d waited for you far too long.

His mouth moves against yours with purpose, slow at first but hungry, needy. His breath quickens, deepens in tandem with yours. He steps closer, crowding you against the bookshelf, the hard wood pressing into your back as he leans into you. You arch into him, your fingers tightening around his hand, pulling him closer. His body is warm against yours, and the kiss deepens—faster, more urgent, the world around you fading to nothing.

And oh, just as your conversations on paper, the conversation between your tongues is seamless. They smooth over each other, pushing in when the other retreats and retreating when the other demands access.

Viktor’s hand moves to your waist, firm, gentle, and before you can think of resisting, he’s pressing you harder into the bookends. The coolness of the wood bites into your back, but it’s quickly forgotten as his body crowds you, a wall of heat and taut sinew and bone.

Mouth on mouth, insistent, with his teeth gently scraping over your lower lip, Viktor drowns in the sounds you make, guides your hands into his hair, and groans when you pull at his nape. You can feel the weight of him, the hard edge of his cane still wedged against the shelf beside you, but it matters not, as truly, neither of you is lonely anymore.

His lips break from yours as he presses his forehead to yours, both of you gasping for breath.

“That’s not a verbal conversation,” Viktor murmurs, his voice hoarse, as if the words themselves are a struggle. There’s a trace of a smile in his tone, but it’s swallowed quickly as you crane your neck to steal another kiss. Between smacks and bites, he mutters again, “You sure are very brilliant at pattern recognition.”

“Thank you, I have been obsessing over it for quite some time,” you mumble back, fisting his shirt. “I just didn’t expect the answer, of all places, to be at the end of a mechanical engineering textbook.”

“Thank gods I read from cover to cover,” Viktor smiles and sinks his lips back onto yours.

[moyazaika]

blood in the water.

m! yandere prince x gn! knight reader ♡ mdni 18+

cw — blood, betrayal, obsessive themes, lack of autonomy and unbalanced power dynamics. 2.4k wc.

a/n — well well well

you can barely make him out through the mist.

a heavy and decadent cloud of perfume rolls over the warm waters of the royal banya; makes it difficult to chart your course to where your prince is. you narrow your eyes, glimpse the outline of his frame, solid and familiar, beyond the swirling haze that's descended over the pool's surface.

"moy knyaz," you clear your throat. my prince; the title rolling off your tongue like honey. "i've arrived with the supplies you asked for."

he spares you a glance over his shoulder, the movement causing gentle ripples in the water around him. you think briefly, like a fool, that he will wade to the edge of the pool to meet you where you stand. you lower your head, gaze drawn respectfully low.

"ah, sweet knight." you can hear the smile in his gentle words; that familiar lilt of felicity, all soft at the edges. "there you are; i was almost beginning to worry," he hums. "whatever took you so long?"

"apologies for the delay, my prince." you rest a hand over your heart, imbue as much sincerity as you can in the action. "i will ensure that it does not happen again."

you'd never been in the bathhouse before, so it was difficult not to feel like a stumbling fawn. you'd never had any reason to be in this wing of the palace; seeing as you were the prince's knight, and not one of his personal attendants—and yet, you contemplated quietly, this time he'd called specifically for you.

(the thought of it makes you feel strangely special.)

"very well.” he concedes. “you have brought what i asked for?"

"yes, my prince." you nod, hold out your hands over the edge of the pool. present to him upon your palms, folded neatly and perfumed in his favourite scent, the silver silk he uses during his trips to the bathhouse. you wait, expectantly, for the feel of his fingers swiping the washcloth from your hands—and yet, it never comes.

"dorogaya, you do not intend to keep me waiting any longer, i hope?"

you blink, head still lowered out of respect. "i'm sorry, my prince. i do not quite understand."

"eyes up, sweet knight, and clothes off." he says slowly, enunciating each syllable as one does when speaking to a child; "it seems," he sighs softly, "that i am in need of your ministrations tonight."

never one to go against his words, you raise your head, albeit reluctantly. almost immediately, you meet his tar black eyes. his gaze heavy and stifling, as he observes you lazily over his shoulders. you can't help that your attention drifts down to the prominent corded muscles of his back; the strong, solid shape you only just manage to make out through the soft, dreamlike mist.

he smiles at you so kindly, then, as if he is understanding of your appraisal; the curl of his lips feels dangerously close to an invitation to dip into something far deeper than these waters.

"you are already late," his voice, deceptively gentle for how low it is, brings your attention back to the task at hand, and out of your shameful reveries. you swallow nervously, as he turns back; the air in the banya feels colder, then, when your prince's eyes are no longer trained solely on you. "please, luybov moya. do not make me wait any longer."

my love, my love, my love; how gently he calls for you from the water.

the affections fall from his lips like sweet nectar, and you are so helplessly caught in his tenderness that there are no more questions to be asked, even if they weigh heavy on your mind.

your shirt is the first to go. the intricate buttons of your tunic difficult to undo with shaking fingers. trousers, next. stepping out of the fabric as it falls at your feet. working to loosen the lace of your boots.

tentatively, you dip your toes in the water. it's warmer than it looks. a welcome reprieve, though, from the chill of being undressed. the hair on your skin stands on end when the prince speaks up.

"clothes off," he repeats softly, without sparing you so much as a backwards glance. "i will not repeat myself."

"ah," you look down at the flimsy undergarments you still don; the scrap of decency they provide in maintaining a facade of respect in the presence of the tsar's son. thin fabrics that hide the skin on your back, marred by grotesque scars from previous battles waged and lost and won in the name of your beloved prince. and yet—albeit with trembling hands, you reach for the hem. "understood, moy knyaz."

you let yourself sink into the pool, as it envelopes your bare body whole. it's nice, and warm. welcoming, you think to yourself.

you nervously wring the silk in your hands as the gentle undulations of the water naturally push you closer to the prince; and you're silently grateful for the mist of the heavy perfumes and steam that descends over the banya and nips at (as well as obscures) your scarred skin.

perhaps it is because of this veil that it takes you so long to realise your prince is covered in blood.

you still in your movements—taking in the swirling ink-like clouds of deep red in the cerulean water around him; the spray of dark blood over his jaw, and the muscles of his chest; how it drips, thick like sweet nectar, from his hands—held out towards you.

"moya milaya," he murmurs, watching you through low lashes. his eyes are black like heavy tar. you find yourself stuck—sinking into the quiet darkness before you; "won't you purify me?"

you reach out, closer, press the silk against the inside of his wrist, right above his pulse. you delude yourself into thinking you can feel the steady thrum of life through the touch; but all you're met with is his warm skin, slick with blood. it smears when you wipe it, stains the fine fabric of the washcloth.

"your highness, are you—" your eyes flicker up to meet his, but your hands don't slow in their pace as you scrub him free. concern pulls the edges of your heart and everything threatens to unravel in the absence of an answer. "are you alright? were you hurt? has the physician allowed you to—"

"i am fine, sweet knight. the blood," your prince's lips curl into a knowing smile, "none of it is mine."

"i don't understand, moy knyaz. forgive me for my ignorance, but who did—" you blink, desperately searching his impassive face for an answer. "our enemies? conspirators against the tsardom? an assassination attempt? because i was never made aware of—"

he places his hand over your own. the touch is careful and light, merely a suggestion—

you still immediately.

realise, with dawning horror, that you've scrubbed his skin raw. the blood pools in the water, your insistent, frantic efforts leaving the skin of his forearm all angry and hot and red—markers of blossoming pain. tense muscles, and all. the silk looks as if it has been drenched in ink.

"not of the tsardom," the prince says lightly, 'but enemies still; and i already know you were not informed because i ordered it so."

the threads your heart was hanging on by are pulled too strongly, too soon. everything comes apart. a sense of betrayal, and then a deep-rooted shame, washes over you. you swore you would follow this man to the ends of the world; and yet, he does not even trust you in his darkest hours?

you wish to sink into the water and never resurface from its depths. beg, silently, for the fog to swallow you whole beneath the weight of your prince's gaze.

"apologies," you manage shakily. "i have failed to protect you, my prince. i understand that you find me incapable of serving you for any longer. as your humble knight, i shall—"

"hush."

fingers skimming up your neck, resting at your jaw. the impossibly soft way the prince forces you to meet his eyes, so kind in their own right. so full of mercy.

"bednyazhka," he whispers under his breath. you poor thing. "you worry far too much. it will be the cause of your undoing, one day."

"it is worth it for you, moy knyaz. i would gladly lay down my life for you."

"yes," he murmurs. "of course, that is what you would think. a shame.”

"apologies, i..." you frown. "i do not understand."

he smiles ruefully. "no. of course, you do not." his fingers fall from your face, and you find, shamefully, that you mourn the touch far more than you should. instead, they brush against your knuckles; raw from hours of combat training. he runs his thumb over the broken skin. "seven, sweet knight. this is the number of attempts made on your life in the past week."

you had...

you swallow nervously, coming to terms with the news. the urge to say something overwhelms you (strangely, an inclination to defend yourself) but the words evade you. your throat closes up.

you had no idea.

(find solace, at least, in not needing to wonder about the sorry sort of fates they must have met at the hands of this man before you.)

he swipes the washcloth from you, continues speaking in hushed tones; "our enemies grow restless as we prosper. they want nothing more than to hurt me. previously, i have not had to worry about this, because of you."

"and now?" you whisper.

"and now, luybov moya, my enemies rejoice." he takes your trembling hands in his own, inspects the blood from his skin that now stains yours by carefully turning over each and every finger in his palm. "they have found a way to hurt me." he confesses, "because of you."

the touch is feather light. barely even there.

"do you understand, my sweet knight? you are the reason i prosper, and yet, devastatingly so, the sole cause of my ruination."

the gentle undulations of the water around you has lulled you into a false sense of security. you feel safe in this moment, knowing your prince is in such close proximity. the two of you stand close enough for you to feel the heat of his body against yours; breaths in sync, breathing the same perfumed air in—and out.

in—and out.

you almost think you've misheard the prince when he speaks again.

"and this is why i have decided," he says softly, "that you will never pick up a sword again."

his words instantly break the fragile tranquility of the moment like a delicate thread that's been pulled at for far too long—an inevitable snap that still manages to hurt. you shake your head, affronted by the mere thought of such an absurd idea.

perhaps this is some sick jest. surely, he must know? the value of your sword? what it means to you?

you swore an oath to protect the tsar's son. it is an insult to your very being should you fail to uphold this royal promise. you have already let him down enough.

"i can not be of no use to you, moy knyaz."

"that will never be the case." he smiles. "i have many uses for you in mind, moya milaya."

how can he say it so affectionately? my sweetheart falling from his lips as he takes from you the one thing you can never bear to part with.

"but i have always fought!" you protest. frantic, desperate laughter bubbles past your lips. it sounds wrong and forced even to your own ears. he drinks it in, all the same. "i have always wanted to protect you. it is my purpose and duty and—"

who am i without it?

"yes, and i will always cherish you for it, but now, your fight is over."

your prince has always been the most beautiful man in the tsardom to you. out of an unwavering loyalty, you have followed him through the darkest snowstorms and to the most desolate battlefields. you have raised flags in his name and stared down the barrel of your gun to an innocent child for his legacy.

despite it all, he has only ever been your prince; and you, his most trusted knight.

in this moment, though?

the man before you is unrecognisable. he has forgotten who you are.

"the purpose of my life is fighting." you repeat, hoping to remind him of what your sword represents; a plea for him to let you keep it. "it is why i live. it is what i promised to forever do, until the very end of my life—i exist to serve you.”

"and you will." the prince assures you keenly, presents you with a reminder of his own. "there are other ways to serve."

ah—

so this is what you've fallen to.

"you cannot do this," you cling to him. dig your nails into his skin, forgetting the sheen of blood that already lies there; like a thin film. some impossible barrier separating your reason from his actions. "please, my prince. you can't."

please don't turn me into an accessory.

"my sweet knight," he gently pries your hands off of his shoulders, brings your wrist to his lips. he kisses away the blood on your skin as if this display of affection will wash you clean of your shame. "there is nothing you can do to stop me. it has already been done."

it dawns on you laughably late. of course, this is the true reason he called you to the bathhouse; why else would he be waiting for you? what other purpose for your presence—when he's never needed anyone else to purify him?

how foolish of you to think yourself an exception. the silk washcloth floats in the pool's water that gently ripples from all your shaking. it takes effort to hold yourself together and string the words you wish to say into anything even remotely sensible.

yet, you fall short, even then.

"why?" your strength is futile; any attempt to wretch your hand out of his hold fails. his fingers stay wrapped in place, careful not to bruise you with their strong hold—yet completely unyielding to your every effort. "i don't understand."

why would you strip me of who i am? why would you strip me of who i have always been?

tendrils of dark blood swirling in the warm water around you, your prince only smiles adoringly in response. his black eyes are so impossibly shallow as he watches you fall apart before him; and yet you find yourself drowning in them all the same.

"why would you do this to me?"

this is the first time you will hear this answer from the prince, but you already know—

(even whilst he peppers dozens of soft, sighing kisses into your wrist and up your arm, over your shoulder and down, down, under)

—you already know it will not be the last.

"because i love you."

[andforyouevan]

bucktommy + accidentally falling asleep together

Yay! This ended up way longer than I intended, but I hope you like it!

"You guys have to stop worrying," Maddie insists as she holds Riley in her arms. "We've got two kids of our own and they'll all have so much fun tonight."

Buck bites his lip, feels Tommy's hand at the small of his back, rubbing soothing circles. If Buck didn't know any better, he'd think his husband wasn't affected by this at all, the first time their son spends the night away from them since the adoption went through, but Tommy's panic at not being able to find Riley's favorite stuffed animal this morning is proof of his unease. For all his parent's nerves, though, three-year-old Riley looks perfectly content in his aunt's arms.

"Chim's got the s'mores ingredients ready," Maddie continues. "All we need is this little cutie and we're all set, huh, Ri? You ready to go have fun with your cousins?" She tickles his tummy and he squirms as he giggles. Buck can hear Tommy release a slow exhale beside him. It's not as though either of them had thought that Maddie wouldn't take care of their son, but, well, Riley had had a tough time in his short three years and he'd become very attached to his new parents.

"We're just a little nervous," Tommy says sheepishly and Buck wraps his own arm further around his waist. "He's still got that little ear infection too..."

She holds up the little bottle of ear medicine. "We're all set. I promise you. But you guys have been running on empty for awhile now with the adoption and Tommy's promotion....you deserve a night with just the two of you, even if it's just a quiet dinner at home."

"Thanks, Mads," Buck says as he steps away from Tommy to kiss his son on the forehead. "Bye, baby. Daddy loves you."

Riley waves his hand to wave as Tommy moves for kisses too.

"Papa," Riley says cheerfully and Buck holds back a smile when Tommy all but groans.

"Don't be too cute, okay?" Tommy asks, kissing his little hands. "We'll see you in the morning."

They leave amongst endless goodbyes and soon enough, Buck is leaning with his back against their front door as he turns to Tommy, who is covered in...what looks like orange powder from the baby cheetos Riley is so fond of on one shoulder and the dark stain of Riley's favorite fruit punch juice on the other. It had been Tommy's turn to feed him dinner, so that tracks.

"You have never been more attractive to me," Buck says honestly, pushing off the door to wrap his arms around Tommy and lean into him. Tommy takes his weight without hesitation.

Tommy laughs and kisses the top of his head. "You were covered in sand from the park yesterday and I was very tired but also wanted to bend you over the nearest surface."

Buck throws his head back and laughs, so grateful for this man he's built a life with, the father to his son, his husband and best friend. "I've got the chicken casserole about to come out of the oven. Want to light a couple candles and we'll have ourselves a romantic night in?"

"Love to," Tommy says with a soft kiss.

Dinner is on the table inside ten minutes and they're seated across from each other. Tommy looks exhausted, the same amount of tired that Buck feels with how busy life at the 118 has been, even part time, and he knows the transition into Harbor's new captain has been wearing on Tommy, though he's never complained. This Tommy is so different from the one that had run from his kitchen five years ago, more relaxed, happy and forthright.

"I'm so tired," Tommy admits with a little smile. "But this looks and smells so good."

"You know," Buck says slowly. "We could just...rest our eyes for a second."

Tommy nods. "Just for a second. We're tired parents dealing with a lot right now right? There's nothing wrong with catching a nap where we can right now."

"Just for a second," Buck insists.

"Exactly," Tommy agrees. He squeezes Buck's hand and shuts his eyes. Buck does the same fingers curled around Tommy's.

The next thing he knows, his eyes are opening to the house completely dark, the candles nearly burned out and Tommy is snoring on his dinner plate. The casserole looks like a wash and Buck sighs.

He thinks about waking Tommy and just going to bed but...well, this is really nice actually, time with his husband. If dinner in with the love of his life includes sleeping over it, well....no one else needs to know.

[cheolsbitch]

“Don’t Look”

Pairing: Jaehyun x Reader

Genre: Smut | Best Friends to Lovers | Secret Relationship | Slow Burn (turned fast & filthy) (Not proof read)

Word Count: (forgot to do the count ngl)

Status: Ongoing one-shot continuation (maybe)

Content Warnings: (MINORS DNI)

• Sexual tension and explicit sexual content (slow-burn smut)

• Voyeurism elements (accidental and intentional watching)

• Light degradation and praise (eventually)

• Friends-to-lovers tension with emotionally messy moments

• Masturbation (mutual and solo)

• Unspoken feelings, jealousy, possessiveness

• Eventual explicit consent and sexual exploration

Summary:

What started as innocent teasing between childhood best friends has spiraled into something much more dangerous — and addicting. Late-night games, stolen glances, and one risqué manga opened the door, but now? Jaehyun owns her — her body, her sounds, her limits. The only problem? No one else knows they’ve crossed that line.

From stolen touches in crowded rooms to being bent over bathroom stalls, their secret grows harder to hide… and harder to resist. He was supposed to be her best friend. Now he’s her favorite mistake — and he’s not letting anyone else have a taste.

But teasing Jaehyun has its consequences… especially when she moans his name while thinking of someone else. (lil teaser🫣)

This is the full fic to the “don’t look” teaser didn’t expect to actually get people to like it i hope this will story satisfy yall… idk how to feel about it just know that it is STEAMY

The sound of rapid clicking and muffled gunshots filled the air, blending with the occasional curse that left Jaehyun’s lips as he focused on the game. Y/N barely paid him any mind, curled up on his bed with her legs swinging lazily in the air, a well-worn manga volume in her hands.

It was a regular thing — crashing at Jaehyun’s place after classes, him glued to his monitor while she raided his snack stash and made herself at home in his room. They didn’t need to talk to feel comfortable. That’s just how they were. Easy. Familiar.

At least… usually.

Today was different.

Jaehyun had taken off his headset to answer a call, wandering out of the room mid-game. When he came back, the first thing he saw wasn’t the screen. It was Y/N, lying on her stomach on his bed, skirt hiked up just a little too high, and her eyes glued to a page that definitely wasn’t PG-13.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

Was she seriously reading that kind of manga? In his room?

He moved closer, quiet as ever, leaning over to glance at the page. Yup. That was definitely someone getting bent over a desk.

His voice came out lower than intended, a little too amused. “What are you reading?”

Y/N nearly jumped out of her skin. She snapped the book shut with a gasp and turned over, clutching it to her chest.

“W-What the hell, Jaehyun! Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he grinned, walking over and tossing himself onto the bed beside her. “You were just too into it to notice me.”

She narrowed her eyes, cheeks flushed. “You saw nothing.”

“Oh no, I definitely saw something. A lot of something, actually.” He smirked, eyes drifting — not-so-subtly — from the manga to her exposed thighs. “Didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

She threw a pillow at him. “Shut up! It’s just—plot. With… extra.”

“Mhmm.” He leaned in, voice dipping to a tease. “Didn’t know my bed was so inspiring.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to cover the blush blooming down her neck. “You’re such an ass.”

“Maybe.” His fingers brushed her knee, lingering longer than they should. “But you’re not denying it.”

Silence hung for a beat too long. The tension wasn’t like usual. It wasn’t playful — not entirely. There was heat in the air, thick and humming between them.

His voice dropped. “You know, if you wanted inspiration… you could’ve just asked.”

She stared at him, heart pounding.

“You’re joking.”

His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up. “Am I?”

Another beat passed. Her book slipped from her hands, forgotten.

And then—

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

She couldn’t. Not with the way Jaehyun was looking at her — like he’d just flipped a switch and wasn’t planning to turn it off anytime soon.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “You’re not serious.”

Jaehyun smirked again, slower this time. Darker. His hand, still resting lightly on her knee, started to move. Not rushed, just deliberate — dragging up the soft skin of her thigh, under the hem of her skirt. “You think I’m the kind of guy who says things he doesn’t mean?”

She swallowed hard. “Sometimes.”

“Not about this.”

He leaned closer, one knee sliding between her legs as he crowded her space. She could feel the heat of his body, the tension in his muscles — held back, barely. His fingers brushed higher now, just skimming where her inner thigh met the curve of her underwear. Her breath hitched.

“You’ve been teasing me for months and didn’t even know it,” he murmured, voice low, like a secret just for her. “Walking around in those short skirts, curling up in my bed like it’s yours, making these little sounds when you read your dirty books.”

“I—I wasn’t teasing”

He chuckled, dark and low, thumb hooking under the edge of her panties now. “No? Then what are you doing now, letting me touch you like this and not stopping me?”

She couldn’t answer. Not with the way her pulse was racing. Not with the way his mouth was hovering, close enough that she could feel every word ghost over her lips.

“Say something, baby.”

That broke her. She shivered — not from fear, but from the way he said it. Like he owned the word. Like he already owned her.

“I want you,” she whispered, cheeks burning. “I just… I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

His eyes darkened — not in mockery, but something deeper. Fiercer. Possessive.

“I’ll take care of you”

And with that, he kissed her.

It wasn’t sweet. It was slow, claiming, full of intent. His tongue slid past her lips, coaxing rather than demanding, but still leaving no room for doubt. His hand moved behind her neck, tilting her to deepen the kiss while his other pushed her skirt up fully, baring her to the cool air and his warm touch.

She moaned into him — soft, unsure. He swallowed the sound greedily.

“You trust me?” he murmured against her lips, fingers now stroking the damp cotton between her legs.

“Yes,” she breathed, hips twitching into his hand.

“Then be a good girl,” he said, voice pure sin, “and let me show you how good it can feel.”

He pulled her underwear down slowly, trailing kisses from her mouth to her jaw, then down her neck, teeth scraping lightly as he went. “Keep your hands in my sheets,” he ordered, eyes flicking up. “Don’t hide from me.”

She did as he said, fingers curling into his navy-blue comforter, breath coming faster as he shifted lower. He settled between her thighs like he belonged there, dragging his mouth over the inside of her knee before looking up at her — eyes burning.

“Don’t look away,” he said softly, almost tender. “I want you to watch me when I make you fall apart.”

And then his mouth was on her.

Hot. Wet. Expert.

She gasped, arching, one hand flying to her mouth only for him to pull back and growl, “Hands. In. The. Sheets.”

She obeyed, whimpering when he dove back in, licking and sucking her clit with slow, devastating precision. He took his time, letting her fall apart inch by inch, building the tension until she was trembling, thighs threatening to close around his head.

“Jaehyun,” she sobbed, nearly there.

“Come for me,” he whispered, lips brushing her clit with the words. “Right now. Be good and come on my tongue.”

She shattered.

She came with a cry, thighs shaking, hips bucking into his mouth as he held her down and took everything she gave him.

Only when she stopped trembling did he pull back, lips glistening, eyes dark with something dangerous.

And he still wasn’t done.

“Now,” he said, tugging his shirt over his head and revealing the body she’d only ever dared to imagine, “you’re gonna lie back like that sweet little mess you are—” he undid his belt slowly, letting the sound echo in the room, “and take your reward like a good girl.”

Y/N’s breath was still catching in her throat when she watched Jaehyun rise above her — slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world. His eyes never left hers. Not even as he kicked off his jeans, fingers moving with that same calm confidence that was driving her absolutely insane.

She’d never seen him like this. Not fully.

Not like this — shirtless, flushed, cock hard and heavy in his hand as he stroked it lazily while looking down at her like she was something to be worshipped.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, crawling over her. His fingers traced the outline of her face, brushing hair from her cheek like she was fragile. “You—like this. Under me.”

She bit her lip, heart thudding. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

His smile was soft now, almost sad. “Because you were mine long before you ever knew it. And I wasn’t gonna risk losing you… not until I knew you wanted this too.”

She didn’t answer. Just reached up, touching his cheek, then trailing her fingers down his chest, the tight muscles flexing beneath her touch.

“I do,” she whispered. “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

Jaehyun leaned down and kissed her again — this time slower. Deeper. All tongue and warmth, his body lowering to press fully against hers, skin to skin. She could feel everything: his heat, the weight of him, the way his cock slid against her slick folds, not yet inside but enough to make her whimper.

His hand found hers beside her head, fingers lacing together. “You ready, baby?”

She nodded, voice gone.

“Words.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I’m ready. Please.”

His groan was low, strained. “Fuck. You’re gonna feel so good.”

And then — slowly, carefully — he pushed in.

The stretch was unfamiliar, thick and hot and so much, but he didn’t rush. He kissed her through it, whispered against her skin, his free hand stroking her thigh as he sank in inch by inch.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing her temple. “Just breathe. You’re doing so good.”

She clung to him, eyes wide, overwhelmed in the best way as he finally bottomed out, buried to the hilt and panting against her neck.

“God, you’re tight,” he growled, stilling for a moment. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep clenching like that.”

“Move,” she gasped. “Please, Jae

He did.

His hips pulled back and rolled forward again, slow and smooth, grinding into her with a rhythm that made her toes curl. Every thrust was measured, sensual, like he wanted her to feel every single inch of him — and she did. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, trying to pull him deeper, closer, more.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, biting down on her shoulder. “You take me so well. Like you were made for this. Made for me.”

She couldn’t hold back the moan that tore from her throat.

Jaehyun caught it with a kiss, swallowing the sound as he picked up pace, just a little. The bed creaked, the air thick with heat and breath and the slick sounds of skin on skin.

But through it all, he kept touching her — his hand on her cheek, his mouth on her throat, like he couldn’t get enough of her. Like this wasn’t just sex. Like it was something more.

“You feel everything?” he panted against her skin.

She nodded desperately. “Feels so good… you feel so good…”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice wrecked but still soft. “I’ll take care of you. Gonna make you come again, alright?”

His thumb found her clit, rubbing in tight circles while he drove into her, each thrust making her cry out.

“Let go for me,” he groaned, forehead pressed to hers. “Come all over my cock like a good girl.”

She shattered with a scream, legs locking around him as her orgasm ripped through her. Jaehyun followed with a curse, hips stuttering as he came deep inside her, holding her close like he never wanted to let go.

And when it was over — when the room was filled with only the sound of their breathing and the soft thump of his heartbeat against her chest — he kissed her again.

This time, it was gentle. Loving.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers. “You’re mine.”

Her fingers curled in his hair, a lazy smile spreading across her lips.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Jaehyun didn’t pull away right away. He stayed inside her, warm and pulsing, forehead resting against hers while his fingers lazily traced the curve of her hip. His breath was still heavy, but his touch was gentle — grounding. Worshipful.

Y/N’s legs were still wrapped loosely around him, and even though her body was spent, she didn’t want to let go.

“Was it too much?” he asked softly, eyes searching hers like he hadn’t just made her see stars.

She smiled, tired and blissed out. “No… it was perfect.”

He kissed her nose, then her cheek, then finally her lips again — slow and sweet this time, no urgency. Just affection.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmured, carefully slipping out of her. She whimpered at the loss, and he chuckled, low and fond. “I know, baby. I’ll be right back.”

True to his word, he returned with a warm cloth, cleaning her up gently, murmuring quiet praises and brushing hair from her forehead.

“So pretty when you’re all fucked out,” he teased, but his touch was careful, his eyes soft. Once she was tucked into his sheets — now officially hers too — he pulled her into his chest and stroked her back.

“You did so good,” he whispered. “I’ve never wanted someone like I want you.”

She blinked up at him sleepily. “I’ve never let anyone in like this before…”

Jaehyun leaned down and kissed her again, just because he could.

“You’re mine now,” he said, half-possessive, half-promise.

She fell asleep with her head on his chest, heart full and body aching in the best way.

⸻

THE NEXT MORNING

Y/N was deep in sleep, limbs tangled in Jaehyun’s sheets, when she felt something warm and firm press against the back of her thigh.

At first, she stirred faintly, breath hitching as the sensation grew — the softest kisses trailing up her spine, teeth nipping at her shoulder, a hand sliding under the hem of his oversized shirt she wore to bed.

“Morning, baby,” Jaehyun’s voice rasped against her skin, already thick with lust. “You looked too pretty not to touch.”

She whined in protest — half asleep, half already aching. “Jae…”

“You gonna pretend you don’t like it?” he murmured, hand sliding between her legs. She was already wet, and he groaned in satisfaction. “Damn. You were dreaming about me, weren’t you?”

“Mmm… maybe,” she teased, wiggling her hips a little.

His grip tightened slightly. “That attitude’s gonna get you in trouble.”

“Oh no,” she said innocently. “Whatever will you do?”

His hand slid around her throat — not tight, just firm, grounding, possessive — and she gasped at the sudden rush it gave her. Her thighs squeezed together, and Jaehyun noticed instantly.

“Oh?” he grinned, low and wicked. “You like being choked, baby?”

She bit her lip but didn’t answer.

“That was a yes,” he muttered, flipping her onto her back, spreading her thighs. “You should’ve told me. I’d’ve had you crying in pleasure last night.”

His hand stayed at her throat, still gentle, still careful — but undeniably dominant as he slid inside her again, this time with more force. More hunger.

She cried out, hands flying to his biceps, nails digging in.

“Still sore?” he panted, driving into her deeper. “Too bad. You’re the one who woke up wet and bratty.”

“You’re such—ah—an ass.”

He smirked. “Yeah? Then why are you moaning like that?”

He grabbed her thighs and pinned them open, his pace picking up — steady but rougher, his abs flexing as he fucked her into the mattress, groaning every time she clenched around him.

“You want it harder, don’t you?” he breathed against her mouth. “Want me to ruin this sweet little pussy again?”

“Yes—fuck—Jaehyun…”

“Touch yourself,” he ordered. “Be a good girl. Let me see.”

Her fingers found her clit instantly, circling as he pounded into her harder, more unrestrained now. He was still watching her, though — eyes glued to her face, hand tight around her throat again, thumb brushing her jaw.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he growled. “Choked and used and full of me?”

She nodded, eyes rolling back. “Jaehyun—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he demanded. “Come now.”

She shattered under him with a scream, clenching around him like a vice — and he followed with a loud groan, spilling inside her again, thrusts slowing as he milked every second of her orgasm.

When it was over, he collapsed on top of her, then rolled them gently so she was cradled against him again.

“You’re gonna kill me,” she breathed.

He chuckled against her hair. “You say that like I’m done with you.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, a lazy smile on her lips.

She was absolutely ruined. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

The room was thick with heat, the air heavy from everything they’d already done — the tangled sheets, their sweat-slicked bodies, the faint scent of sex still clinging to the air.

Jaehyun was lying back against the pillows now, one arm behind his head, the other lazily brushing along her spine as she rested on his chest, both of them trying to catch their breath. He looked smug. Satisfied. Like a man who’d just conquered something sweet and sacred.

But she wasn’t done.

Y/N lifted her head, eyes dark with mischief and still-flushed cheeks. She trailed her hand down his abs, letting her fingers drift lower, nails teasing just above where the blanket covered his hips.

Jaehyun groaned, low and surprised. “No way. You’re not seriously ready for more.”

She straddled him without a word, sliding up until she was seated right over him, warm and wet and barely hidden by the thin sheet between them. Her hands braced on his chest as she leaned down.

“I wanna ride you,” she whispered against his lips.

Jaehyun’s breath caught. His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide. “Fuck. Are you even real?”

She grinned and rocked her hips slightly, feeling him twitch beneath her. “You’re not scared I’ll break you, are you?”

“Scared?” He growled, yanking the sheet away so she was bare above him. “I’m scared you’re gonna pass out. You were crying into my mouth ten minutes ago.”

“Let me show you what I want,” she said, grinding harder now. “Please.”

That word — that please — did something to him.

He watched her sit up, take him in her hand, and line him up with her entrance. The head of his cock slid against her soaked folds, and they both groaned at the contact. Then, slowly, so fucking slowly, she sank down on him.

Jaehyun’s head hit the headboard with a dull thud.

“Holy shit,” he hissed. “You feel even tighter like this.”

Her hands gripped his stomach for balance as she started to move, hips rising and falling in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Her thighs trembled slightly, but she kept going, riding him with a mix of inexperience and raw, aching need.

And he watched her — eyes locked on the way her breasts bounced, the way her lips parted in moans, the way her nails clawed at his chest as she found the pace that made her see stars.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Taking what you want. Fucking yourself on my cock like you need it.”

“I do,” she gasped. “You feel so good, Jaehyun—fuck—don’t stop looking at me.”

“Never,” he promised, hands finding her hips, helping her grind deeper, harder, until the sounds of wet skin and broken cries echoed in the room. “You’re so fucking sexy like this. Like you were made to ride me.”

She moaned louder, pace faltering as her legs began to tremble harder. She leaned forward, bracing herself on his chest, thighs burning, every inch of her buzzing with overstimulation.

Jaehyun saw it — saw her trying to hold on, trying to stay in control — and smirked darkly.

“Getting tired already, baby?”

She bit her lip, nodded just slightly, eyes glassy.

He sat up in one smooth motion, flipping her effortlessly onto the bed and pulling her onto all fours.

“You shouldn’t have tempted me,” he growled, lining himself up behind her. “You knew what this was gonna do to me.”

She barely had time to breathe before he slammed into her from behind — hard, fast, deep — the new angle making her scream into the pillow. He gripped her hips like he owned her, driving into her relentlessly, the bed frame rocking under the force of it.

“F-fuck—Jaehyun—too much—”

“No,” he gritted, bending down to kiss her spine, his hand tangling in her hair. “You wanted to ride me? You wanted to show me what you like? Then take it.”

He yanked her head back gently by her hair, just enough to make her arch. Her back curved perfectly, ass pressed against his hips with every thrust, and he groaned at the sight of it.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he growled, hot against her ear. “You like being used like my personal toy, huh? Getting fucked stupid first thing in the morning?”

She couldn’t answer. Not with the way he was splitting her open, dragging her closer and closer to the edge again. But her whimpers said it all.

Then, suddenly, his chest pressed to her back. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other came up to press gently around her throat — firm, confident, perfect. His lips were at her ear now, whispering filth as he fucked up into her, angle deep and brutal in the most intoxicating way.

“Can feel you tightening,” he whispered, voice ragged. “You gonna come like this? With me choking you? Huh, baby?”

She sobbed, nodding, body jolting with every thrust.

“Do it,” he growled, slamming into her one final time. “Come for me like the good little slut you are.”

She came hard — harder than she had the first time — shaking in his arms, muscles locking up as her climax hit like a wave. Jaehyun wasn’t far behind. He grunted against her neck, hips jerking as he spilled inside her again, holding her close through the aftershocks.

They collapsed together, sweaty, tangled, completely wrecked.

He kissed her shoulder, her jaw, her temple.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered. “You were not kidding about round two.”

She laughed breathlessly, collapsing onto her back. “You look ruined.”

“I am,” he groaned, flopping beside her. “You ride me like that again and I’m gonna have to put a ring on you.”

She turned, smirking. “So… round three?”

He blinked.

Then grinned.

“Oh, you’re in trouble.”

“Let’s go get cleaned up Jae, i feel super dirty” she says

All he can think about is what he’ll do to her in the shower

“Anything you want princess, but don’t think i’m done with you yet.”

SHOWER SCENE

Steam had already filled the bathroom by the time Jaehyun dragged her in, lips locked to hers like he couldn’t bear to part for even a second. His hands were on her ass, squeezing, guiding her backwards toward the hot spray as their bodies pressed together.

The second the water hit her back, she gasped — warm and soothing, a perfect contrast to the sharp ache still lingering between her legs from earlier. But Jaehyun wasn’t giving her a break.

His mouth dropped to her throat, sucking a bruise into her skin while his hands slid down her slick body, worshipping every curve like he hadn’t just fucked her senseless.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered into her neck. “I get you off twice, and you’re still looking at me like you want more.”

“I do want more,” she whispered back, fingers curling into his damp hair.

He growled, spinning her and pressing her front to the fogged-up glass wall, hands spreading her legs apart. The hot water ran down her body, pooling between her thighs — and then she felt him again, thick and heavy, sliding against her already-sensitive core.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “Still so wet for me. You want it here? Against the glass?”

“Y-yeah,” she panted. “Want you to fuck me, Jaehyun—just fuck me.”

He slid in without warning — hot, deep, and thick — and she nearly screamed from how sensitive she still was. The glass rattled with each thrust as he buried himself inside her over and over, pace rough but controlled, one hand gripping her hip, the other wrapped tight around her throat.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he panted. “Even after everything, you still suck me in like it’s your first time.”

Her legs shook, breath fogging the glass.

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Say my name.”

She moaned, voice cracking. “D-Daddy—!”

Everything stopped.

Jaehyun froze mid-thrust, his whole body going still behind her. For a second, all they could hear was the pounding of the water and her own ragged breathing.

Then he twitched inside her — hard.

“W-Wait,” she gasped, panicking. “I didn’t mean—! I mean, I—shit, I didn’t know it would just come out—”

He laughed.

Low. Dark. Dangerous.

“You didn’t know?” he repeated, pulling out of her slowly, then turning her to face him. His hands slid down to grab her ass, hard. “Princess, you could’ve called me that ages ago.”

Her eyes widened as he pushed her back against the tiled wall, gripping her thigh and hiking it up over his hip.

“You like that shit, huh?” he murmured, dragging the head of his cock through her folds again. “Calling me ‘Daddy’ while I fuck you dumb? You dirty little thing.”

She whimpered, already melting.

“Say it again.”

She looked up at him, lips trembling. “Daddy…”

He groaned and slammed into her in one rough stroke, hand coming down on her ass with a loud smack. The sound echoed off the tile, mixing with her gasp as he started thrusting hard — deeper than before, the slap of skin on skin bouncing off the shower walls.

“That’s my girl,” he growled. “Fucking take it.”

She clung to him, the rhythm brutal but addicting — loud, wet, and desperate. His hand gripped her throat again, squeezing just enough to make her moan louder, and his other hand delivered another hard spank to her ass, making her jolt.

“Such a good little slut,” he hissed. “Taking your daddy’s cock like this.”

“Y-You’re so full of yourself,” she managed to choke out, even as her moans stuttered with every hard thrust. “Bet you say that to all your little brats.”

He laughed — low and wrecked. “You’re lucky I like that mouth.”

Another slap. Another choke. Another deep thrust that made her legs shake.

“You keep acting like a brat,” he murmured, licking up her neck, “and I’ll bend you over the sink next.”

She grinned through her moans, breathless. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

Jaehyun snapped.

He lifted her effortlessly, pinning her against the wall with his body and pounding up into her — hard, sloppy, loud. The water only added to the sound, the slick slide of his cock inside her driving them both insane.

Her head fell back, nails scratching at his shoulders.

“I’m gonna—fuck—gonna come—”

“Come for me,” he commanded, hand tightening at her throat, his mouth on hers as she shattered. Her whole body trembled, walls clenching around him in rhythmic waves. He didn’t stop — just kept going, chasing his own high until his thrusts grew erratic and he came hard inside her again, groaning her name like a prayer.

They stayed like that — shaking, dripping wet, bodies plastered together under the stream — until their breathing evened out.

Jaehyun leaned in, kissed her temple, then whispered against her cheek:

“You call me daddy again, and I swear, I might just fuck the shit out of you with no mercy.”

She laughed — spent, wrecked, and so, so happy.

“Guess I’ll have to say it more often, then.”

He smirked, brushing hair from her face. “You’re so getting bent over that sink next.”

Few weeks later

The music pulsed through the walls of the club, heavy and hot, bass vibrating through the floors like it had its own heartbeat.

Lights flashed overhead in dizzy bursts — red, blue, violet. The crowd moved like waves, hips grinding, drinks spilling, bodies brushing close in the dark.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Y/N was dancing.

Jaehyun leaned against the bar, jaw clenched, sipping his drink as he watched her with hooded eyes. Her dress was short — dangerously so — clinging to her body like it had been designed to drive him insane. And she knew it. Oh, she fucking knew it.

He watched her laugh at something some random guy whispered in her ear, watched her throw her head back, touching his arm like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.

Because she wasn’t just his best friend anymore. Not after that night on his bed. Not after the shower. Not after she called him daddy with his hand wrapped around her throat.

And yet here she was — pretending they were still just roommates. Still just close friends out clubbing.

Pretending she didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

He downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down a little too hard.

Fine.

Two could play.

When she finally turned to glance at him across the floor — all heat and mischief and sweat-slick skin — he didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stared.

That heavy, unreadable stare that made her thighs press together.

She turned back to the guy dancing behind her, but her hips slowed.

She felt it. The shift.

Jaehyun wasn’t just watching anymore.

He was waiting.

She leaned into the stranger’s touch a little more, lips parting in mock laughter.

And across the room, Jaehyun’s jaw ticked.

She should’ve stopped there. Should’ve known better. But she was tipsy — on alcohol, on attention, on him. And she was feeling bratty.

So when she brushed past Jaehyun to grab another drink, she leaned in real close, whispered in his ear:

“Jealous much?”

He didn’t respond. Just looked at her. Unblinking.

So she smirked. Teased her finger along the edge of his collar. “I’m gonna go freshen up. Try not to stare too hard while I walk away.”

She turned.

Jaehyun waited exactly three seconds before downing the last of his drink and following her.

The hallway to the restroom was dim, empty except for the muffled throb of music bleeding through the walls.

Y/N stepped into the women’s restroom, humming under her breath, cheeks flushed from dancing. She leaned over the sink, fixing her lipstick, unaware that the door behind her didn’t fully close.

Then — a click. The lock.

She turned, startled — and there he was.

Jaehyun.

Broad, dark-eyed, towering in the tight space.

“Jae—? What are you—”

“You done?”

His voice was low. Rough. Dangerous.

She blinked. “What?”

He stepped forward, crowding her back against the sink.

“This game you’re playing. You done teasing?”

She laughed — a little breathless now. “It’s not a game—”

“Yes it is,” he cut her off, hand bracing beside her head. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Grinding on some guy like I haven’t fucked you raw three times this week?”

Her breath hitched.

His hand slid to her throat, thumb tilting her chin up.

“You want me to lose it, don’t you?”

“I—maybe.”

His eyes darkened.

“Then congratulations.”

He spun her around before she could react, bending her over the sink. She gasped, bracing herself on the edge as he yanked up her dress — no preamble, no hesitation. Just pure, possessive energy.

“I tried to be patient,” he muttered, dragging his hand down her spine. “Tried to let you play your little game. But you just had to push me.”

“Jaehyun—”

“Shut up,” he growled, yanking her panties to the side. “You don’t get to act like a brat and then pretend you don’t want this.”

She whimpered — hips wiggling just slightly. A challenge.

So he spanked her.

Hard.

The slap echoed in the bathroom, followed by her muffled moan as her hands clenched the edge of the sink.

“I’ll make sure everyone in that club knows who you belong to,” he whispered against her ear. “Even if they never see it.”

Then he pushed into her — slow, punishingly deep — until she was gasping and arching and biting her lip to keep from moaning too loud.

Jaehyun didn’t hold back.

He set a brutal rhythm, fucking into her with possessive precision, each thrust angled perfectly to make her cry out.

One hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back, the other snaked around her waist to choke her gently — thumb pressing right under her jawline.

“You like being used like this?” he hissed. “Bent over a dirty sink like a slut?”

“Y-Yes—fuck—”

“You gonna flirt with another guy again?”

She laughed through a moan — bratty to the end. “Only if you watch.”

He growled and slammed into her harder, one hand smacking her ass again, the other gripping her throat tighter.

“You’re gonna pay for that later.”

“P-Promise?”

He fucked her until her legs gave out, until her moans turned into broken little gasps, until her mascara started to smear from the tears she didn’t even notice.

And when she finally came — hard, shaking, back arched like a bow — Jaehyun followed right behind, spilling into her with a groan that sounded like her name.

They stayed like that for a moment — panting, pressed together, sweaty and flushed — the scent of sex thick in the air.

Finally, he pulled back, fixing her dress and kissing her neck.

“You okay?”

She turned, breathless, eyes blown wide. “I want a round two.”

He smirked. “Back to the apartment.”

“No,” she whispered, tugging him down by the collar.

“I meant in the stall.”

The door to the stall slammed shut behind them, barely catching on the lock before Y/N was already on her knees — dress rumpled, pupils blown wide, lips parted in that wrecked little smile that made Jaehyun twitch.

“You’re getting way too good at that,” he muttered, looking down at her. “Dropping like that without me saying a word?”

She just smirked, fingers curling around his waistband as she undid his jeans, slow and teasing. “You didn’t need to say it.”

Jaehyun hissed between his teeth as she pulled him out, her hand wrapping around his cock like it was second nature by now. And maybe it was.

“You’re already so hard,” she murmured, tongue sliding out to trace his tip. “You like me like this, don’t you?”

He stared down at her, hand threading into her hair. “I like you better when your mouth’s full.”

She grinned — brat — and took him in, slow at first, letting her lips stretch around him, letting him feel every inch. Her hands held him at the base, stroking where her mouth couldn’t reach yet, and soon she was bobbing her head, taking more and more, tongue swirling, moaning around him.

And fuck, that sound…

His hips jerked forward instinctively.

But then he saw it.

Her other hand.

Slipped under her dress. Between her legs. Fingers buried where he should be.

“Y/N,” he growled.

She stilled — mouth still full, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice dropped, dangerous. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

She whimpered around him, lips tightening, but she didn’t move her hand.

He stepped forward, forcing her to take more of him, groaning when she gagged just slightly, those wet, obscene noises echoing off the tile.

Then his leg moved between hers, spreading her wider.

“I said—” his hand fisted in her hair, yanking her off him, spit dripping from her lips “—did I fucking say you could touch yourself?”

“N-No,” she whispered, breathless.

“So what the fuck are you doing?”

She opened her mouth to answer but he was already dragging her up by her hair and spinning her, slamming her back into the stall door.

“You wanna act like a slut?” he muttered. “Then I’ll treat you like one.”

He didn’t wait.

He shoved into her in one hard, punishing thrust that made her eyes roll back. His hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the scream, his other hand slipping under her thigh to hook it around his hip and keep her wide open for him.

He fucked her hard — rough, deep, possessive. Every thrust shoved her into the door, the stall rattling with every slap of skin on skin. His palm came down on her ass in sharp smacks that echoed louder than her moans.

“You like this?” he panted. “Getting used like a toy in some filthy club stall?”

She moaned, clawing at his back.

“What was that?” he taunted. “Didn’t hear you.”

“Yes—yes, daddy—”

He growled, fucking her even deeper, sweat dripping down his temple.

Her body clenched — tight, fluttering — and just when she was about to fall over the edge—

He stopped.

Pulled out.

Her whine was immediate, high and needy.

“What the fuck—Jaehyun—!”

“You don’t deserve to cum,” he said simply. “Not yet.”

She sobbed — bratty and ruined — but he flipped her again, bending her over the toilet tank this time, fucking her from behind at a new angle that had her shaking almost instantly.

Then the phone in her purse started ringing.

They both paused for half a second — then Jaehyun’s grin turned vicious.

“Answer it.”

“What—?”

“Answer the fucking phone.”

She fumbled for it with shaking fingers, not even checking the caller ID.

“H-Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Johnny,” came the casual voice on the other end. “I was thinking we should hit up that new rooftop bar next week. You down?”

She tried to breathe. Tried to speak.

Jaehyun grabbed her hips and slammed into her hard, making her lurch forward with a muffled cry.

“Y/N?” Johnny asked. “You good?”

She bit her lip hard, trying to speak through the moan threatening to rip out of her throat. “Y-Yeah, I—mhm—‘m good, just—um—club’s really loud.”

Jaehyun’s hand snaked around to rub slow, brutal circles against her clit.

She whimpered.

“Oh,” Johnny said, clearly pausing. “…should I call back later?”

Jaehyun leaned down, whispering into her ear loud enough to be heard: “Go on. Moan for him, princess.”

She couldn’t help it.

She slipped — loud and sharp and filthy.

“Oh fuck—”

Silence on the line.

Then Johnny’s voice, tight. “Yeah. Uh. Definitely calling back later.”

Click.

The line went dead.

⸻

Johnny’s POV

He stared at the screen for a second, blinking.

Across the table, his friends were still chatting, laughing over drinks.

“You good?” one of them asked, noticing his expression.

Johnny cleared his throat, cheeks flushed red. “Y-Yeah. Just… think I called at a weird time.”

He shoved his phone into his pocket and picked up his drink again, but his mind was definitely not on the conversation anymore.

All he could hear was her voice in his head.

That moan.

Fuck.

⸻

Back to Jaehyun

“Oh?” Jaehyun murmured, thrusting slow and deep now, cock dragging against every sensitive spot. “You clenched so hard when he was on the phone.”

She moaned, wrecked.

“You like being fucked while someone’s listening?”

She nodded.

He laughed — low and dangerous. “Maybe you’d like getting fucked while someone watches too.”

She gasped — and clenched again.

“Oh my god,” he grinned. “You’re such a slut.”

Then he leaned down, lips at her ear.

“Maybe I should invite Johnny next time.”

She moaned — high and needy.

“You’d like that, huh?” he growled. “Two cocks instead of one? One in your mouth, one in your pussy? Letting him see how dumb you get when I fuck you like this?”

She nodded again, panting. “P-Please—daddy—”

“Maybe he’d let me cum,” she teased through a moan. “You’re so mean—”

His hand flew to her throat.

“You wanna come?” he hissed, slamming into her. “Then beg for it.”

She whimpered.

“Beg like a good little slut. Or I’ll keep edging you until you cry.”

Her breath came in ragged gasps, thighs trembling, cheek pressed against the cold stall door as Jaehyun’s grip tightened around her throat. Not enough to hurt — not really — but just enough to remind her who she belonged to.

His cock was buried deep inside her, dragging slow, punishing thrusts that had her clenching and fluttering with every drag. She was so close — could feel the edge of it, hot and prickling and just out of reach.

But he wasn’t giving it to her.

Not yet.

“Go on,” he murmured against her ear, breath hot. “You were talking real bold a second ago.”

She whimpered, squirming under him.

“You said maybe Johnny would let you cum.” His voice dropped, dangerous. “You still think that?”

She shook her head quickly, mouth falling open with a gasped moan when he snapped his hips forward again, hitting that spot that made her knees nearly buckle.

“Then beg.”

“I—daddy—please,” she whispered. “Please let me cum, I need it—”

“Not good enough.” His hand slid between her legs, rubbing circles over her soaked clit, fast and firm and mean. “You can do better than that.”

She sobbed, writhing under his grip.

“Please, daddy,” she choked out. “I’ll be good, I swear—don’t wanna be a brat anymore—just wanna cum—please—”

“Say what you are.”

“I’m your slut,” she gasped. “I’m your filthy little slut and I don’t wanna cum unless you say I can—”

His hand slammed over her mouth just in time as he rammed into her — hard, punishing, each thrust stealing air from her lungs.

“Now,” he growled. “Cum for me. Loud.”

She shattered.

Her scream was lost in his palm, her whole body convulsing around him, legs giving out as her orgasm hit her like a truck. Her walls clamped around him so tight he groaned into her neck, hips stuttering as she milked every drop of sensation from him.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even close.

He pulled her back up, arms wrapped around her waist from behind, holding her flush to his chest while he kept fucking her through it, her body twitching and oversensitive.

“You thought we were done?” he rasped. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

She whimpered, head falling back against his shoulder.

“You begged so pretty for that one,” he said, voice low and smug. “Let’s see how long you last now.”

He brought her to the edge again.

And again.

And again.

⸻

She didn’t know how long it had been. Minutes? Hours? Time had dissolved into a haze of overstimulation and gasped breaths, of rough hands and soft kisses and bruising thrusts that made her see stars.

Eventually, Jaehyun finally pulled out, chest heaving, watching her collapse against the door with her dress riding up, thighs shaking, lipstick smeared across her cheek.

“Fuck,” he muttered, bending to kiss the base of her spine. “You look ruined.”

“I am ruined,” she mumbled, barely able to lift her head.

He laughed, soft but smug, and kissed her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

A/N: SHESH that was intense… i didn’t really expect it to go this far but i just went with the flow🥸 what do you guys think- yall want me to end it here or have a part 2 with a potential invite to johnny…👁️👄👁️

[sweetvoidstuff]

Where You Belong - Part 1

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Werwolf I Mates I Slow Burn I Asshole JK I Supernatural Romance I Yoongi I Violence

Summary : A festival meant to bring unity turns into something far more intimate when you catch the eye of a wolf who never intended to fall. Torn between the freedom to choose and the instinctual pull of a mate’s bond, you face both emotional and political pressure from the pack and outside forces. As loyalties are tested, the question lingers: will you run, or will you stay and claim your place?

Word Count: 35K (all Parts)

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! I’ve been meaning to post this one for a while, but I kept going back and forth on it. Life got a bit hectic, I got sidetracked, and took a few days off—so it took longer than planned. It didn’t turn out exactly how I first imagined, but for now, I’m calling it done. Maybe I’ll revisit and rewrite parts of it in the future, who knows. In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy it—please be kind, but I also welcome honest feedback.

Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me…again... so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 2 I Part 3

---------------------

The air was thick with the scent of wolves—dominant, eager, waiting for the blood and spectacle that the Great Festival promised. Fires burned high, casting flickering shadows on the hardened faces of warriors, their fur bristling under the golden glow of the full moon. Packs from all across the region had gathered, their strongest fighters ready to prove their dominance.

You had never belonged here.

The festival was a celebration of strength, a chance for alphas to assert their power, for betas to prove their worth. And yet, here you were, thrust into the lineup not because of your skill or beauty or alluring scent but because Jungkook and his friends thought it would be amusing to watch you struggle.

"Try not to embarrass us too much," Jungkook sneered, arms crossed over his broad chest as he loomed over you. His sharp brown eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, his lips curled in the smirk you had grown to hate. "But don't go down too fast either. Wouldn’t want the others thinking our pack raises cowards."

His friends snickered beside him. Jimin clapped a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, his grin wide. "If the beta kills her by accident, at least it'll save us the trouble."

It was the same cruelty as always, the same reminders that you were nothing in their eyes. The only omega in the lineup, your presence was already an insult to the tradition of the festival. Not just an omega, a half-blood with barely any pheromones, You had been chosen simply because, should you fall, no one would care.

But you cared.

Your father had taught you better than that. He had taught you that strength wasn’t just muscle or dominance—it was resilience, skill, and the will to stand when others wanted you on your knees. And right now, in front of the whole festival, you would not kneel.

The first match of your pack had gone to Jungkook, as expected. He had torn through his opponent without breaking a sweat, his wolf a fearsome sight of black fur and burning rage. Jimin had followed, his win just as decisive. Now, it was your turn.

Jungkook’s voice was low, meant only for you, Jimin, and the betas standing nearby.

"Request to fight in wolf form."

The weight of his words pressed into you, unspoken consequences laced between each syllable. He didn’t bother explaining himself, didn’t need to. You already understood. A fight in wolf form was chaos—claws, fangs, and wild instincts taking over. It would drag the match out longer, and that’s all Jungkook wanted from you.

A spectacle. A joke.

Not giving him a reason to lash out at you, you only nodded. Submission, on the surface. But your decision had already been made.

Stepping into the ring, your heart pounded against your ribs, adrenaline pulsing under your skin. Min Yoongi, a beta from another pack stood across from you, relaxed but watchful, the golden glow of his eyes sharp and curious. He was smaller than most betas, lean rather than bulky, but you weren’t fooled by that. He had no stake in your humiliation, no reason to hate you. But he would fight you seriously—that much you could tell.

The elder overseeing the match raised his voice, echoing across the festival grounds. "Omega, how will you fight?"

Jungkook’s burning gaze drilled into the side of your face, Jimin beside him watching expectantly. They thought they had you cornered, controlled. That you’d obey, as you always had.

You turned to the elder and, with a steady voice, declared, "Human-to-human fight."

A hush fell over the gathered wolves. While fighting in wolf form was a spectacle, but fighting as humas was always more brutal.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, barely audible, but you felt it like a lash against your spine. His fingers twitched at his sides, his entire body stiff with frustration. You weren’t supposed to do that.

Jimin clicked his tongue in irritation. "Loves making things harder for herself, doesn’t she?"

Yoongi let out a quiet exhale, tilting his head slightly. His gaze flickered between you and Jungkook, your pack, taking in the way the air crackled with silent fury. His lips curled just slightly, as if amused.

The elder hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Very well. Human-to-human combat it is."

Jungkook said nothing, but the rage rolling off him was suffocating. This wasn’t just defiance. This was a direct, rejection of his order. But with the entire festival watching, he had no way to retaliate. Not yet.

And that was enough for you. Now he couldn’t make a joke out of you. They needed to look at you.

The moment the fight started, you dropped into a boxing stance—knees bent, fists up, weight balanced just right. It wasn’t the stance of a desperate omega trying to survive. It was the stance of a fighter.

Yoongi’s golden eyes flickered with intrigue before he lunged.

He was fast. Most betas were. But you had spent years dodging, training. You saw the way his shoulder twitched before a punch, the slight shift in his weight before a kick. You blocked the first hit with a quick guard, absorbing the impact, then pivoted to avoid the second.

A sharp jab came for your ribs—you twisted, catching his wrist mid-motion before driving your own fist into his gut. Yoongi exhaled sharply but laughed under his breath.

Jungkook had expected you to crumble within seconds, to be thrown around like a ragdoll, but you weren’t going down easy. You weren’t going down at all.

Each punch you took, you gave back just as hard. Like your father had trained you too.

He had done it not because he wanted you to fight, but because he had known—before you even understood it yourself—that the world around you would never be kind. You were a child of love, raised by a human mother and a wolf father, but love did not shield you from cruelty. Your peers had never accepted you. They rejected your scent, your blood, your place among them. And though your father had tried to seek help, even from his oldest friend—Jeon Hyunkook, Jungkook’s father—the response had been... disappointing.

All he could do was make you strong.

So, he trained you. Relentlessly. In secret. In the quiet hours of the morning and the long stretches of night, he taught you how to block, how to counter, how to never cower, how to never take a hit without returning one twice as vicious. You didn’t want to fight your pack – but he made sure if you ever needed to, you could.

And now, as Yoongi came at you again, fists cutting through the air with practiced precision, you moved the way your father had taught you. Your body absorbed the impact of his blows, but you struck back just as hard, just as fast.

Jungkook, from where he stood, froze.

It was the stance. The positioning of your feet, the way your weight shifted with every hit—it was familiar. It wasn’t just some random street-fighting technique. It was his father’s.

The same stance Jungkook had been trained in. The same one he had watched his father and his father’s best friend use when they had sparred together in their youth.

For the first time in years, Jungkook saw you with something other than disdain.

He saw you in awe.

The realization hit him like a hammer to the chest. You weren’t just throwing punches wildly, trying to survive. You were trained. Disciplined. Dangerous.

And the fact that he had never noticed before—that he had spent years mocking you, pushing you down, underestimating you—made something twist inside him.

Jungkook clenched his jaw. His nails bit into his palms as he watched you, his pulse pounding.

Who the fuck were you?

And why the hell had he never seen you like this before?              

Jungkook was still as stone. His hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, the muscles in his jaw flexing. His entire body was tense, shoulders squared, but his face—his face was unreadable.

Jimin, standing beside him, glanced over and smirked. He had spent years watching Jungkook sneer at you, ridicule you, not caring that the pack treated you like dirt beneath their paws. So, naturally, he assumed Jungkook’s silence was rage.

He chuckled, low and amused, before tilting his head toward the fight. “Man, this is embarrassing,” he drawled, loud enough for the surrounding wolves to hear. “An omega actually putting up a fight? What’s next, they gonna start challenging alphas?”

A few of the betas snickered.

But Jimin wasn’t really trying—his words lacked their usual venom. Because the truth was, you weren’t losing. And it was hard to mock someone who wasn’t just surviving but holding their own.

Still, he tried.

“Maybe Yoongi’s just going easy on her,” Jimin mused, tilting his head. “Bet he—”

“Shut the fuck up, Jimin.”

Jungkook’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Jimin blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said shut up,” Jungkook snapped. His eyes were sharp, dark, something unreadable burning beneath them. Jimin studied his expression, confused. Jungkook’s usual cocky smirk was gone. He wasn’t sneering, wasn’t watching with amusement. He was just... watching.

Jimin’s lips parted slightly as he realized it. Jungkook wasn’t mad. He wasn’t disgusted. Jungkook watched you fight—his own father’s technique in every block, every strike, every calculated movement—he had to face a truth he had never considered before.

You were by far a normal omega, but you weren’t nothing.

In fact, your technique might even be better than his own.

Because while Jungkook had always had his strength, his dominance, his powerful wolf to fall back on, you never did. You had no overwhelming physical advantage, no alluring sent to bewitch, no natural-born dominance to carry you through a fight. Every skill, every movement, every counterstrike you delivered had been honed through sheer necessity.

You had never had the luxury of relying on brute force.

You had only ever had your precision.

And that made you lethal.

Jungkook’s smirk had long since faded. He was frozen, watching the fight unfold with something that wasn’t amusement anymore—it was shock. Disbelief. You were an omega, the weakest of the weak, someone that normally would be protected, but here you were, fighting like you had something to prove.

Maybe you did.

You barely felt your feet hit the ground before you were launching forward, meeting Yoongi’s charge. Flesh met flesh. His fist slammed against your ribs, rattling your bones, but you didn’t buckle. You didn’t fucking falter. Instead, you twisted with the impact, riding the force, and then swung back—

CRACK.

Yoongi came at you again, but this time, you met him halfway, slamming into his chest with a hard shove. Your voice tore from your throat before you even realized you were screaming—

"If you want me down, you have to do fucking better!"

Jungkook felt the words strike something deep inside him, because he knew—he knew—that you weren’t screaming at Yoongi. You were screaming at him, the boy who had spent years mocking you. At the Alpha who had made sure you stayed beneath his boot. At the pack that had treated you like nothing more than a whisper of a wolf, a mistake of mixed blood, something not even worth the dirt beneath their paws.

And yet—here you were.

Standing in the ring. Thriving in the fight.

You weren’t just holding your own.

You were fucking commanding it.

Yoongi, to his credit, only grinned. His gaze burned with something wild, something dark and delighted. He lifted a hand to his lip, swiping away the smear of blood, his teeth flashing as he let out a short, breathless laugh.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he exhaled, nodding at you.

Then, without another word, he launched himself at you again.

Your fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. His mouth split open, blood speckling the air, but the bastard only grinned.

He moved fast—too fast. You barely had time to register his next strike before pain exploded along your temple, a white-hot flash in your vision. You staggered back, breath heaving, sweat dripping into your eyes, but you refused to give him another second.

You lunged.

Your knee rammed into his gut, forcing a guttural grunt from his throat. Yoongi gritted his teeth, hands snapping out like a viper—he grabbed you by the wrist, twisting viciously, but you let it happen. Let your body move with it, rather than against it, spinning into his hold.

Then you drove your elbow into his ribs.

He let out a sharp oof, his grip loosening just enough—just fucking enough—for you to wrench yourself free. Your feet barely hit the ground before you struck again.

A left hook.

A right jab.

A kick to his side so hard his breath hitched.

Yoongi laughed through the pain, his eyes burning like dying embers in the torchlight.

“Fuck, you hit harder than most of the alphas I’ve fought,” he panted, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

His hand came away red.

So did yours.

Your knuckles—split open. Raw. The skin torn, blood dripping down your fingers in sluggish trails. Every punch you threw sent a fresh wave of pain up your arms, but it wasn’t enough to stop you.

Because Yoongi looked just as bad.

His own knuckles were just as ruined, just as bloody. There was a gash above his brow, leaking a slow, thick trail of crimson down his cheek, and his lip was swollen where your punch had landed earlier. His breath came sharp, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin. His silver hair was a mess, strands sticking to his forehead, tangled and wild.

And fuck—you were sure you looked just as wrecked.

Your head throbbed. Your ribs ached. Sweat stung your eyes. You could taste blood in your mouth—bitter, coppery, your own and Yoongi’s.

And yet—

And yet, your lips curled.

A slow, dangerous, feral grin.

The rage. The hunger. The fire in your blood that they had tried to smother since the day you were born.

And Yoongi—Yoongi fucking loved it.

“You could give up?” you asked sweetly.

You flexed your bloodied fingers. Lifted your hands again. Set your stance.

And Yoongi did the same.

“And miss this?” a gummy smile so contrasting to your situation appeared on Yoongi’s lips.

A sharp strike to your stomach—your body bent, but you retaliated with a brutal uppercut, sending Yoongi stumbling. You barely had time to straighten before he came back at you, his foot hooking behind your ankle, trying to take you down—

But you caught yourself—barely—your fingers scraping against the dirt, twisting your body at the last second to break free. You didn’t stop moving, even as you saw Yoongi’s fist flying straight for your face—

You ducked. Just in time.

His knuckles whistled past your ear. Your hair whipped in the force of the motion, and without thinking—without even meaning to—you laughed.

A breathless, wrecked, exhilarated laugh.

Yoongi’s sharp gaze snapped to you.

And something flickered in his expression—recognition. Understanding. Approval.

And then—he laughed too.

Just like that, it was no longer just a fight.

Jungkook, standing on the sidelines, did not know what the fuck he was feeling.

Couldn’t understand why his fingers were digging into his crossed arms.

Couldn’t comprehend why the sight of you—bloody, grinning, wrecked but refusing to fall—was making something in his chest coil, tight, too tight.

He should have been irritated. Furious. Should have wanted to throw you out of the ring himself for the audacity of standing toe to toe with a beta.

But instead—

Instead, he watched the way you grinned through the blood and sweat.

The way your eyes burned, your whole body thrumming with fire.

The way you and Yoongi relished the violence, reveled in the clash of fists and force, as if the rest of the world didn’t even exist.

And it made something dark and possessive curl in his stomach.

Why the hell couldn’t he look away.

Jimin shifted beside him, still watching the fight, and huffed. “They’re really enjoying this, huh? Kinda twisted for an omega, don’t you think?”

Jungkook’s teeth ground together.

Yoongi hit the ground hard.

The impact sent a shockwave through the dirt, dust kicking up as his back slammed against the packed earth. You didn’t let him breathe.

The moment he fell, you were on him.

Your thighs locked around his waist, knees digging into his sides, pinning him down with everything you had left. His wrists were caught in your hands, shoved down against the dirt beside his head. His breath was ragged beneath you, his chest rising and falling in rapid heaves, muscles taut as if he was considering another attempt to throw you off—

But he didn’t.

For the first time in the fight, Yoongi’s struggle faltered.

For the first time, he couldn’t move.

Your breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped from your chin onto his bruised chest. Your arms ached, your knuckles raw and split, smeared with his blood and your own.

Even the elders hesitated, as if their mouths had forgotten how to form the words. As if their brains refused to process what had just happened—that an omega had just taken down one of the strongest betas in the tournament.

The murmurs rippling through the crowd, disbelief crackling in the air like static before the elders finally—finally—called it.

“The winner—”

Their voices barely registered.

Because beneath you, Yoongi grinned.

Grinned.

Like a wild thing, like he was thrilled that you had just slammed him into the dirt and stolen the win right out of his hands.

“Shit,” he panted, his chest rising against yours, breath fanning across your face. His eyes, dark with something you didn’t quite understand, locked onto yours, something dangerously close to admiration. “That was fun.”

Jungkook felt it like a stone in his gut. This was their victory. Your victory. But as he watched you sitting over Yoongi, the way your chests heaved in sync, the way Yoongi looked at you—not like an omega, not like a weakness, but something precious like an equal—

His jaw was clenched. His lips pressed together, nearly bloodless. His dark eyes, normally sharp with ridicule whenever he looked at you, were unnervingly blank.

He should have been satisfied.

You were a win for the pack. A win for him. Not the weak, undesirable omega without a scent he thought you to be. He was supposed to look at you and feel triumphant—they had pushed you into this fight as a joke, an amusement, and now, you were something to be paraded around.

But all he could focus on was you and Yoongi.

Too close.

The way you hovered over the beta, smirking, panting, wild, covered in sweat and blood—

And the way Yoongi grinned right back at you.

Like he saw you.

Like he fucking wanted you.

Your arms ached. Your knuckles burned. Your ribs protested with every breath, but none of that mattered. You had won. With a final exhale, you rolled off Yoongi, your body hitting the ground beside him, sweat and dirt clinging to your skin. The fight had been everything. Raw, violent, unhinged—but for the first time, it hadn’t been survival.

It had been yours.

Beside you, Yoongi groaned, the sound thick with exhaustion but laced with satisfaction. “Fuck,” he muttered, running a bloodied hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Haven’t had a fight like that in a long time.”

You let out a breath that could almost be called a laugh. Your body was shaking, but not from fear—from the rush, the fire still licking at your veins.

Yoongi shifted, groaning again as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Almost instantly, his pack was there. Hands reached out to help him, guiding him upright, murmuring words of approval, of camaraderie. They even respectfully nodded at you.

And your pack?

Nothing.

Not a single hand. Not a single voice.

Jimin, standing beside Jungkook, scoffed. “Well, that was fucking unexpected.” His tone was light, amused, but there was an edge to it. “Guess even mutts can learn a few tricks.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

Jimin’s smirk wavered slightly as he glanced at Jungkook, expecting to see him pleased—expecting to see that familiar condescension in his leader’s gaze.

But Jungkook’s expression was strange.

Unreadable.

His jaw was tight, his body coiled like a wire pulled too taut, his eyes locked on you and Yoongi.

Because Yoongi was reaching for you.

Still breathing hard, still wearing that goddamn grin, Yoongi turned toward you, extending a hand.

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want help—but because no one had ever offered it. And Yoongi must have noticed because something flickered across his face, something that almost looked like understanding. He didn’t move his hand away, just waited.

So you took it.

Yoongi’s grip was firm, warm, grounding. He pulled you up, steadying you when your legs threatened to buckle from exhaustion. And yet, he didn’t let go.

Not right away.

His fingers lingered, thumb brushing over the bloodied skin of your knuckles, something unreadable in his gaze.

And Jungkook hated it.

His hands twitched at his sides, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he watched the way Yoongi held onto you for just a second too long.

And then, to make it worse—to make everything worse—

Min fucking Yoongi opened his mouth.

Yoongi leaned in slightly, voice low but sure, eyes locked onto yours as he said—

“You should come with me.”

Before you could answer, Jungkook was suddenly there.

At your side.

It wasn’t aggressive, not like the countless times before when he had shoved you to the ground, knocked you aside like you were nothing—like you were less than nothing.

This time, it was gentle.

A simple brush of his shoulder against yours as he stepped closer, a slow, deliberate motion. Not enough to push you, not enough to hurt. Just enough to touch.

Just enough to get his scent on you.

The contact was brief, but the effect was immediate. His scent clung to your skin, seeping into you like a brand, the undeniable mark of an alpha on an omega. And not just any omega—you.

The weak one. The freak. The nobody.

For years, your pheromones had been barely detectable—too diluted, too faint, the consequence of your human mother’s blood. No one had ever tried to scent you before. No one had ever wanted to.

And yet, Jungkook just had.

You stiffened.

His voice was low, controlled, but sharp as a blade.

“She’s already claimed.”

Yoongi turned to Jungkook, his gaze unreadable.

You turned too, but unlike Yoongi, you didn’t hide your confusion.

What the hell had he just said?

What the hell had he just done?

Your pack didn’t want you. Jungkook sure as hell didn’t want you. He and his friends had made that clear for years—mocking you, pushing you down, humiliating you. Reminding you at every turn that you were beneath them, an omega barely worth acknowledging. They had treated you like a burden since the day you were born.

And yet, the moment someone—anyone—saw you, Jungkook took it away.

You could almost laugh.

Not because you actually found this funny, but because what the fuck else were you supposed to do? It wasn’t like you had planned to pack your things and leave.

No, you were sure that they would’ve already had your things packed for you.

But now? Now you weren’t even allowed this?

Jungkook wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked onto Yoongi, his expression calm—too calm. Like steel pulled so tight it was moments away from snapping.

“Claimed?” Yoongi’s voice was slow, skeptical.

His gaze flickered from you to Jungkook, sharp with something dangerous. “That’s funny,” he said lightly. “Because for someone who’s supposedly claimed, she looks just as confused as I am.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

His jaw was locked tight, his entire body radiating something just barely restrained.

Jimin, still at his side, gave a half-hearted scoff. “Hah. Well, she’s not as worthless as we thought.”

Jungkook’s head snapped toward him so fast Jimin actually stepped back. But before anyone could challenge him further, a new voice cut through the tension.

Namjoon.

From the other side of the ring, the beta’s alpha—Yoongi’s alpha—had been watching. And now, the moment Jungkook spoke those words, he stepped forward.

Jungkook did not look at him.

But Namjoon looked at Jungkook, hard.

“You don’t get to throw that word around lightly, Jeon,” Namjoon said. His voice was even, calm—but beneath it heavy with authority, there was a weight. A warning. “She isn’t claimed. And if you’re saying otherwise now, you better have a damn good reason.”

Jungkook’s muscles coiled beneath his skin.

You could almost feel the conflict raging inside him. He was trapped. If he admitted the truth—that he had never given you a second thought before today—then you would have the right to leave.

To leave him.

To go to Yoongi.

And that, apparently, was something Jungkook was unwilling to let happen. His hand found your wrist. A grip on your wrist, tight, possessive.

Jungkook still didn’t acknowledge Namjoon.

“We’re done here,” Jungkook bit out, finally breaking his silence. “She needs her wounds checked.”

“Come on,” he muttered, already pulling you away. Already making the choice for you.

You tried to yank your arm back. “What the—?”

“Your wounds,” Jungkook cut you off, voice flat. “I’m checking them.”

You fought him.

Not outright—you weren’t that reckless. But you resisted.

Jungkook’s grip was tight around your wrist as he dragged you through the festival grounds, his body tense, his pace relentless. You pulled back, twisting your arm, trying to slip free without making a scene.

But his hold didn’t budge.

Not once.

Your breath came ragged, your body protesting every movement. The fight with Yoongi had left you battered—your lip was swelling, the metallic taste of blood coating your tongue. You could feel it—warm and sticky—dripping down your cheek from somewhere near your temple. Every step made your ribs ache, your knuckles screamed, and still, Jungkook pulled you forward, unyielding.

You didn’t speak.

The medical tent loomed ahead, tucked at the edge of the festival grounds. When Jungkook reached it, he finally stopped, releasing your wrist with a sharp exhale.

For a moment, you considered questioning him.

But then you saw his face—his expression sharp, his gaze hard, his whole body radiating a quiet, dangerous frustration. And suddenly, your words caught in your throat.

Your whole body hurt. You didn’t want a confrontation.

So you stayed silent.

But Jungkook wasn’t.

“You went against my order.”

His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the anger behind it.

“You were supposed to fight in your wolf form.”

You blinked.

For a second, you thought you had misheard.

Of all things—was this what he was pissed about? Not that you had won, not that you had shown a strength none of them ever thought you possessed, not that another pack’s beta had seen value in you and openly invited you to leave—but that you had disobeyed? Really?!

A humorless chuckle left your lips.

Your shoulders shook with the force of it, your lungs burning. Your hands moved before you could think—pushing your hair out of your face. The motion sent a fresh wave of pain through your battered knuckles, and you winced.

But the movement disturbed the air.

And with it, your scent.

Jungkook froze.

He hadn’t meant to inhale, hadn’t meant to care—but he did. It was barely there—soft, subdued, almost fragile. Not like the other omegas—not thick with honeyed warmth, not something that lured or demanded attention, not an instinctual pull. Delicate but lingering. It smelled like something distant, something just out of reach. Like a memory trying to surface—gentle earth after the summer rain, the faintest trace of something cool and sharp, an undertone of metal from the blood that still ran from your wounds.

It had never been enough to catch his attention before. Never been enough to register.

But now, with your sweat thick in the air, with your blood mixed into it, he could smell it.

Under his scent.

Under Min Yoongi’s scent.

It was gentle. It was inviting. It was meant to protect. And it made his head spin. Jungkook’s jaw tightened. His stomach turned. Had he really never noticed before?

Or had he noticed—but never associated it with you?

Jungkook swallowed hard, shifted where he stood, suddenly restless. He hated this.

Hated that he could still smell Yoongi on you. Hated that Yoongi had touched you, that his scent had settled into your skin, that he had smiled at you like you were something worth looking at, something worth keeping. Hated how he had to fight the instinct to pull you closer. Hated how he had to stop himself from brushing against you again, grounding you in his scent until nothing else—no other pack, no other alpha—could ever stake a claim on you.

Jungkook shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake something loose, but it didn’t help.

You didn’t even look at him.

Instead, you were staring at the ground, lips parted slightly, split, breathing still labored from the fight. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, but steady.

“…I’m sorry for disobeying.”

Jungkook’s fists clenched. The words were soft, too soft.

You weren’t trembling, you weren’t crying, you weren’t begging—but somehow, this felt worse.

You straightened your posture, shoulders squared despite the obvious pain it caused you. Your voice didn’t waver.

“I’ll take whatever punishment you see fit, alpha,” you continued, “but I thought… I thought a win would be more beneficial for the pack.”

Jungkook just stared.

His stomach turned again.

You weren’t wrong. A win was beneficial. Even he had to admit that you had fought well—fought harder than anyone had ever expected.

And yet, here you were. Apologizing.

Not for failing. For not being weak.

Something twisted deep in Jungkook’s chest, an unfamiliar kind of discomfort. Because they had set you up for failure. But you went anyway.

And how had they repaid your devotion for your pack?

By letting you bleed alone.

By not even coming to your side when you won for them.

His stomach twisted, the weight of it all sinking in.

But then—he saw your eyes. The way you weren’t really looking at him at all.

That distant look. That lingering pain. That longing.

Like you were already thinking about something else.

Someone else.

You were already calculating your next steps, weren’t you?

Taking your punishment, enduring whatever he threw your way and then—what?

Maybe you’d go to Namjoon. He had seemed open to the idea of taking you in. Maybe you’d go to Yoongi. He had invited you. Maybe—for the first time in your life—you could be wanted somewhere.

And why not?

Jungkook understood why Yoongi had done it, what had made him say those words so openly—but the thought of you considering it made Jungkook’s hands curl into fists. Now that he got a whiff of you he didn’t want to lose it.

And you were considering it.

Jungkook’s breath caught.

He felt like an absolute fucking asshole.

His jaw locked. His shoulders stiffened.

He could force you to stay.

He was Alpha. His word was law. You were part of his pack.

He could put his claim on you by force—not Yoongi, not Namjoon, not another soul in this fucking festival—would ever dare question it.

But for once… he didn’t want to make it worse for you.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to fix this.

Didn’t know how to make you stop looking so—like that.

That look in your eyes, that quiet, tired sadness, that distant acceptance that told him you had already started imagining your life somewhere else. Somewhere away from him.

And fuck, he hated it.

He hated that he felt anything about it at all.

Jungkook wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to feel this tight, aching something settle in his chest when you stood there, avoiding his gaze, looking so fucking alone.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, body taut with something too tangled to name. He didn’t understand. He didn’t get why his pulse was loud in his ears, why his throat felt tight, why he cared.

Then, without thinking—he stepped closer.

Not aggressive, not like before. Not like he was trying to intimidate you. But something else. Something… unsure. Something unfamiliar.

Something hesitant.

For a split second, his body tensed. But then you shifted—just slightly, not a step back, not a step closer. And it hit him all over again. Yoongi’s scent on you.

Jungkook didn’t like that.

Didn’t like that Yoongi’s scent had been there first. Didn’t like that he hadn’t been.

So he did what his instincts told him to.

Slowly, carefully—he lifted a hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he touched you.

Not rough. Not like the harsh, punishing grips from before.

Gentle.

Warm fingers brushing over your wrist before trailing up, barely there, a question more than a touch.

And when you didn’t flinch, when you didn’t move away, when you only exhaled a slow, uncertain breath in confusion—he closed the distance.

He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a firm, solid embrace.

Your body stiffened immediately, breath catching, and for a moment, he thought you might shove him away. But then—slowly, cautiously—you exhaled, your muscles gradually unwinding as you settled against him.

Jungkook barely resisted the urge to bury his face against your neck.

To inhale deeply, to mark you with nothing but himself.

Instead, he tightened his hold just a fraction, protective, grounding.

Claiming.

It wasn’t the same as scenting you. But it was something.

Something that said—stay.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The female wolf approached, her scent warm and neutral, a balm against the suffocating weight of Jungkook’s presence. You barely heard what she was saying, barely registered the way she reached for your arm, gently guiding you deeper into the tent.

You were just relieved to be away from him.

Jungkook and his friends had spent years tearing you down, humiliating you, making sure you knew exactly where you stood. So why? Why had he hugged you, brushed his scent onto you twice in such a short amount of time?

It made no sense.

And you were too exhausted to try and make sense of it now.

Behind you, footsteps entered the tent. Yoongi. He also came to the medical tent.

He looked like shit. Bruised and bloody, his lower lip split from where your knuckles had caught him. His cheekbone was swollen, and his dark eyes flicked toward you as he exhaled, sinking onto a nearby cot.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders back. “You sure know how to land a punch.”

You huffed out something between a laugh and a groan, wincing as the healer inspected your lip as she moved you along. The sting barely registered. Your body was too numb, too exhausted.

Your mind reeled as you stepped into another part of the tent, the fabric shifting behind you, cutting off the weight of Jungkook’s gaze. You weren’t naive enough to think that this moment of peace would last—Jungkook wasn’t one to let things go. His scent was still clinging to your skin.

You shot a final glance over your shoulder that made you lock eyes with Yoongi. Yoongi eyes linger on you, posture relaxed despite the open wound on his brow still sluggishly bleeding, offering you a parting nod before you disappeared from his sight.

Jungkook tensed at that, his entire body coiling like a spring. But he said nothing, only watching as you left.

For now, you could breathe.

Meanwhile, the air inside the tent was thick enough with hostility to chock on.

Jungkook stood with his arms crossed, his shoulders drawn tight. He had been tense ever since the nurse got you, since Yoongi had stepped into the tent. Namjoon stood beside him, expression unreadable, while Jimin —fucking Jimin—, ever the mood-breaker, let out a scoff and shot Yoongi a smirk.

"Man, I still can't believe it," he snickered. "You really lost to an omega? That’s embarrassing."

Yoongi didn’t even blink.

"If that omega had been fighting you, your sorry ass would have lost too," he shot back easily, not even dignifying Jimin with a glance

Jungkook stiffened.

Jimin wasn’t expecting that answer.

He rolled his eyes, trying to recover. "Yeah, sure—”

Yoongi didn’t take the bait. Instead, the beta smirked, his gaze sharp as he glanced toward Jimin.

"You can suck a dick, man," Yoongi interrupted lazily, his tone bordering on bored. "If you really think that fight was a joke, then you're a bigger dumbass than I thought."

Jimin's expression darkened.

Jungkook's fingers twitched.

Then, Yoongis tone dropped, words hitting their mark like a well-placed strike. “If you’re too stupid to realize how fucking amazing she is, then she’s wasted in your pack.”

Jungkook froze. The words rang out like a challenge. Because for some reason, Yoongi defending you like that pissed him off more than Jimin mocking you.

Much more.

Too much.

Jimin’s expression twitched, irritation flashing in his eyes, but Jungkook barely registered it. His mind was still repeating the last thing Yoongi had said.

She’s wasted in your pack.

Something deep inside him—something primal—recoiled at the thought.

Yoongi had been watching you the entire fight, had taken every single one of your hits and still looked like he would’ve gone another round with you just for the thrill of it.

And then he had the fucking nerve to tell you to come with him.

No.

Jungkook couldn’t let that happen. Because there was something gnawing at the edges of his mind—a realization that he refused to let fully form.

He needed to put Yoongi in his place.

To tell him to back the fuck off.

To stay away from his omega—

Fuck.

The thought struck like a whip, burning through his mind like fire.

Mine.

His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

He hadn’t meant to think that.

Hadn’t meant to let it form.

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t join in on Jimin’s mockery.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he knew.

Yoongi was right.

You were too strong to be treated the way you were.

And yet.

Yet, he was standing here, fists curled at his sides, listening to someone else talk about you, see you, acknowledge you. Someone who wasn’t him.

And it fucking bothered him.

Namjoon, standing beside him, must have sensed the shift. His gaze flicked toward Jungkook, voice even. “Don’t start a fight.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched.

What the fuck was happening to him?

He forced himself to unclench his jaw. Forced himself to relax his stance.

Namjoon was right. And yet.

As he stood there, chest tight, body rigid, waiting for you to return, he couldn’t shake one singular, suffocating thought.

You were considering leaving.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The female wolf had been kind—efficient but distant, the way pack healers usually were when tending to someone who wasn’t truly their own. She patched you up, wrapped your bruised ribs, cleaned the gash on your lip, and handed you a bowl of cool water and a cloth.

“You can wash up before you go,” she had said, then excused herself.

You should have been relieved to have a moment alone, but as you ran the damp cloth over your skin, wiping away the grime of sweat and blood, you hesitated.

The scent.

Yoongi’s scent still clung to you from earlier, faint but present, threaded into the fabric of your torn clothes. But the one that lingered strongest was Jungkook’s.

It had settled on your skin like a second layer, a stark contrast to how he had always treated you. His scent was warm, rich, something inherently dominant and grounding—comforting, even.

And that was the problem.

You had never thought of Jungkook as comforting.

The scent didn’t belong on you. He had no right to leave it there, and yet he had—twice.

Huffing, you pressed the cloth to your neck and scrubbed it away.

Even though a part of you—a tiny, traitorous part of you—had liked it.

But you weren’t naive. You didn’t understand why he had done it, and you weren’t about to let yourself read into something that wasn’t real.

As the last traces of him faded from your skin, you took a breath, forcing down the unease curling in your stomach. You were bandaged and clean. Ready to go.

Except…

You weren’t ready to step back into that tent.

Not with him. Not with Yoongi. Not with Namjoon, whose invitation still hung in the air, the one you weren’t sure you’d refuse.

So you did the only thing you could.

You slipped away.

Before leaving, you stopped by the healer. “Please let Alpha Namjoon and his Beta know that I’m grateful for the invitation. I’ll make a decision soon.”

And then, before the suffocating weight of that tent could pull you back in—you disappeared into the festival night.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The moment the healer returned to the tent to take care of Yoongi and relayed your message, Jungkook stopped breathing. Everything inside him went still, frozen in the suffocating grip of one brutal, searing thought.

You were considering leaving.

His ears rang. His pulse pounded against his ribs, his veins, his skull—too loud, too hot.

And then—white-hot rage.

The fuck—you slipped away?!

The fuck you would tell some other fucking beta that you were considering his offer?!

Something deep inside him snapped, cracked open, left him bare and fucking raw. His body locked up, every instinct screaming at him to move, to find you, drag you back, remind you who the fuck you belonged to.

To him.

It shouldn’t have been true. But it was.

His omega.

His fucking omega.

Not Yoongi’s. Not Namjoon’s. Not anyone else’s.

His.

Across from him, Yoongi grinned—grinned, like he already had you.

If it wouldn’t provoke war with Namjoon’s pack, he would have put the smug bastard down right then and there.

Beside him, Namjoon must have sensed it—the impending explosion—because his voice was a sharp, cutting warning.

“Jeon.”

His head snapped toward the alpha, feral.

“Don’t. Fucking. Start.”

His breath was harsh, uneven. He forced his body still, forced himself to stay put, forced himself to swallow down the hurricane raging inside him.

But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He needed to get away from Yoongi’s fucking stare,

Jungkook moved before he could stop himself, shoving past the tent’s threshold, out into the cool night air. The night air was cold against Jungkook’s skin, but he barely felt it. The weight in his chest—the suffocating, clawing sensation pressing against his ribs—was all he could focus on. His lungs burned from how hard he was breathing, his body rigid with tension as his mind reeled over the situation.

You were gone.

You’d slipped away.

And Jungkook was unraveling.

It wasn’t just that you’d walked off. It wasn’t just that you had managed to leave without him noticing. It was that you had done so after telling another beta—not him—but fucking Yoongi that you were considering the invitation. Leaving. The word lodged itself inside his chest like a knife twisting between his ribs, making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to fucking stand still and not go feral with the need to find you.

Jungkook's fingers curled into fists at his sides. His instincts clawed at him, screamed at him to hunt you down, track you, drag you back where you belonged. He didn’t even know what that meant anymore—all he knew was that the idea of you slipping further from his grasp was driving him to the brink of madness.

And then—

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Jimin’s voice cut through the thick haze of rage flooding Jungkook’s system, sharp and irritated.

Jungkook’s head snapped to the side, eyes locking onto Jimin with a barely restrained snarl curling in his throat. Jimin stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a scoff on his lips, looking at him like he was some kind of deranged idiot.

“Seriously, why the fuck do you even care so much?” Jimin asked, incredulous. His gaze burned into Jungkook like he was trying to see into his mind, trying to pick apart the tangled mess of emotions that even Jungkook himself couldn’t fully understand. “Sure, she’s not as weak as we thought, but she’s still—”

Still an abnormal omega.

Something inside Jungkook snapped.

The next thing he knew, Jimin was pinned against a tree.

Bark cracked under the force of Jungkook’s grip as he shoved Jimin back, forearm pressing into his throat. A startled grunt left Jimin’s mouth, his hands flying up to grab at Jungkook’s wrist, but he wasn’t struggling. Not yet. He was stunned. His wide eyes stared into Jungkook’s, searching, trying to process the sheer fury he saw there.

Jungkook’s voice was low, guttural, dangerous. “Say that again.”

Jimin blinked. “What—”

“Say that shit again, Jimin.” Jungkook’s fingers curled tighter in the fabric of Jimin’s shirt, his grip unforgiving. “Say she’s ‘abnormal’ one more fucking time.”

The growl that rumbled from Jungkook’s chest was borderline feral. His body trembled with the effort to contain himself, to not let his instincts rip Jimin apart.

Jimin, to his credit, didn’t back down. He let out a breath, his expression shifting from shocked to frustrated. “You act like you hate her half the time,” he bit out, his voice rough from the pressure against his throat. “You—”

“You ever say that shit about her again,” Jungkook breathed, voice guttural, deadly, “and I’ll fucking break your jaw.” The words left Jungkook’s mouth before he even realized he’d spoken them.

Jimin swallowed, but there was no mistaking the disbelief in his scent—disbelief and realization.

A heavy silence settled between them.

Jungkook’s breath was uneven, his heart hammering like war drums in his chest. He didn’t know what the fuck he was saying, what the fuck he was feeling—only that it was true.

He didn’t hate you.

But he had made you think he did—for years.

And that was worse.

Jimin’s gaze flicked over his face, looking for something—understanding, maybe. Clarity. But all he found was frustration. Confusion. Possession. Jungkook finally released his hold, stepping back abruptly. Jimin sucked in a sharp breath, rubbing at his throat, his brows drawn in exasperation.

“Shit,” Jimin muttered.

Jungkook didn’t wait to hear what else he had to say. He turned, his body thrumming with tension, his instincts screaming.

Find her.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

You were impossible to track by scent alone.

Jungkook’s breath came faster, his chest tight with something dangerously close to panic. His mind raced as he moved through the festival grounds, scanning every inch of the crowd, turning over every fucking stone. He checked the food stalls, the bonfires, the gathering circles—but you were nowhere. His frustration mounted with every passing second, the suffocating weight of the unknown pressing down on him.

And then—

He saw you.

At the edge of the festival.

Watching.

His feet halted. His breath hitched.

But he didn’t run to you.

Not yet.

Because, he saw what you were watching.

A small group from your pack—your own pack—laughing together, eating from a food stall, talking and joking and existing without you.

Like you weren’t there.

Like you weren’t one of them.

Jungkook didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He only watched you.

Watched the way you lingered on the edges, distant, separate, apart. Watched the way your shoulders slumped just slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves—as if holding yourself together. Watched the way your eyes, usually sharp, usually guarded, turned soft with something somber.

Something that hurt.

And fuck—

Jungkook felt it.

Felt it in a way he had never let himself feel before.

Because deep down, he knew.

You might have been an outcast even without his bullying, but he sure as hell hadn’t helped.

Any chance you might have had at forming bonds with others—with other omegas who could have been open to you, to your differences—he had crushed with him and his friends being so openly against you.

And now, you were considering leaving.

Because you had no place here.

The air left his lungs.

And then—The wind shifted.

He caught your scent.

Subtle, light, but there.

Familiar. Calming. Now that he knew what to look for.

You felt it before you saw it—the weight of his gaze, the shift in the air. A tension, thick and charged, creeping up your spine like an unseen force tightening its grip around your throat. Your body reacted before your mind even had time to process it, muscles coiling, senses sharpening as if bracing for a fight, a command, a punishment.

And yet, when you turned your head, expecting the familiar sharpness of his scorn, the arrogant sneer that usually curled his lips, what you found instead was something entirely different.

Jungkook was walking toward you, but not like he normally did—not with the sharp, purposeful strides of an alpha ready to corner their prey. His movements were slow, measured, careful. Like he was approaching something that might spook, something fragile that he didn’t want to risk losing.

And then—he raised his hand.

Not to grab you. Not to pull you. Not to force you into submission.

But to hold it palm-out, a silent request.

Stay.

Your stomach twisted, confusion bubbling in your chest as your instincts warred with your logic. This was wrong. This wasn’t how Jungkook acted. He didn’t ask—he took. He didn’t approach with caution—he cornered. And yet, here he was, standing a short distance away, his body visibly tense but his expression void of cruelty.

Your gaze flickered over him warily, taking in the way his nose subtly twitched, the way his brow furrowed just slightly. You knew what he was doing. Smelling the air. Searching for something.

And when he didn’t find it—when his jaw ticked just barely, when his fingers curled the slightest bit before he forced them to relax—you understood.

You had washed off his scent.

The realization sent a strange kind of satisfaction through you. He didn’t look like he like it—not one bit. His scent had been stripped from your skin, erased as if he had never laid claim in the first place. But then, another realization hit just as quickly, one that made something deep inside you twist.

Yoongi’s scent wasn’t there, either.

Jungkook’s eyes flickered over you, assessing, processing. His expression barely shifted, but you knew him well enough by now to see the signs—the small, fleeting flicker of relief in his gaze, the way his shoulders lost a fraction of their tension. He hated that his scent was missing from you. But at the very least, no one else’s remained either.

You swallowed hard, torn between wanting to question him and simply pretending he wasn’t there at all. You didn’t get the chance to decide before he moved, his body lowering with an ease that felt unnatural for him, for what you were used to.

Jungkook sat beside you.

Not in front of you, not looming over you, not crowding you into submission.

Beside you.

And then, for the first time, he looked at his pack the way you did.

You weren’t sure what was more unsettling—the fact that he was sitting next to you without hostility, or the way he wasn’t part of the fun. Just watching the others with you. He wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t acting like the untouchable alpha you had always known him to be. He was simply watching. Watching them talk, watching them laugh, watching them exist together in a way you never had.

It made something sharp wedge itself inside your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know what to expect.

This entire situation was too strange, too wrong. You weren’t used to being this close to Jungkook without fear. Without waiting for the ridicule, for the belittlement, for the inevitable moment he reminded you just how different you were. How much you didn’t belong.

And yet, the silence stretched. And it never came.

Instead—

“I’m sorry.”

The words were so quiet, so impossibly foreign, that you almost didn’t recognize his voice at first. Your body went rigid. Your breath caught in your throat. Your brain struggled to comprehend.

Jungkook didn’t apologize. Jungkook didn’t admit fault.

And yet, he was sitting here beside you, his gaze still fixed on the pack in front of you, his posture stiff but open. And he had just apologized.

It took a moment for you to understand—to even believe it.

But then, he continued, voice low, rough, edged with something that sounded almost hesitant.

“I misjudged you,” he admitted. His hands curled into loose fists against his thighs before he forced himself to relax them. “You’re not weak. You were just you.” His head tilted just slightly in your direction, eyes searching for yours, but you refused to meet them, your own gaze locked forward, jaw tight. He exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching. “Your scent…” His voice grew quieter. “It’s calming.”

Something inside you twisted.

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Because what the fuck were you supposed to say?

This was the man who had spent years making you feel like nothing. The man who had made sure you never had a place in your own pack, who had crushed any hope of you ever forming connections, who had made you feel like you were something to be ridiculed, avoided, dismissed.

And now, he was telling you he had been wrong.

That he was sorry.

That your scent—the very thing they had used to demean you, to remind you of how you didn’t belong—had calmed him.

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Your hands clenched against your lap, your chest tight with too many emotions, too much history, too much fucking pain.

The silence stretched between you, thick, suffocating.

Jungkook waited.

For an answer. A reaction. Anything.

The silence between you stretched impossibly long, thick with something neither of you could name. Jungkook had never been a patient man, but for once, he did not demand, did not press, did not try to force an answer from you. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t answer him at all—maybe a part of him feared you wouldn’t. And yet, even if you had chosen silence, he wouldn’t have left your side.

But then—you spoke.

Your voice was quiet, slow, careful. Not hesitant, not weak—measured.

“I am an omega,” you said, your lips parting just slightly before you pressed them together again, licking them as if trying to decide whether or not to keep speaking. You weren’t looking at him. Wouldn’t dare look at him. Not Jeon Jungkook. Not the alpha, not the son of your pack’s leader.

Not the one who, with his friends, had made sure your life had been nothing short of awful.

Not the one who had scented you today—twice.

Not the one who had apologized.

And yet, despite the fact that you refused to meet his gaze, you didn’t stop talking.

“Even unpure, I am still an omega,” you continued, the weight of those words pressing against your tongue, curling around your ribs. “I am unwanted in my own pack. Unclaimed. But I was invited.” You exhaled slowly, staring at the people in front of you, at the way they laughed, how they leaned into each other with ease. How they had everything you didn’t.

How they had never once thought to include you.

Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out anyway.

“I was invited to join Yoongi,” you said, nodding toward them, toward everything you could have. Toward everything Jungkook had helped make sure you could never have here. “I could finally have something like this.”

Jungkook followed your gaze, watched the pack through your eyes, saw what you saw. Saw what you had been missing for so long.

And then, you turned to him.

For the first time since this conversation started, you finally looked at him.

“Why would you apologize now, Jungkook?” The words were soft, but sharp, piercing straight through him. “Can’t you just… let me go?”

Jungkook felt his lungs seize, felt something inside him coil so tight it hurt. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Because—fuck, he understood. He understood exactly what you meant, exactly what you wanted. He understood the words you were saying, the quiet plea hidden underneath them. And at the same time, he didn’t.

Because no.

He couldn’t let you go.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists against his thighs as something ugly, something primal, twisted inside him at the mere thought of you leaving, of you running to another pack, of you going to him.

The image of Yoongi’s hand gripping your wrist, of his scent lingering on your skin, of his invitation—his fucking offer—wrapped around Jungkook’s ribs like barbed wire, sinking deep, tearing at his insides, making his vision darken at the edges.

He hated it.

Hated the idea of you walking away. Hated the thought of another pack looking at you, claiming you, seeing what he had been too fucking blind to see. And for the first time, he let himself acknowledge the thought that had been clawing at the edges of his mind, the one he had been too fucking scared to face.

What if you weren’t just his omega?

What if you were—fuck.

What if you were his mate?

And he had ruined it before it could even begin?

A slow, shaky breath left his lips, his fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. He turned to you, and when you finally met his gaze, his dark eyes were filled with something heavy, something raw—something real.

Vulnerability.

“I can’t,” he admitted, voice rough, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “I can’t let you go.”

You didn’t interrupt him.

You listened.

And Jungkook realized—you were giving him something he had never given you.

A chance.

A chance to explain. A chance to fix it.

A chance he didn’t fucking deserve.

Jungkook had never struggled with words before. He had never needed to. He was an alpha, the future leader of his pack—his presence alone commanded obedience.

But as he looked at you now, sitting stiff and guarded, waiting for him to say something worth listening to—for once, words failed him.

He didn’t know where to start.

Did he start with the moment he really saw you? The moment when the scent he had ignored for so long finally reached him properly, made his head spin?

The moment when Yoongi’s bloodied knuckles had slammed into your face, when you had spit blood onto the ground and still stood your ground?

The moment he realized that—fuck—you weren’t weak, weren’t something lesser, weren’t something meant to be mocked or scorned?

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook finally said, his voice lower than before, rougher. He wasn’t looking at you. Couldn’t. Not when he felt this exposed. This bare.

“I’m sorry that it took me so long to realize it. To really see you.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he forced himself to meet your gaze.

“I don’t think I ever wanted to see you,” he admitted, voice raw. “Not really. I told myself you were lesser. That you were different. That the way the others treated you was just—how things were supposed to be. I never questioned it. Never questioned myself.”

He hesitated, inhaling deeply, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “But when you fought—when you stood your ground—I realized I had never actually looked at you. Never tried to understand. And that—” his jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at his sides. “That was my fucking mistake.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, his expression tightening with something close to frustration. Not with you—with himself.

Jungkook had spent years pushing you aside, treating you like something beneath him, something unworthy of his attention. Now he couldn’t ignore you.

Would never ignore you again.

He inhaled, your scent reaching him, steadying something inside him. The realization had been clawing at his insides since the moment he finally noticed you, since he finally let himself notice you. And still, it was terrifying to say out loud.

Jungkook hesitated. Then—

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, his eyes flickering across your face, searching for something he couldn’t name. “I don’t know if I—if we—” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “I just know that I can’t let you go.”

Your breath caught.

Jungkook swallowed, his fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave in, getting closer—not to crowd you, not to intimidate, but because he needed to.

“Maybe,” he said carefully, slowly, “if things had been different—if I had been different—I would have figured it out sooner.”

Your brows furrowed. “Figured what out?”

He swallowed. Hesitated—

“I could see it,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you didn’t recognize. “I could, can see myself being your mate.”

Silence.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You stared at him, stunned, shocked, unsure whether to laugh or cry or push him away.

Jungkook… wanted to be your mate?

Jungkook, the alpha who had spent years making sure you knew your place, now wanted you?

The idea made your head spin.

Your scent spiked with uncertainty, and Jungkook felt it, saw it in the way you shifted, in the way you didn’t reach for him, didn’t lean closer despite the way his body was pulling toward yours.

But you didn’t reject him either.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, exhaling harshly, as if trying to settle something inside himself. “I don’t expect you to believe me,” he admitted, voice rough. “I don’t even expect you to forgive me.” His fists clenched at his sides, his whole body tense. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

You didn’t know what to say.

And Jungkook, for the first time in his life, looked at you and realized—he was afraid.

Afraid that he had ruined this before it had ever begun.

His hands twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you, to grab your wrist and drag you closer, to scent you again. He wanted to. Fuck, he needed to. It wasn’t right, you walking around without his scent, without something that marked you as his. If someone else came near you, if someone tried to—

No.

He wouldn’t force it-you.

Not this time.

Not until you wanted him to.

Jungkook swallowed down the instinct, forcing himself to push past it. He got up, took a step back instead, motioning toward the festival.

“Come with me.”

You hesitated.

Jungkook didn’t blame you.

But after a moment, you moved.

You fell into step beside him, neither of you speaking as you walked deeper into the festival. Music and laughter filled the air, scents of grilled meat and spiced drinks curling into your senses. The sounds of packmates laughing, bonding made something tighten in your chest, a dull ache you had long since grown used to.

Jungkook saw the way you glanced toward a small food stall, the brief flicker of interest before you shut it down.

It was so natural, so ingrained in you to deny yourself.

Before you could pull away, before you could convince yourself you didn’t belong here, Jungkook was already moving. He pulled you toward the stall, barely giving you time to react. The vendor greeted him with a knowing smirk, already preparing something without needing to be asked.

Jungkook glanced at you, watching your reaction carefully.

"You haven’t eaten, have you?"

You tensed but said nothing. You didn’t want to admit it.

Jungkook scoffed, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. The touch was warm, careful. Not rough, not demanding. Just—grounding. Before you could argue, the vendor handed Jungkook two portions, and he pressed one into your hands, giving you no choice but to take it. You stared down at it, unsure of how to respond. Jungkook didn’t push. He just started eating his own, as if this was normal. As if it had always been this easy.

The food felt heavy in your hands.

Not because of its weight, but because of what it meant.

Jungkook had never done this before. Had never even come close. No mockery, no sharp-edged words hidden behind smirks, no underhanded glances exchanged with his friends at your expense. There was no cruelty, no trick lurking beneath the surface, waiting to snap around your throat the moment you let your guard down.

And yet—you hesitated.

Because it didn’t make sense.

Because this—this warmth, this softness, this small moment of normalcy—couldn’t be real.

For years, Jungkook had seen to it personally, had mocked and humiliated you whenever the opportunity arose. Why would he stop now? Why would he suddenly be so… kind? Did he really want you as a mate? Were you really meant for him?

It was easier—safer—to assume this was another joke. Some elaborate, twisted game where he played nice just to see if he could break you in a different way. But when you looked at him, at the way he just stood there, eating his food like this was something he had done a thousand times before, you couldn’t see it. There was no glint of amusement in his eyes, no carefully hidden malice behind his actions.

He wasn’t laughing at you.

And that made something uneasy twist in your stomach.

Because it meant you wanted to believe him.

And you didn’t know how to feel about that.

Jungkook nudged your shoulder lightly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts.

“You fought. You should eat,” he said simply. His tone was different—calmer, like this was just an obvious fact. “That’s what the others do, isn’t it? They celebrate. They enjoy the festival. You should too.”

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“I don’t really do that,” you admitted, voice quieter than you intended. You forced yourself to keep your gaze on the food in your hands, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I don’t really… have someone to do that with.”

Jungkook stilled.

For a long, heavy moment, he didn’t say anything. But you felt it—the shift in the air, the weight of his gaze as it burned into you, the tension that coiled so tight it was suffocating. His throat bobbed, a muscle in his jaw clenching as something dark flickered across his face.

Because this—this was his fault.

He had done this to you.

Maybe not alone, but he had made sure you were alone, had pushed you so far to the edges of this pack that there was no place left for you. And now—now, he hated it.

Hated that you looked at your own pack with longing, with that quiet, resigned acceptance of your isolation. Hated that you had been forced to convince yourself you didn’t want something as simple as friendship.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his shoulders tight with the urge to reach for you, to pull you closer, to—

Jungkook swallowed hard, his voice coming out lower, rougher.

“Then celebrate with me.”

Your breath caught in your throat, fingers tightening around the food in your hands.

Jungkook must have sensed the shift in the air—or maybe, for once, he was just paying attention.

Because instead of letting the weight of your words settle between you, heavy and suffocating, he did something unexpected. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back as if physically shaking off the tension. Then, with a pointed tilt of his head, he motioned toward the festival stalls ahead.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice lighter now, easier. “Let’s do something fun.”

You hesitated, still off-balance from the strange, unfamiliar warmth of the moment before, but Jungkook didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed your wrist—not hard, not demanding, just firm. Certain. And before you could think to pull away, he was already leading you toward the stalls.

The air around you shifted as he walked, the tension from before unraveling with each step. The festival’s bright lanterns cast a warm glow over everything, their light flickering against the deep hues of the night sky. Packmates bustled around, laughter and cheers blending into the rhythmic hum of music. It should have felt suffocating, overwhelming even, but somehow, Jungkook made it lighter.

Like you could actually breathe.

He stopped in front of a game stall—a simple one, lined with targets and darts, where the prizes ranged from cheap trinkets to extravagant stuffed animals far too big for anyone to reasonably carry around. Jungkook crossed his arms over his broad chest, surveying the prizes with an exaggerated air of contemplation before glancing at you.

“So,” he drawled, his tone dipping into something playfully arrogant, “what should I win my omega?”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook must have heard it too, because the moment the words left his mouth, his entire body went rigid. His eyes widened a fraction, and then he fucking blushed. A pink hue crept up his neck, dusting his cheeks, his usual confidence cracking just enough for the moment to hang between you, raw and unguarded.

You stared at him, stunned.

Not because of the claim—no, that wasn’t what shocked you the most. It was the way he reacted to it. The way it had slipped out so naturally, so thoughtlessly, like it was something he had already accepted, something that was already settled in his mind.

Like it was something he wanted.

Your stomach twisted.

It was too much. Too heavy. Too real.

So you did the only thing you could think to do.

You looked away, fixing your gaze on the prizes as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. “Whatever’s fine,” you muttered, trying to evade the weight of the moment. Trying to evade the mere thought of being his.

Jungkook nodded stiffly, the blush still lingering on his face. But internally—internally, his mind was a fucking mess.

Because "whatever" wasn’t fine.

Not when it came to you.

No, he wanted to get you the best fucking prize there was. The biggest, the best, the one that would make everyone look twice and know exactly who you belonged to. Because he had already decided—whether you realized it or not—you were someone he definitely wanted as his mate. And that meant you deserved the best.

His lips curled into a grin, the usual cocky tilt of his smirk returning as he grabbed the darts, rolling one between his fingers before glancing at you.

And for the first time ever, your heart fluttered.

Just a little.

The realization made your stomach flip. Made your breath catch in your throat.

And then—the spell shattered.

“Hey, look at this,” a voice sneered from behind you.

You stiffened immediately. Too immediately.

Jungkook’s grin fell the second he saw your shoulders go rigid, the way your fingers curled around the hem of your sleeves. The way you prepared yourself.

He turned, eyes narrowing at the approaching group—packmates, his packmates. And the moment they saw him standing beside you, standing with you, their expressions twisted into something ugly.

“Oh, come on, Jungkook,” one of them laughed, clapping a hand against his shoulder. “Really? You’re making it too easy.”

Another chuckled, arms crossing as he eyed you with an amused smirk. “What, is this your new way of keeping her in line? Pretend to be nice, get her hopes up, then drop her harder than before?”

Jungkook’s blood turned to ice.

He barely registered the words—all he saw was you.

The way your breath hitched. The way your fingers curled tighter. The way your body tensed as if bracing for impact, as if you had already accepted their mockery before it had even fully left their mouths, as if you believed them.

Like you had done this a hundred times before.

And Jungkook—hated it.

Hated the way you didn’t fight back, hated the way you still defaulted to this, to expecting it. Hated that you were more than capable of wiping the fucking floor with half of them but you still—still—

Instinct took over.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Jungkook moved.

A step forward—not away from you, but in front of you.

The shift was immediate.

The laughter faltered. The sneers wavered. They weren’t expecting that.

Because never—not once—had Jeon Jungkook ever placed himself between you and them.

The air turned thick, charged with something heavy, something dangerous.

Jungkook didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He just stared.

And for the first time, his packmates hesitated.

Because this wasn’t the Jungkook they knew.

The Jungkook they knew laughed at you, mocked you, threw you to the wolves because it was fun, because it was easy. This Jungkook wasn’t laughing.

This Jungkook was looking at them like he was one second away from tearing their fucking throats out. His jaw clenched, his shoulders squared, his presence radiating something that was no longer just posturing—it was a warning.

And still—still, he hated that it had taken him this long to feel this way.

Hated that only now did the need to protect you consume him.

That only now, when it might already be too late, did he realize you had always been worth protecting.

The packmates who had been so quick to sneer, so confident in their mockery, suddenly found themselves hesitating, uncertain. Their eyes flickered between Jungkook and you, as if trying to make sense of what they were seeing—as if they couldn’t comprehend the sudden change in him.

Jungkook could practically hear the gears turning in their heads, trying to fit this moment into the narrative they had always believed. Because in their eyes, there was no way—no fucking way—that this was real. That Jeon Jungkook, their golden boy, their alpha, was actually standing between them and you.

He could feel their confusion, their disbelief, thick in the air between them. And then—the moment of hesitation broke.

One of them scoffed, shaking his head. “Alright, Jungkook. We get it.”

Another smirked, though there was a flicker of unease in his expression. “Yeah. You had us for a second.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked, his muscles coiling tight.

They didn’t get it.

And when they turned to each other, exchanging knowing looks, their laughter starting up again—as if this was all just some elaborate new joke at your expense—something inside Jungkook snapped.

His voice came out low, dangerous. “Do you think I’m joking?”

The laughter stopped.

Jungkook took a slow, deliberate step forward, his expression dark, his presence suddenly suffocating. The easy confidence that usually radiated from him was gone—this was something else entirely. Something cold, something sharp, something that carried weight.

“You think this is me fucking around?” His voice was quiet, but it carried, slicing through the air like a blade. “That this is just some new way to mess with her?”

No one answered.

Jungkook let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “You don’t get to laugh.” His gaze cut through them.

One of them shuffled uncomfortably, but before they could speak, Jungkook cut them off.

“I mean it,” he said, voice like stone. “You don’t fucking laugh at her again. You don’t talk down to her. You don’t fucking touch her.”

A pause.

“You do, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. And then—one by one, they backed down.

Jungkook didn’t move until they turned, murmuring amongst themselves as they walked away, their laughter now uneasy, their jokes less certain. He heard the words slip between them, muttered under their breath—“This is just Jungkook’s new game. Give it a few days.”

Jungkook’s teeth ground together.

He wanted to tear the thought from their skulls. Wanted to shake them until they understood—until they saw what he saw, felt what he felt.

But it was too late.

And as he turned back to you—the shift hit him like a blow to the chest.

You were staring at him, your body stiff, your expression carefully blank. But it wasn’t the usual guarded neutrality you wore around the pack.

This was different.

This was wary. This was uncertain.

Jungkook felt his stomach drop.

No.

He had felt it before—just for a second. That fragile, delicate moment when you had started to let your guard down, when you had begun to step into something lighter with him, something that almost—almost—felt safe.

And now, just like that, it was gone.

His throat bobbed as he tried to figure out what to say, how to fix this, how to reach you again.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer now, quieter. “Are you—”

“Why did you do that?”

Your voice cut through him—not angry, not accusing. Just... uncertain.

Jungkook hesitated. He could still feel their words clinging to the air, their doubts sinking into the space between you. This is just Jungkook’s new game.

Fuck.

How could he make you believe him when even his own packmates didn’t?

He swallowed, forcing himself to meet your gaze, to hold it steady despite the way his chest ached.

“Because they were wrong,” he said simply. “About you. About me.”

You inhaled sharply, but you didn’t look away.

Jungkook’s hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you, to do something—anything—to ease the wariness in your eyes. Instead, he took a slow breath, forcing himself to think. To find something, anything, that could break the tension, that could pull you back from whatever edge you were teetering on.

Then, suddenly—he knew.

A spark of something familiar flickered in his chest, and he let out a breath, forcing a small, lopsided grin.

“C’mon,” he said, tilting his head toward the game stall behind him. “I still owe you a prize, don’t I?”

Your brows furrowed. “Jungkook—”

“Let me win you something,” he interrupted, stepping closer—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to ground. “It’s only fair, after all.”

You hesitated.

And for a moment, he thought you might refuse.

But then—slowly, cautiously—you nodded.

Jungkook’s chest loosened just the tiniest bit.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

But for now—for this moment—it was something.

For the next two hours, Jungkook did everything he could to make you feel comfortable.

He made it his personal mission, dragging you from stall to stall, challenging you to games he was far too skilled at—only to pretend he wasn’t, just to see the flicker of determination in your eyes as you tried to best him. He let you win once, and when you narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, accusing him of letting you, he only smirked and shrugged.

(He had let you win. Of course, he had. But he wouldn’t admit it, because he liked the way it made you scoff and roll your eyes, the way it made you—just for a second—drop your guard.)

He won you prizes. Too many. More than you could carry. Every time you tried to refuse, he would only smirk, placing them in your arms with an ease that left you grumbling under your breath.

And he got you food—again.

The first time, you didn’t protest. The second time, you huffed but accepted. The third time, you stared at him, bewildered.

“Jungkook.”

His grin was all too pleased as he handed you something sweet, a smug glint in his eyes. “Eat.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “I’ll explode.”

A beat of silence. Then—the quietest huff of laughter.

It was barely there. So small, so fleeting.

But it was real.

Jungkook’s breath caught, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might betray him. Because fuck, he wanted to hear nothing else. He wanted to hear you laugh again. And again. And again.

His grin softened into something else entirely, something genuine. Something he didn’t think he had ever shown you before. “Then I guess I’ll have to carry you home when you do.”

You scoffed, nudging his shoulder lightly—but you took the food.

Jungkook ached at how easy this felt.

For the first time, he felt like he was on solid ground with you.

His moment shattered the second Yoongi appeared.

It was subtle at first—just a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye, a figure leaning against one of the wooden stalls. Arms crossed, gaze steady, watching.

But Jungkook felt it the instant you tensed.

The warmth between you both—the fragile, tentative peace he had spent the past two hours carefully piecing together—vanished. The soft laughter, the playful bickering, the easy moments he had crafted, gone in an instant.

Jungkook watched—seething, helpless—as you looked at Yoongi and smiled.

Not forced. Not polite. Real.

A smile you hadn’t once given him.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Yoongi pushed off the stall, moving toward you with a familiar ease that made Jungkook’s stomach twist. He walked like he belonged at your side, like he had the right to step into your space without hesitation.

Jungkook had spent the last few hours carefully earning every inch closer to you. Yoongi didn’t have to.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Yoongi said, his voice smooth, measured.

Jungkook bristled.

Because Yoongi was looking at the prizes Jungkook had won you. At the way you were carrying more than you could possibly hold, arms full of his gifts, his offerings, his proof that he was trying, that he was changing, that he was someone you could trust.

But Yoongi—Yoongi was amused.

Like it was a joke.

Like Jungkook was a joke.

“I suppose I am,” you replied, adjusting the weight of the prizes in your arms.

Jungkook clenched his fists.

He wanted you to say it was because of him.

And then—Yoongi touched you.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t nothing.

It was deliberate, under the pretense of checking your injuries.

His fingers brushed against the inside of your wrist, barely there, light but firm, enough to feel the warmth of his skin against yours. Enough for his scent to cling.

Jungkook’s vision blurred. His body tensed, instincts screaming, but he couldn’t react. Not yet. Not when you didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

But Jungkook knew better.

Yoongi’s fingertips lingered too long. His eyes flickered too knowingly. And when he spoke—when he murmured, “I thought only you had left a mark on me, but my ribs still hurt with every breath I take”—it was too much.

Jungkook barely contained his growl.

Then, you chuckled.

You chuckled.

Jungkook’s nails bit into his palms.

“You did get a few good punches in,” you admitted, casual, easy, like it didn’t kill Jungkook to see you so comfortable with him. “I’ll feel them for a while.”

Jungkook wanted to rip Yoongi’s hand off of you.

Instead, he clenched his teeth and forced himself to breathe.

Yoongi hummed, finally releasing your wrist—but the damage was done.

His scent clung to you now. Not just faintly, not just a passing trace—it was fresh. Strong.

And you—you didn’t even notice.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay still.

To not grab your wrist, drag you away, wipe the smell off you himself.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, the back of his jaw aching from the tension he held.

He could feel his wolf pacing, snarl curling at the edges of his mind, demanding—fix it. Remove it. Make it right.

Yoongi didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t care.

“Have you thought about what I said?” Yoongi asked, his voice quieter now. More serious.

Jungkook’s chest tightened painfully.

Because he knew exactly what Yoongi was asking.

Yoongi had asked you to leave.

To come with him. To his pack. To his home.

And now—now he wanted your answer.

Jungkook forced himself to look away, to breathe, to keep his hands at his sides and not tear you away from Yoongi and demand that you never fucking leave.

“I want to wait until morning.”

Yoongi’s head tilted slightly, gaze sharp. “Morning?”

You nodded, shifting on your feet. “When the packs leave the festival grounds.”

Jungkook’s heart nearly stopped.

You weren’t saying no. But you weren’t saying yes.

You were giving yourself time. Time to think. Time to question whatever this was. To understand your feelings. And maybe, to say goodbye.

One thing became clear to Jungkook in that moment—he wasn’t going to waste a single second he still had with you. Because if you were still questioning him, still wondering if he was loyal to you—if you had a place within your pack that had made you doubt him so easily—then he would prove it to you.

He would make you stay.

Jungkook finally exhaled, stepping closer—not aggressively, but firmly. The air between him and Yoongi was tense.

“This conversation can wait until morning,” Jungkook said, finality in his tone.

Yoongi raised a brow, gaze flickering between the two of you before he exhaled. He didn’t say anything else, but Jungkook could feel the doubt in his stare. Then, Yoongi tilted his head, considering something.

“We’re having a BBQ later,” he said, his eyes flickering between the two of you. “You should come.”

Jungkook stiffened.

Yoongi wasn’t talking to him.

He was talking to you.

And you—you were actually thinking about it.

Jungkook didn’t let you answer.

“We already ate.”

The word cut through the air like a blade, sharp and final.

Yoongi raised a brow, gaze darkening, but Jungkook didn’t care.

He was done.

He was done with the way Yoongi looked at you. With the way Yoongi spoke to you, like you already belonged to him, his pack. With the way you let his scent stay on you.

The way it twisted something deep in his gut, something raw and uncontrollable.

Yoongi held his stare for a long moment, unreadable. Then, finally, he sighed, lifting his hands in a mock surrender.

“Your loss.”

Jungkook said nothing. Just turned. It was pure instinct when he ushered you away from Yoongi, away from the weight of his gaze, away from the scent he had left on you like a stain Jungkook couldn't fucking ignore. When he finally stopped, it was in a quieter part of the grounds, where the festival noise hummed rather than roared, where the air wasn’t thick with the weight of too many bodies pressed close together.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Show me your wrist.”

Jungkook exhaled sharply, eyes flickering over your face, searching, as if looking for something he couldn't quite name. Then, just as quickly, his gaze dropped.

To your wrist.

To the place Yoongi had touched.

His jaw tightened.

Before you could react, before you could even question it, his hand reached out, hovering just above your skin.

"Show me," he muttered.

You blinked, still rattled, still trying to process what just happened.

"What?"

"Your wrist," he said, voice low, edged with something unreadable. "Where he touched you."

You hesitated, instinct screaming at you to pull away, to leave before this became something you couldn't take back.

But—fuck.

He was looking at you like that again.

Like you were important. Like you mattered. Like you were something he could lose.

And for some stupid, ridiculous reason—you wanted to be just that to him.

Still, you slowly lifted your wrist, offering it to him, confused. Wary.

Jungkook didn’t immediately touch you. Instead, he let his fingers hover over your skin, the warmth of him so close, yet not quite there. You expected something rough, something forceful, something to remind you exactly who he was.

But instead—

He was gentle.

His fingers brushed against your pulse point, barely-there, softer than you ever thought him capable of.

And then—his expression shifted.

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering over his features as his thumb ghosted over the spot where Yoongi’s scent still clung.

A sharp breath left his lips, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“You barely smell like yourself,” he muttered, voice tight. “Not with the festival, not with—” he cut himself off, jaw clenching. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t even smell you properly.”

His gaze snapped to yours then, dark, searching.

“Let me fix it.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched. His grip on your wrist didn’t tighten, but he didn’t pull away either.

“I want to lay my scent over his,” he said, voice steady, unwavering. “I want to—” he hesitated, inhaling sharply before forcing himself to continue. “I need you to smell like me again. Please.”

Your breath hitched.

Because—no.

No, no, no.

This wasn't happening.

This—this whole thing, this night, his sudden kindness, the games, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you—

The scenting. The gifts. The food, earlier. The way he had asked. The way his voice had softened when he said it, like it was something that actually mattered.

This—this was how Alphas behaved around their omegas. How they courted their mates.

And Jungkook had to know that.

It couldn’t be real.

It had to be a joke.

A cruel, twisted joke.

Even for Jungkook.

“Are you—” your voice faltered, cracking as you shook your head. “Are you serious?”

His jaw tightened.

“You’re telling me you suddenly care?” your voice was sharper now, rising, your heart hammering. “After years of treating me like shit—this? This is what you expect me to believe?”

Jungkook didn’t look away.

“Yes.”

You scoffed, taking a step back, forcing him to let you go. Losing some of the gifts on the ground.

“This is cruel,” you whispered, something raw bleeding into your voice. “Even for you.”

Jungkook flinched.

For a moment, just a brief moment, you saw it—the flicker of something in his expression. Guilt.

And then, just as quickly, determination.

“No,” he said, firm.

You blinked, startled by the intensity of his voice.

“I don’t want you to think that,” he continued, his tone rough, almost desperate. “I know I have no fucking right to ask for anything from you, but I swear—I will spend every single fucking day proving to you that I mean it.” His breath was uneven, his eyes dark and unreadable. “That if you even honestly consider staying—I will be the best goddamn mate you could ever have.”

Your heart stopped.

Mate.

He said it.

Not as a joke, not in passing, not with a smirk or a cruel edge—he meant it.

He actually, genuinely meant it.

Your stomach twisted, breath shaking as you tried to process his words.

Because this—this was too much.

This was too real.

And Jungkook—Jungkook must have realized it.

Because just as quickly as he had spoken, his gaze shifted.

Softened.

And then, he sighed.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck—I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You said nothing, still too caught up in your own spiraling thoughts, still trying to understand what the hell was happening.

Jungkook hesitated, then looked back at you, his voice quieter this time.

“I love your scent,” he admitted, the honesty in his tone knocking the breath from your lungs. “I just—” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I hate not being able to smell it.”

His throat bobbed, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“I hate that he covered it up.”

Your chest ached.

Because—fuck.

He really, really meant it.

You were shaking.

And you didn’t even know why.

Jungkook’s presence was too much.

His words. His touch. The weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a storm, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to stay standing.

Your mind felt like it was folding in on itself, twisting with every word Jungkook had said, every inch of space he refused to give you. The festival, the laughter, the distant hum of celebration—it all turned cruel.

The festival had felt warm before, alive with laughter and the scents of grilled meats and spiced sweets. The lantern lights had flickered gently, welcoming, the hum of voices wrapping around you like an embrace. The way walking, talking with him through it made you feel like you belonged.

But now?

Now, the sounds of the festival felt cruel.

The laughter in the distance mocked you.

The warmth of the festival fires burned too hot, too close.

The prizes Jungkook had won you hung heavy in your hands, their weight an anchor you hadn't asked for. The small stuffed wolf, the silly little trinkets—they meant nothing. But Jungkook had won them for you. Had looked at you with something akin to pride when he handed them over, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

He was too much.

All of it—too much.

You were still shaking.

And Jungkook must have realized it.

Your scent changed, the shift barely noticeable under the layers of festival smoke, grilled meat, and—worst of all—Yoongi. But it was there.

And it was panic.

Jungkook’s heart clenched. His instincts screamed at him to fix it. To calm you, to make you feel safe—to make it stop.

His own body went rigid.

Because fuck.

That was the last thing he wanted.

All he had wanted—all he had been trying to do for the past hours—was make you feel safe.

So, slowly, carefully, he moved.

So slow, you didn’t realize it in your panic.

Like he was approaching a startled animal, as if the slightest movement could send you bolting.

And then, before you could fully process it—his arms wrapped around you.

Engulfed you.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding.

It was careful.

And it was warm.

Shielded you.

One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other pressing between your shoulders, tucking you against him. Firm but careful, his touch uncertain but solid—so solid.

You froze.

Because what was this?

What the hell was this?

He didn’t try to scent you. He wouldn’t. Not without you allowing it. But he had to do something.

So instead, he just—held you.

His breath, steady and warm, brushed against your ear, his voice low, soothing as he whispered. Low, steady words against your ear, softer than you thought he was capable of.

“You’re okay.”

You weren’t.

“I’ve got you.”

He shouldn’t.

“Just breathe.”

And you hated him for it.

Hated that his voice was soothing. Hated that his arms felt safe. Hated that you felt wanted. Hated that you were longing for this. Hated that he smelled calming. Hated that, despite every inch of your mind screaming at you to pull away—

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched, throat tightening as something inside you cracked.

You sniffled.

A small, tiny sound—barely there.

But Jungkook heard it.

Felt it.

And his whole body tensed, muscles locking as if a single wrong move could shatter you completely. His Omega was crying.

His Omega.

Fuck.

It didn’t matter if you hadn’t accepted it yet—if you were still fighting it, still trying to deny what was standing right in front of you.

Because fuck—

You were crying.

Not sobbing. Not wailing. But the quiet, shaking kind.

The kind that hurt.

And he would not let you go through this alone.

--------

Part 2

[salt-clangen]

Moon 18 pt 1

Green leaf

Buckle up guys bc this is only pt 1

Trigger warning: animal death and descriptions of animal remains

Typically, an apprentice ceremony followed birth order, but for Lynxdawn’s daughters, Wolfstar had chosen to begin with the obvious decisions.

“Let all cats old enough to swim gather for a clan meeting!” Wolfstar called from atop the massive driftwood trunk that crowned her den.

The clearing filled quickly. Thistle, still wobbly on her feet. Excitement hummed through the air like heat before a summer storm.

When the crowd settled, Wolfstar lifted her chin. “Today is a very exciting day—we welcome four new apprentices.”

Lynxdawn fussed over her daughters at the edge of the crowd, smoothing Sandkit’s fur with rhythmic strokes. The kits sat beside her in descending birth order, each trembling with anticipation.

“Dropletkit, Kelpkit, Coralkit, Sandkit,” Wolfstar announced. One by one, the four kits stepped forward and turned to face their clanmates as they’d practiced.

“You’ve each reached the age of six moons,” she continued, her voice rich and steady. “From this day on, until you earn your warrior names, you will be known as Dropletpaw, Kelppaw, Coralpaw, and Sandpaw.”

A wave of cheers rolled through the clearing. Wolfstar raised her tail, waiting for quiet to return before speaking again.

“Sandpaw, step forward.”

The smallest of the sisters puffed out her chest and sat proudly, her heart thudding like waves against the cliff.

“You’ve chosen the path of a warrior,” Wolfstar said, her tone warm. “Your mentor will be Shadowdive. I trust he’ll manage both apprentices he’s been blessed with.”

Sandpaw bounded to touch noses with her new mentor, practically buzzing with excitement.

“Coralpaw,” Wolfstar paused—longer than she intended. “You asked to announce your path yourself. Please go ahead.”

Coralpaw stood with poised ease, her leaf-green eyes scanning the clan. She cleared her throat delicately, even as her sisters groaned at her theatrics.

“I’ve decided,” she said clearly, “to become the clan’s first mediator.”

A ripple of gasps fluttered through the clearing. Not upset—just surprised. Even Lynxdawn blinked in shock. She’d expected Coralpaw to lean toward the arts, or perhaps take up campkeeping.

Wolfstar flicked her tail, quieting the reaction, and offered a measured smile. “Coralpaw, you understand that means I don’t have a proper mentor for you?”

“I know,” the young molly replied, unshaken. “But I think a mediator is a vital part of the clan, and I’m ready to take that on.”

Wolfstar’s eyes softened. “That’s a noble thing to say.”

She scanned the gathered cats, her tail twitching in thought. At last, she spoke. “Then your mentor will be Nightleap.”

Silence fell.

Nightleap looked like she’d been doused in cold water. She barely masked her shock before Snowspeckle nudged her with a congratulatory purr. Slowly, the black molly stepped forward, casting a glance at Wolfstar.

“Nightleap, I trust you have a wealth of insight to share. And to support your mentoring, I’ll request a mediator from another clan to assist with occasional lessons.”

Nightleap dipped her head. Coralpaw, untouched by the tension, reached out eagerly to touch noses with her new mentor.

“Kelppaw!” Wolfstar turned to the next, eager to move on. “You’ve chosen to become an artisan, and our beloved deputy was an easy match. I know she’ll pass on all her wisdom.”

Snowspeckle stepped forward with a proud gleam in her eye. Kelppaw purred so hard she shook as she touched noses with her mentor.

When they settled to the side, Wolfstar took a breath and looked to the final kit.

“Dropletpaw,” she said gently, “you haven’t yet shared your chosen path.”

Dropletpaw stiffened as if struck. Her eyes flicked briefly to Wolfstar, then to the watching crowd. Finally, they dropped to her paws.

“Dropletpaw, do you need more time?” the leader asked, her voice softer than sea foam.

The young tabby shook her head. She’d already spent days in Wolfstar’s den, seeking guidance from every cat who offered it. The last thing she wanted was more advice.

“No,” she murmured. Then louder, steadier: “I’ve decided to become a historian.”

Again a few whispers broke out, but Wolfstar only had eyes for the apprentice. Dropletpaw flinched with a squeak as her leader dropped lithely to the sand beside her.

Her eyes bright, Wolfstar spoke just to her. “Really?”

The young molly nodded, swallowing down her nerves.

Standing tall once more, Wolfstar called out. “Then I shall be your mentor.”

She bent her head. Dropletpaw touched noses with her, tail quivering with nerves.

And then the clan erupted.

“Sandpaw! Coralpaw! Kelppaw! Dropletpaw!”

Their names rose like gull cries over the water, echoing across the shore.

Wolfstar’s dreams plagued her. Even with the comfort of her mates and excitement of the clan’s growth, she slept fitfully most nights. Last night was no exception—it felt as real as the morning sun peeking past her curtain.

In the dream, she stood atop the still, gleaming ocean, the water stretching endlessly in every direction. The silvery waves lapped gently at her paws, and moonlight—strange and star-speckled—bathed her in its chill.

Then something broke the surface.

A shadowed figure, rising slow and gaunt from the sea.

A cat. A stranger.

Its mouth moved, silent. She felt the whisper of words against her whiskers like a breath of wind—but nothing reached her ears. It stared at her, its eyes like dark pits. Then it sank without a sound, vanishing below, and the sea closed over it like it had never been there.

She’d jolted awake, trembling and panting, Mallowstripe purring against her side, trying to soothe her. But she couldn’t calm down.

Her paws were wet.

Not with sweat—truly damp. She pressed her nose to them and tasted seawater.

She didn’t sleep again after that.

By dawn, she was up helping with the morning meal and patrol assignments, though she picked at her food, appetite hollow. Eventually, she gathered Ripplepaw and Snowspeckle for a patrol.

Mallowstripe tried to block her path gently, brushing his cheek against her neck in a warm hug. “You should stay and rest,” he murmured into her fur.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” she said, shrugging him off. Her deputy gave her a concerned glance.

“You could ask Lynxdawn for something to help,” he pressed. “And you need to tell her about your dream.”

Wolfstar bristled. “I’ll tell her when I get back,” she muttered, pushing past him.

Snowspeckle didn’t question her on the walk. They followed the shore toward the boating place, today’s patrol simple—just mark the border, check the tide pools, maybe some sparring. Then she’d spend the afternoon showing Dropletpaw the territory. She hoped to nap in the shade while Ripplepaw trained, but she doubted her mind would let her.

The border marking went smoothly. The sand was heating beneath the sun, and the pools shimmered cool and quiet. The water was a balm on her paws, but her attention drifted.

Something was poking from the sand a few fox-lengths away, close to the waves. A stone? A shell? It vanished and reappeared with each splash. By high tide, it would be gone.

She tried to focus on her lesson, needing to sign half of it for Ripplepaw, but she kept glancing back. Eventually, she passed him over to Snowspeckle for practice and wandered toward it.

The water felt good, a cool ribbon on her overheated legs. Ripplepaw watched her from a distance, curious. She dug carefully around the object, paws parting the sand. As she unearthed more of it, a chill threaded down her spine.

A tail touched her shoulder, and she flinched—Snowspeckle and Ripplepaw had joined her. “I-Is that…?” Snowspeckle murmured.

Wolfstar didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. With one last scrape of her paw, the sand gave way—and a cat’s skull stared back at them.

Ripplepaw had to shout three times to explain what happened, too breathless for full sentences. By the time the clan arrived—nearly all of them, though the newest apprentices were made to stay in camp with Thistle—the skeleton had been dragged further from the waves, and Lynxdawn was already ordering cats back.

Wolfstar stood like a stone beside her, explaining her dream in a whisper only Lynxdawn could hear.

“It was like the ocean gave her back,” she hissed. “Like it spat her out.”

Lynxdawn’s gaze sharpened. “Everyone but Wolfstar, back to camp,” she ordered, her voice colder than usual. “Snowspeckle, make sure patrols and duties continue as normal. We can’t fall apart over this. Wolfstar and I will return with answers.”

There was reluctance, even protest, but the cats slowly dispersed. Mallowstripe had to physically push Shadowdive away from the scene, though the tom’s worried eyes lingered on his mate. Wolfstar didn’t notice. Her stare was fixed on the skeleton.

Lynxdawn placed a paw gently on her elbow. “We have to begin.”

Wolfstar nodded, swallowing hard. Together, they moved the bones. The tradition was old—leader and cleric examined every death, no matter how strange.

She crouched beside it and began uncurling the limbs, laying the skeleton gently on its side. There was something reverent in the motion.

“There are cracks on the ribs,” Lynxdawn said, running a claw over the fractures. “Could be the cause of death… or not.”

Wolfstar didn’t answer, her eyes sweeping over the remains. Skin clung to the bones in a few places, tendons dried taut. It looked preserved. Smoked.

Like prey.

Her breath caught. She bolted up the beach and vomited behind a rock, stomach twisting violently. Lynxdawn remained where she was, giving her space but watching with concern.

Eventually, Wolfstar returned, unsteady. “Keep going,” she rasped.

“There are also fractures around the eye sockets. A lot of damage. It’s impossible to tell what happened when the cat was alive.” Lynxdawn spoke softly, as if the body could still hear.

“Could’ve been an accident,” Wolfstar murmured. “But how did she end up here?”

“It might’ve been buried here a long time ago,” Lynxdawn said. “We don’t know how old this is. Maybe some clan or group used to lay their dead here.”

Wolfstar didn’t respond right away. Her tail twitched, ears flicking against the breeze. “I’ll ask the others about Tall Waters,” she finally said. “Maybe they used this place before they broke apart. But we’ll list the death as inconclusive.”

They covered the body with driftwood to shield it from sun and wind. Wolfstar insisted on calling the cat “she,” though Lynxdawn admitted she couldn’t confirm anything from the remains.

“It feels wrong,” Wolfstar whispered. “To leave her like this.”

Lynxdawn waited.

“I want to bury her before nightfall,” she said firmly. “I don’t care if it ruins the investigation. By sunset, I want her in our graveyard. It’s only fair.”

Lynxdawn’s throat tightened. She nodded. “It’s only fair.”

As they turned to gather the driftwood and begin the somber work of transport, a gull shrieked overhead—then another, circling the waves beyond the tide pool.

Wolfstar glanced back at the place where the skeleton had been. The shallow depression in the sand was already beginning to fill with water again, as though the ocean meant to take her back.

And just before she looked away, she thought—no, she felt—the salt air shift. Like a whisper curling through her fur. Like a voice brushing her whiskers.

She didn’t understand the words.

But she was sure it had said her name.

That evening they buried the stranger as the sun touched the edge of the sea.

It was a quiet affair. No prayers, no names—just salt-soaked dirt, gentle paws, and the low hush of waves rolling in and out like breath below the cliff. By the time the last pawful was placed over the grave, dusk had begun to fall. The air felt thick with something unspoken, something unfinished.

Wolfstar didn’t speak on the walk home. Lynxdawn didn’t ask her to.

The camp was subdued when they returned, the scent of driftwood smoke lingering from the evening meal. No one asked what they’d found—not yet. For now, they let silence hold it.

The next morning, life continued. It always did.

Thistle was a model patient. She took her medication when told, rested while Lynxdawn worked, and diligently followed the exercises she’d been shown. Though she rarely spoke and never revealed much about her past, Lynxdawn considered her the best patient she’d ever cared for.

Over time, she found herself growing fond of the quiet molly. Thistle’s patience with the clan’s kits was particularly endearing. Coralpaw, in particular, had taken it upon herself to be Thistle’s personal ‘mentor,’ chattering endlessly about clan customs and the warrior code. Though Lynxdawn often had to step in to clarify, Thistle never turned the kit away. Whether she was truly interested or simply too polite to ignore Coralpaw, Lynxdawn couldn’t say. Still, she could see them becoming friends someday soon.

So it was disheartening to wake up to an empty nest. Thistle’s scent was still strong, fresh enough to suggest she had left just before dawn.

“I guess she decided it was time to leave,” Lynxdawn murmured to Wolfstar.

Wolfstar’s tail brushed gently against her back. “I’ll send Shadowdive and Otterpaw to make sure she’s left the territory safely.”

Before Lynxdawn could respond, movement in the clearing caught her eye. A shadow wavered in the growing morning light.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

Hobbling forward, unsteady but determined, Thistle carried a small black kit. Lynxdawn rushed to help, gently taking the tiny molly by the scruff and offering her patient support as they moved toward the cleric’s den. Thistle groaned as she was carefully laid down, exhaustion clear in her every movement.

“Where did this kit come from?” Wolfstar’s voice was a low hiss, wary of attracting attention. The clan was just beginning to stir; soon, curious eyes would be on them.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Thistle huffed, turning her face away as Lynxdawn set the tiny black tabby at her belly. “She’s my kit. That’s it.”

“You gave birth?” Lynxdawn asked, already checking her over, but Thistle curled her tail tightly around herself, ears pinned back.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice was hoarse, her exhaustion making it less of a growl and more of a plea.

Lynxdawn sighed. “You don’t have any milk yet.” She was already reaching for a jar of herbs.

Wolfstar watched the injured molly, eyes calculating. With all the tension in the clan, a loner keeping secrets would only add to the unease. She exhaled slowly and settled in a loaf position near the nest.

“You need to give me something, Thistle,” she reasoned. “We’re giving you care and shelter—”

Thistle’s fur bristled. “If you’re going to hold it over my head, then I’ll just leave!”

Wolfstar let the silence stretch, waiting for the outburst to pass. The kit mewed softly at her mother’s belly.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Wolfstar continued, her voice even. “But you left, then returned with a kit who clearly isn’t a newborn.”

Thistle set her chin on her paws, glowering at the white tabby.

“Please, Thistle,” Lynxdawn said gently, placing a bowl in front of her. “Just tell us about this morning.”

Thistle’s gaze softened slightly.

“I left last night… to have the kit. I didn’t plan on coming back, but I couldn’t move very well. Figured I may as well return.”

Wolfstar and Lynxdawn exchanged glances but remained silent, waiting.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” Thistle murmured, shifting uncomfortably. “Don’t you have a rule about asking queens where their kits are from?”

Wolfstar held her gaze before giving a small nod.

“You’re right, we do.” Lynxdawn’s smile was strained, but her voice was soft. She pushed the bowl closer. “Rest up. You and your daughter are safe here.”

Wolfstar flicked her tail as she stood, the sounds of the waking clan filtering into the den. She gestured for Lynxdawn to follow.

Outside, they kept their voices low.

“You believe her?” Wolfstar asked.

Lynxdawn nearly laughed. “That she gave birth this morning? Not a chance.”

“But?”

“But without an exam, I can’t say she didn’t give birth a few days ago.” She sighed. “The poultice on her back masks any scents I could use to check, and she won’t let me examine her closely.”

Wolfstar was silent for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the kitchen where Mallowstripe was preparing food.

Her stomach growled.

“Could she have been pregnant when you found her?”

“Maybe? I was more focused on her back. Plus, she lays on her belly all the time.” Lynxdawn’s stomach growled, and she let out another sigh. “I can’t make heads or tails of this.”

Wolfstar’s tail brushed against her back in reassurance. “We’ll let it rest for now. Go check on the kit. I’ll bring food for both of you.”

“And tell the clan?” Lynxdawn asked hopefully.

Wolfstar chuckled, her tone dry. “Nope. We’ll do that together after the meal.”

Lynxdawn groaned but returned to the den nonetheless.

A few days after the reveal of Thistle’s kit, the clan settled. Though concerns lingered, Lynxdawn reassured everyone that neither Thistle nor her daughter matched the signs or dreams surrounding Lostclaw.

Nearly a half-moon later, the kit’s eyes began to open. That morning, Lynxdawn found herself chatting with Thistle over a warm bowl of tea.

“So, you never told me—what exactly is this?” Thistle prodded the bowl with a paw.

Lynxdawn grinned. “It’s a tea of blessed thistle, milk thistle, and fennel.”

Thistle huffed a laugh, taking a sip. “Two different thistles, huh?” A rusty purr rumbled in her chest. “It’s sweet.”

“Oh, I had to add a ton of honey.” Lynxdawn laughed. “Blessed thistle is really bitter. I had to go to the twoleg place with Shadowdive to find some, but it’s great for milk production.”

Thistle hummed at that, drinking deeply. “And the milk thistle?”

“That one’s more common. It grows near where I found you.” She retrieved a jar. “It also helps with milk production, but it’s good for appetite, too.”

Thistle chewed a dried flower head thoughtfully. “Of course you’re giving me fennel, too.”

Lynxdawn laughed. “It’s important! It helps with milk production, inflammation, digestion, appetite—”

Thistle shook her head playfully. “You’re making all that up. No way one herb does all that.”

They shared a quiet chuckle as Lynxdawn tidied her den. A tiny mew broke the peace as the kit stirred.

“Do you have a name for her?” Lynxdawn asked. “It’s about the time we name kits in the clan.”

Thistle gave the kit a few rough licks. “Yeah, you told me about fading kits guiding their litters.” She hesitated, glancing between Lynxdawn and her daughter. “But I’ve had a name for her since day one.”

Lynxdawn’s ears perked. “Are you ready to share?”

Thistle exhaled slowly. “Briarkit.”

Lynxdawn froze, eyes widening. “Does that mean…?”

“If I can… I’d like to stay in SaltClan.” Thistle’s voice was quiet, almost embarrassed.

Lynxdawn squealed and bumped their heads together. “Of course! Wolfstar wouldn’t turn you away! I’ll talk to her right now!”

With a burst of excitement, Lynxdawn darted from the den, leaving Thistle chuckling as she gazed down at Briarkit, fondness in her eyes.

Greenleaf was nears its end, but it still managed to claim Nightleap as a victim before it was over. The black molly was brought back from patrol by Coralpaw and Otterpaw, dizzy and babbling.

Lynxdawn sent the apprentices to find Snowspeckle, then set a pot to boil. She laid water soaked moss on the over heated Molly’s side and under legs, the cool water instantly soothing her babbles.

“Nightleap can you eat this for me?” Lynxdawn asked loudly and slowly, waiting for acknowledgment.

Nightleap grunted and tried to nod, her panting picked up.

Good enough, she thought and brought a small bowl of feverfew infused honey. Nightleap lapped at it easily, her muzzle sticky, but she was getting most of it.

Once the water was hot, she poured it over a bowl of sage and fennel to steep. From the corner Thistle clicked her tongue, brows raised.

“Wow that was impressive,” She said, Briarkit sleeping still at her belly despite the commotion. “You work fast.”

Lynxdawn flushed, she’d forgotten the queen was still there. Letting out a nervous purr she sniffed the tea, checking its temperature. “Thanks, I try.”

“Whe-where am I?” Nightleap mumbled, resting her chin in the now empty bowl.

“In the cleric’s den.” Lynxdawn assured her, gently licking her forehead. “Otterpaw and Coralpaw brought you here.”

The black molly grimaced, unfocused eyes scrunching. “Ugh Coralpaw. I didn’t ask for an apprentice.”

The den was silent, Lynxdawn could hear her heart beat in her ears. Nightleap didn’t notice the tension, continuing on.

“And gah she’s ann-annoying.” She slurred, shaking her head. “Like I- Like I know how to be a mediator.”

Lynxdawn sat back, taking a deep breath, from the corner she saw Thistle’s hackles rising.

Letting her patient mumble and chatter as she checked her ear temperature. She sent a quick look to Thistle, the queen’s jaw was set but she kept quiet.

Lynxdawn strained the tea but set it aside to cool, taking a moment to change the wet moss again. Being out of the sun, Nightleap settled down more, lying on the cool sand instead of the nests.

Once the molly was dozing, no longer trying to talk, Thistle cleared her throat. “You’re better than me, Lynxie. I would’ve whacked the shit outta her for saying that about my kit.”

Lynxdawn snorted. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“She knows, she just doesn’t know who she’s saying it to.” She grumbled, narrowed eyes on the napping patient.

“Honestly I’m not surprised. I saw her face when she was called up to mentor.” Lynxdawn sighed. “I’ll speak with Wolfstar and Snowspeckle. Hopefully we can smooth this out.”

Thistle said nothing, just set her narrow eyes on the sleeping molly.

That night Lynxdawn slept in her nest, still unused to sleeping alone when she saw a little face poke through the curtain of leather and moss.

“Coralpaw.” Her voice low but stern. “You should be in the apprentice den.”

The gray molly just purred, eyes squinting fondly. Without a word she climbed into her mother’s nest, curling tightly against her flank.

With a tsk, Lynxdawn dragged her tongue over her daughter’s scruff before settling back down.

Sleep came easier with another body in her nest.

[jessiemeows]

Lost & Found

Chapter 5 - Beneath the Surface of his Charm

A/N - I really liked writing this chapter! I find myself enjoying writing from Astarion's POV quite a bit. I don't know if I said this, but you will see a mix of Astarion and Amaya's POV throughout the story :)) but hope you guys enjoy, the next chapter is going to be a touch of sickly sweet because I adore that lmaoooo. ALSO, should add, this Astarion is just a touch softer than in-game Act 1 Astarion. He will obviously be similar to his Act 1 self in many ways, but for the most part, with Amaya, he is softer to her overall lol. It's just how I've always seen Amaya and Astarion's dynamic <3 Don't worry, I plan on still having him be the little mean freak that we all love and know, but for the most part, I think and hope that I've shown him being a mean little freak quite well in previous chapters!

Pairing: F!Durge, OC (Amaya), Tiefling, Selunite Cleric X Spawn Astarion

Rating: 18+!!! mentions of blood if that makes you uncomfy, but this chapter is rather tame! I think I mentioned only one durge-esque thing.

WC: About 2900

Previous Chapters: Prologue | Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Story:

Honestly, the grove wasn't the worst place they could have ended up, but the longer Astarion remained watching Amaya's bleeding heart in action the more increasingly tiresome he felt. Every tiefling they encountered seemed more helpless than the last – it was a miracle they'd survived this long at all. He'd felt a glimmer of relief when she'd initially refused to help Zevlor, the tieflings supposed leader. They had far more problems amongst them than to get in the middle of grove politics. 

But he had to be on his best behavior, he bit his tongue and swallowed his groans of frustration, but gods how he wished he could beg their leader to just turn her tail away from these people and focus on anything like finding a healer before whatever was growing inside their heads turned them all into mindflayers. Still, he kept his peace, knowing Amaya could read his annoyance well enough without him voicing it, and she was growing increasingly frustrated with him for it. In his defense, whispering to knock out the human adventurer who had called her a 'foulblood' was more than reasonable. 

And now? To make matters worse or to at least make Astarion’s matters worse, the famous "Blade of Frontiers" had joined their merry band of misfits. Some monster hunter he was. To not only be infected with a tadpole but the man couldn’t even recognize a vampire standing before him. It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.

Though, what truly grated on his nerves was how this supposedly legendary ‘hero’ had fallen head over heels for their tiefling leader - mooning over her like some lovesick puppy. Almost everyone they’d encountered with seemed to gravitate and fawn over her….  He didn't quite understand why, but it irked him entirely.

But Astarion had his own plans. One simple plan, really, centered around their little tiefling leader herself. Amaya was surprisingly receptive to flirtation, and he intended to use that to his advantage; to flirt with her and to seduce her so she would never turn her back on him. She was quite the ally, after witnessing her raw power – the way she'd incinerated that bugbear with a mere touch of her sword, or how she'd destroyed an undead without so much as a gesture. And if Cazador ever came looking for him, he would definitely need her for protection. She was already melting under his attention; the way she'd leaned into his touch last night, how she'd blushed when he'd taken her hands... This might be his easiest mark yet. 

Yet something felt off. The lingering sensation whenever they touched – that burning tingle he'd never experienced before. When she'd healed him, he'd felt warmer than he had in two centuries, like being embraced by moonlight itself. It was... unsettling.

His thoughts scattered as Rolan's voice cut through the air. "I'm not responsible for every damn tiefling in the world!"

"He's got a point, you know," Astarion whispered to Amaya, earning a glare that could have frozen hellsfire.

"Just be responsible for yourself then. We have to stay; Rolan, they need us! Its the right thing to do." Lia, Rolan's sibling, shouted back not standing down.

Rolan threw up his hands in defeat. "Zurgan. Fine, we'll stay. It’ll make a good story I suppose but we're heading to Baldur's Gate as soon as possible!"

As Rolan’s siblings hurried off triumphantly, Amaya turned to the wizard tiefling, "Why such urgency to reach Baldur's Gate?"

"You're looking at the new apprentice of Lorroakan," Rolan announced proudly. "Yes, that Lorroakan."

"You say that like it should mean something to me. I haven’t a clue who that is."

"Lorrokan?" Gale jumped in, eyebrows raised. “From what I heard is that he is a bit of a cad back in Waterdeep but according to you he’s an accomplished wizard?

"Of course he is. As if I’d  settle for a lesser mentor. Few can match me - in either magic or talent," Rolan preened and puffed his chest out.

"Perhaps we should meet this wizard?" Gale suggested to Amaya. "Any wizard could be a valuable ally."

"We have more pressing matters, remember?" Amaya tapped at her temple pointedly.

"Well, you've already met a powerful wizard," Rolan said with a flourish. "In the years to come, you'll boast of this meeting – I can assure you. May we meet again in Baldur's Gate, my friend." He spun on his heels, following his siblings' path.

"You should have just let them go," Astarion muttered.

Amaya rolled her eyes at the elf, "They could help if the goblins attack."

"And how exactly is that our problem?" Astarion snapped. "As you so eloquently pointed out, we have our own issues. Finding a healer, perhaps?"

As the two squabbled Wyll and Shadowheart emerged from behind them.

"Bad news," Wyll announced. "Nettie, that healer I mentioned? She’s gone for a ten-day. And Halsin, the grove's leader who left with Aradin, hasn't returned. Though there is this older woman, Ethel, who said—"

"Who cares about this Halsin?" Lae'zel cut in. "We need to find this Zorru who is here in this very grove. Finding him and the nearest creche is our priority."

“Right,” Shadowheart drawled.  "So we find your creche, only to be slaughtered? Aren't we all your people's enemies? You included, with what grows inside you."

"There are protocols," Lae'zel insisted. "Like I said my people will help if I vouch for you."

"Enough," Amaya groaned, massaging her temples. "Lae'zel, we'll find Zorru soon enough. Wyll, please finish telling us about this Ethel before my headache gets any worse."

------

Sunset painted the camp in amber and gold, the air rich with the smell of Gale's cooking as he hunched over a bubbling pot, adding pinches of herbs and spices. From his perch outside his tent, Astarion pretended to read while watching Amaya flit from person to person like a restless butterfly discussing their next plans for the days ahead of them. 

They had finally found several promising leads that could potentially rid them of the damned worms.  Though Astarion hated to admit it, he would miss the little worm - it does let him have the advantage of walking freely in the sun.  Auntie Ethel claimed their "little friends" were dormant, though how the crone knew such things, Astarion hadn’t a clue. Their options were a mixed bag: the old woman's supposed cure at her teahouse, some goblin priestess they'd only learned about because Amaya had stopped a trigger-happy tiefling from killing it (though watching that would have been entertaining), finding this missing Halsin (and potentially dealing with hundreds of goblins), facing a creche of murderous githyanki, or simply waiting for someone named Nettie. Meeting the old woman at her teahouse seemed like the easiest option – no ten-day wait, no armies of goblins, and no homicidal githyanki.

A familiar laugh cut through his thoughts. Across the camp, Amaya was caught between Gale and Wyll, both men practically tripping over themselves to win her attention. Their flirtations had become embarrassingly even more obvious since arriving at the grove. Something hot and uncomfortable coiled in Astarion's chest at the sight. These strange feelings he’s been having had to be the tadpole's doing – the strange heart palpitations, the lurching in his stomach, the tingling sensation whenever he touched Amaya. There were no other explanations, though he had wondered why these feeling only occurred with the tiefling.

"You know, Astarion," Shadowheart's voice surprised him, "you could actually talk to her instead of brooding over here."

He snapped his book shut. "Me? Brooding? Darling, I couldn't care less about their little social hour. I'm perfectly content here with my reading." His lips curved into a practiced smile. "Unless you're proposing a more interesting diversion?"

"One, absolutely not. Two, I've never seen someone so pale turn quite so red while 'reading.’" 

Astarion rolled his eyes at the half-elf,"Sorry to disappoint, but your little observation hour of me while I read is over." He stood with exaggerated grace. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I'll take a walk." A snide giggle came from Shadowheart as he pushed past her, eliciting another eye roll from the vampire.

The evening summer air felt good against his skin - though he usually ran cold, today\s sun had been exceedingly hot. Funny how he’d forgotten that particular downside of daylight after spending two centuries in the shadows.

Astarion stalked through the forest,while irritation began prickling under his skin. Shadowheart's words echoed in his head: "brooding." He wasn't brooding. These were just more tadpole tricks, it just had to be. Surely the others felt it too, though they'd sooner face Lae'zel's blade than admit it.

Astarion shook his head as his thoughts turned to his plan for protection. Seducing and sleeping with one of his companions was the only way he could truly secure his safety - the sole method he knew or excelled at. Despite all of his well practiced lines, some of them weren’t too off on exactly how he felt towards the one companion he was actively seducing and using them on, Amaya. He was genuinely attracted to her; he found her irresistible, a pleasant change to his usual marks in the recent years. Toying and making her blush amused him, it was also pleasant to finally have someone share his peculiar sense of humor.

Astarion was almost certain Amaya was attracted to him, yet he could also sense her interest in Wyll. The idea of her affection for Wyll ignited something within Astarion again burning hot. He understood the appeal - Wyll was attractive, heroic, and charming, the very image of the man Astarion had dreamed of even marrying when he was younger.

In all honesty any of his fellow companions had a fair shot at the tiefling, she was quite alluring and seemed to make anyone melt before her, Lae’zel being the outlier. This seemed to be the only issue with his plan of seducing the leader. But if his pursuit of Amaya failed, Astarion had been considering seducing any of the others, their power could offer him just as much protection as their leader’s. His first pick would be Wyll, but if that didn't work out anyone else would do, though Gale would be his last option, for some reason, the wizard just irked him. But, in all honesty, he’d hope his plan worked on the tiefling as he’d rather keep Amaya all to himself than let the other’s have her.

Suddenly, a soft rustle in the nearby undergrowth caught Astarion's attention, and hunger stirred. Cautiously, he approached the bush with swift and soft movements, listening intently. As he drew closer, the rapid thump of a heartbeat guided him forward until a boar burst from the foliage, darting into the shadows. Astarion, however was much faster than the boar.

In one swift motion, his fangs found their mark with practiced ease savoring every swallow of the beast’s life essence like it was his last. The boar's blood wasn't exactly fine wine, but it beat the rats and bugs that Cazador would force him to feed on. Still, even as he drained the last drops, that gnawing emptiness remained. Would it be different, he wondered, with thinking prey? Cazador had never allowed it, but Cazador wasn't here now, was he? The tadpole might even shield him from his master's wrath. Something to consider, once he'd earned the others' trust. He then wiped any blood from his lips and then began to make the trek back to camp. 

When he returned to camp, he settled by his tent with his book, only to realize the others had turned in. All except Amaya. She sat cross-legged on the ground, with a prayer book to Selûne open in her lap. Candlelight danced across her features combined with moonlight shimmering in her dark curls that made his stomach feel a faint flutter as he looked at her.  His eyes then wandered and traced the mysterious markings on her skinn, it was in some language he didn't recognize. They then drifted to her new camp clothes – form-fitting leather pants and a green cropped top that highlighted a figure that was deceptively strong despite its delicate and soft appearance. The more he looked, the more beautiful she seemed.

She then caught him staring.

"Shit," he muttered, quickly dropping his gaze to his book. The words swam before his eyes, refusing to focus. "What in the hells is wrong with my eyes?"

"You feeling alright?" Her voice came much closer than expected.

He looked up to find her standing over him, concern written across her face. "Oh darling! Just lost in thought."

She settled beside him, those impossibly large eyes fixed on his face. "About what?"

“I was just thinking about the stars,” he lied smoothly “they are quite the sight. We never get to see them in such clarity back in Baldur’s Gate. It’s peaceful looking at them.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry Astarion, am I disturbing you? I’ll go and let you watch them-”

When she moved to leave, his hand shot out to catch hers. Her skin was warm, alive, sending familiar tingling sensations up his arm. "Wait! Don't go. I was… actually also reflecting about tomorrow, about all these possible cures. Will any of them work? Will this little adventure of ours end?" 

"It doesn't have to," she said softly. "We could still travel together."

"Good! I don’t want you to run off just yet. You're quite ally, after all. Traversing through Avernus. Surviving the crash. Surviving everything that’s followed... I'm not easily impressed by people , but you're stronger than I gave you credit for."

The summer breeze then swept her scent towards him - sweet and heady, like fresh-baked pastries from a popular bakery in the Wide. . But then a new aroma wafted in, a blend of metallic notes, dark chocolate, and cherries. It was the scent of her blood, for she had been anxiously picking at her cuticles raw once more. And Gods did she smell delicious.

"I'm just trying to survive, like you," she murmured, resting her chin on her knees as she gazed at the distant fire.

His eyes fixed on her throat, their was a steady pulse visible beneath her delicate skin, his hunger began to stir again. "Yes, we are more similar than I thought..."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

He forced his attention to her necklace – an iridescent moonstone hanging from a gold chain, alongside what appeared to be a broken harp charm. "I was just admiring your necklace. I don't recall seeing it before."

"Oh, this?" She touched it absently. "Found it in my pack. Thought it might trigger some memories."

"Has it?"

Her expression fell. "Only the bad ones seem to come back."

"That's a pity."

"Astarion?" She hesitated. "Since the nautiloid... have you experienced anything strange? Besides the casual mental exchange, of course. Everyone else seems normal, but I'm getting these thoughts – dark ones. When I try to ignore them, I feel sick, my head pounds, and this wound..." She trailed off.

"Like when you threatened to boil Auntie Ethel alive? Which was quite entertaining, by the way."

Astarion began to remember how pale Amaya looked when they had encountered Ethel, in fact, she looked sickly pale and uncomfortable a few times: when they first met, when Gale was trapped in that stone and a few moments after she had drawn a dagger to his throat the previous morning. He’d began to wonder if she was getting these “bad thoughts” during those times, the poor thing.

"Similar. Sometimes worse." Fear flickered across her face. "It feels... wrong."

"It seems you've been dealt a difficult hand," he said carefully. "Perhaps fighting these urges isn't the answer. No one should deny their true nature."

"What if I don't want this to be my nature? "It scares me."

"Then direct it somewhere useful. Those goblins won't kill themselves, after all."

"Maybe you're right," she managed a weak smile and she squeezed his hand. “Oh! One second, I’ll be right back!”

Amaya rushed over to her rent rummaging through her tent, and returned with her hands full, placing a long bow and a pair of gloves in front of him.

“What’s this?”

“I got this bow from that tielfing blacksmith, Dammon - thought you might like it better than your current one. And these pair of gloves… I found on one of the goblin horde leaders we fought earlier today. They reminded me your armor you were wearing. I washed them thoroughly - that’s why they’re still damp. They’re magical too, I think, though I can’t tellyou what they do exactly, so please tell me if you end up figuring it out. 

Astarion stared at the gifts as the tiefling rambled on, momentarily speechless he couldn’t remember the last time someone thought of him like this. Warmth began to spread all over his body when picked up the gloves and slipped one one.

“Do you like them?” Amaya looked up at him, grinning from ear to ear.

“I do, they are wonderful, darling, thank you for thinking of me.”

“It’s nothing,” she mumbled shyly, Astarion taking notice of her freckled cheeks flushing pink.

"I should try to sleep. Goodnight, Astarion." She squeezed his hand one final time before setting off to her tent.

As he watched her go, his fingers tingling as if touched by the radiant beams moonlight itself. 

A/N - Zurgan” most likely means “goddamnit” or something similar in infernal from what is implied in BG3

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Matthew | Right Time | Romantic

After the attempt at Jesus’ life at the Temple Square, Matthew learns that there is no other perfect time than here and now.

 Requested by Kacey

Jesus had warned you that it was coming, but it doesn’t scare you any less. As your time alongside the Messiah progresses and the ministry grows more serious overtime, for Jesus gains notoriety around the lands of Judea, Samaria and far beyond, it is only a matter of time before things start to become truly perilous. 

The first moment you witnessed a moment of real threat to the lives of either Jesus Himself or His followers was during the encounter at the Temple Square in the holiest city Jerusalem. The teachers of the Law who claimed to intend the best for the people of Israel had gathered rocks as large as your hand to hurl at the Messiah and His Disciples. 

Matthew had not been directly in the line of fire, and nor had you been standing there. Still, it shook both of you to the core. Suddenly, the thought of losing one another was more real than it ever had been.

The two of you had been sweet on each another since long before deciding to follow Jesus, although your affections had taken place from a distance. Matthew had always admired your beauty and grace whenever you traversed the village and you had always been in wonder of his incredible mind, seeing more than anyone that there was something different about him, setting him apart in the best way. 

The mutual pining turned into a careful relationship between the pair of you, where you spent time together as often as the ministry allowed it. The other Disciples have been watching you with great interest, curious to see how things will turn out. 

There is no doubt about the chemistry or attraction between you and Matthew. However, the former tax collector had never dared to approach you directly about things. 

Now that you’ve looked death in the eye, no matter how briefly, he realises that things may need to change and that there is no use in holding back anymore. 

You jolt when Matthew finds you fixing tunics one morning. The comfort of the watery sun has brought you little solace. Ever since that day of the attempted stoning, you’ve been skittish.

“Are you okay?” Matthew questions as he sits next to you. In his lap, he settles his wax tablet, obviously having written a lot today. The son of Alphaeus is attempting to take things off his mind as well, whereas you have tried to do the same by stitching up clothes. 

“I’m alright,” you mutter, even though it is obvious that the recent event has gotten to you. 

“I understand,” Matthew sees through you. “I’ve been afraid, too.” 

Letting out a sigh, you know that denying it is of no use. “We were lucky that only James came out of it with a minor injury,” you whisper, dropping the needle in your lap, for suddenly your fingers tremble so badly that you cannot hold it any longer. 

Matthew swallows hard as he sees your nerves; getting used to social cues still, he wonders how to comfort you properly, especially since you are so important to him. “There, there.” It sounds strained, but at the same time a wave of affection shunts through you as he reaches out and gently pats your shoulder, although in a way that is reminiscent of petting a horse.

You give him a wry smile; attempt to make it look real, for he deserves nothing short of that, but your worries get the better of you and simmer in the (e/c) of your eyes. Matthew clears his throat and scoots a little closer. “I’ve been thinking about it as well,” he confesses, “About the stoning. As you said, we came out relatively unscathed. It plagues me at night nevertheless.” 

Nodding in agreement, you begin fiddling with the thread that you’ve pulled from the eye of the needle. “This time, it was just… Only this. But next time, what if they hit Jesus? What if He gets hurt? Concussed? What if you…” You gulp when you realise you’re letting on quite a lot, but decide you’re in the deep end already, “What if you get injured?” 

“I’ve been wondering the same. But— About you, I mean. Not about myself, of course. That would be very selfish of me… Uh…” Matthew clears his throat and scratches behind his ear. “(Y/n), I… I’m not sure what we can do to make that fear… Go away. I’ve been praying about it.” 

“So have I,” you say softly, biting your lip, “I… I think that talking about it goes a long way.” 

Matthew hums and barely dares to look you in the eye. “I fear that things will only get worse from now on. If we’re banished from the Holy City like that, it is only a matter of time before they will find us in the smaller settlements. Word spreads like wildfire, and… Well, Jesus did say to be prepared for persecution…” 

You know that Matthew has a point, and it doesn’t ease your nerves in any way. Of course it is not his intent to make you more anxious, but in the way you tense up, he notices your increasing worry. “I—I mean… Jesus never said anything about this ministry being safe, but at least we have Him, right? If God is… If the Messiah is with our souls, what can ever take us away from Him? You remember how fearless John went into his death, right? He… He said it didn’t matter. That’s what Philip told me.” 

Taking in the words, you nod slowly, finding some comfort in them. “I wish I had a faith like John’s,” you whisper, “The way he so boldly lived for Jesus…” You sigh as you think back on the late Baptiser. “I wish I was so brave.” 

“You are.” Matthew tells you. You give him a look, causing the former tax collector to take the leap and put his hand on top of yours. The two of you look at the spot where his fingers meet your own for a moment, before you turn your palm so that he can gently grab it. “Neither of us is like John, but that doesn’t mean that we aren’t courageous. We faced… We faced many threats, and we are still here. Alive and well, and… We… We have…” 

He seems to want to say something crucial, your heart beginning to speed up inside your chest. His palm is a little clammy to the touch, as if he is nervous about something. 

“Yes?” 

“We have each other,” he whispers, “You and I. I— I mean, we also have the other followers, who are our friends, but we… You and I, we are a team as well, right? In as… Like… A romantic way.” 

In spite of your anxiety, you feel your face heat up. Unable to fight your blush, you begin to smile. “We are.” 

The son of Alphaeus shifts on the log and clears his throat. “Look, (Y/n)… I… I realised that there is no use in wasting time. Especially now.” 

Tilting your head in puzzlement, you start to wonder what he is getting at. His dark eyes soften as they settle on you. “Hold on,” he whispers, “I’m trying to find the right words. Could you give me a minute?” You appreciate the way he voices his needs, so you nod, smiling patiently. 

“All the time you need.” 

The moment of silence gives you a while to reflect on what is going on, and the way Matthew’s hand is holding yours a little tighter now. Your fingers look good when laced together, your hand a bit smaller than his own, and you cannot help but feel your heart begin to pick up in speed. You have stopped fighting the butterflies a long time ago. They rage through your system in full swing.

“Do you remember when Jesus taught us that there is a right time for everything?” 

“You mean His teaching from the book of Ecclesiastes?” 

Matthew nods, looking up at you. “Right, that one… There is a time to sow and to reap, and a time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to keep and cast away, a time to mourn and to dance… Well, I am looking for an opportune time. I mean… I was looking for an opportune time.” 

You frown. “An opportune time for what?” 

He takes a deep inhale and bites his bottom lip. “—But I realised that there is no time more perfect than the present to…” Holding his breath, Matthew searches your face for an answer although he has not yet posed his question, as if you could read the query from his face, and when you look at him in puzzlement, he finishes the question at last: 

“To ask you to marry me.” 

All air is knocked from your lungs as you listen to what he is asking; were your ears deceiving you? You blink, letting the words digest. When you don’t immediately reply, Matthew mistakes it for rejection, attempting to release your hand. “I—I understand if not, I didn’t mean to overwhelm you with that sudden question—” 

“Yes,” you say, squeezing Matthew’s hand lest he pull it out of your grip. A large grin spreads over your face whilst his face falls into pure shock.

“What?” 

“Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Matthew swallows hard, wondering if you are playing a prank on him. “Are you… I didn’t properly ask you yet, you know?” You laugh softly at the comment and nod slowly.

“Fair enough. Please, continue.” 

The former tax collector takes another breath and resumes what he was going to tell you, feeling way more confident now that he knows the answer already. “Very well,” he mutters, “I realised that this moment is better than it ever will be, because the journey will only become more dangerous from now on. I don’t want to use it as an excuse to not propose to you, because I cannot stand the thought of losing you forever whilst never having taken the opportunity to ask, so…” 

He inhales— Exhales, looks you right in the eye. He doesn’t look away as he squeezes your hand into a pulp, but you do not mind that ache in the slightest. “My dear (Y/n),” he whispers, “From the moment I saw you, I knew you would be more special to me than anyone else, ever. For years, I’ve watched you from my booth, feeling so ashamed of what I was doing to our own people, trying to lie to myself that I was doing an honourable job, even though it was hurting you… And then we properly met for the first time, after Jesus called me to follow Him. It was the best decision both of us have ever made… And much to my delight, something began to bloom between us.” 

You smile, a dozen of fond memories immediately springing to the forefront of your mind. “Yes,” you breathe, “That was quite obvious right away, hm?” 

Matthew nods and blushes. “Right,” he whispers, “And I began to realise that I wasn’t just in love with you anymore, but I began to love you. And Philip kept telling me to own up to my feelings because he was certain that you felt the same, and… Well, he was right.” 

Laughing softly, you lower your gaze, blushing for a moment before lifting your eyes back up to his. “So… Just because this ministry will forever be our calling, it doesn’t mean we should go down that road entirely alone. Will you, (Y/n), daughter of Amos and Dinah… Do me the honours of becoming my wife, so that we may spread the Message of Jesus to the ends of the Earth, together, no matter where it will lead us?”

The words are so heart-felt that they make you tear up, and you begin to nod eagerly. “Oh, Matthew,” you whisper, gently cupping his face to press your forehead against his own, “I would love nothing more than that.” 

“It’s settled, then.” Matthew laughs softly under his breath, misty-eyed himself. For a second, he considers whether he should kiss you, but decides he’d rather wait until things are properly arranged. “We should head back to Capernaum one of these days and get things figured out as soon as we can, because… Well, there is no point in waiting, right?” 

You grin from ear to ear, a glow on your face as you embrace the former tax collector, happier than ever. “There is no point indeed. Let’s wait until we go back from Jerusalem, after Pesach.” 

“Yes, let’s ask Jesus afterwards,” Matthew suggests, to which you thoroughly agree.

With your head against his shoulder, you enjoy the sunrise for a while longer. 

Floating on air and already daydreaming about the wedding, neither of you know what is waiting for you ahead in Jerusalem, although this doesn’t mean that the day will never come.

[labyrinthinesyndicatex]

The gentle pressure of her body straddling his sent electric currents through every nerve ending. Her voice wrapped around him like a physical thing, pulling at something deep in his chest. Her survival strategy of emotional detachment really hit his hard. He understood the safety in isolation, the protection in being useful but never vulnerable. He'd perfected that dance for years. Nobody looking past his jokes or his skills to see the loneliness underneath. Nobody wanting to. Until her. "Yeah, I got it," he murmured, his voice rougher than he intended. "Being untouchable kept me safe too. But safe isn't the same as happy, is it?" His hand found her waist, steadying himself as much as her. "And then you came along, refusing to back down. Refusing to let me hide behind all my usual bullshit." Hearing her say she was lonely until he looked at her, his heart ached. Because he knew that feeling too well. The ache of being surrounded by people who only saw what you could do for them, never who you actually were. "I didn't realize how lonely I was either," he said softly. "Not until you started calling me on my crap and still stuck around anyway."

Something in his chest twisted when she said that he did not flinch when he heard the hard parts. As if anybody could hear her story and not want to know more, not want to stay. "People who only want the curated version of you are missing out on the best parts," he said, meaning every word. "I like the girl who cries at old movies. Who threatens to key her sibling's car." He smiled at that. "That version of you is real. And real is always better than perfect." When she brought up his mother, his throat tightened unexpectedly. He hadn't thought of that confrontation as particularly brave at the time - just necessary. "I didn't even think about it," he confessed. "When she started with all that judgment… I just knew I couldn't let her talk about you that way. About us." For someone as strong as Ishika, as capable and fierce, to feel so alone - it made him want to stand between her and the world more, not less. "You don't always have to be the strong one," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Not with me. You get to be tired. You get to fall apart sometimes. You get to need things without apologizing for it."

Her hand sliding up to rest over his where it cupped her face sent warmth spreading through him. When she told him he made her feel seen, it took his breath away. Because that's what she did for him too - saw past all his defenses to the person underneath, and didn't turn away. And then she talked about wanting the cabin too, about coffee and books and rainy nights, and he could see it all so clearly it made his chest ache with longing. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she asked what they should do next, build the cabin or start where they were. The trust in her eyes, the vulnerability - it humbled him in ways he couldn't express. She was all in. Even scared. Especially scared. "For someone who claims to be sharp and untouchable, you have the softest heart I've ever known," he murmured. "And I love that about you. Love that you let me see it." His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, savoring the warmth of her skin. "All those things you described - the coffee, the books, the rainy nights and whispered thoughts - I want them too. Have for longer than I've admitted to myself." His hands settled on her hips, grounding himself in the reality of her. "I want the mornings when you're grumpy until you've had caffeine. Want the evenings when we're both too tired to talk but still want to be in the same room. Want to build something real with you, something that's just ours." The realization washed over him like a tide, inevitable and overwhelming. "I want it all. Can we do both? Build a cabin… it might be slow because I'm not exactly swimming in money… but I want it with you, because I love you. You're worth the hard work, always."

Ishika's breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat, like his words had knocked the air right out of her. She didn’t even realize she’d gone still until her thumb stopped its slow stroke along his jaw. There was something about the way he said “you make me braver” that made her heart ache in the most exquisite way — like someone had finally found the thread she’d buried deep and tugged gently, insistently, until she unraveled just enough to feel safe. “I knew you got it,” she murmured, her voice low and steady, but her eyes shimmered. “That whole ‘untouchable is safe’ thing? Yeah. That was my entire brand. Be the one who doesn’t flinch. Be impressive. Sharp. Untouchable. And then you showed up and didn’t back away when you saw behind the performance.” She shook her head a little, almost in disbelief. “I didn’t realize how lonely I was until you looked at me like that. Like I was allowed to be all of it.”

His thumb on her cheek, the way his voice cracked, the way he called her broken bits waiting rooms—God. It took everything in her not to fall apart right then and there. Instead, she leaned in, forehead resting gently against his again. “You don’t know what it means that you didn’t flinch. That you heard the hard parts and still stayed. Most people fall for the version of me that’s curated, palatable. You… looked past all of that and stayed for the girl who cries at old movies and threatens to key her boss’s car when he micromanages her.” Yes she was talking about her brother but sometimes it was just easier to refer to him like this. Her laugh was soft, caught between tenderness and awe. “And don’t even get me started on the way you shut your mom down. You didn’t even hesitate. I’ve never had anyone in my corner like that, not really. Definitely not without asking for it. I always thought I had to be the strong one all the time. But with you… it’s different. I don’t have to carry the whole world on my back. I just get to be. Messy and too much and tired and hopeful all at once.”

She tilted her head just enough to meet his gaze fully, her hand sliding up to rest over his where it cupped her face. “You make me feel seen, Gavin. Not tolerated, not managed. Seen. And I want that cabin too.” Her voice dropped into something softer, more sacred. “I want your coffee that smells too strong and not strong enough at the same time. I want books everywhere and unfinished thoughts we whisper under throw blankets. I want rainy nights where we say nothing because silence feels like a conversation between us. I want all of it.” At this point, Ishika managed to straddle the man in front of her, her fingers gently threading through his hair as she spoke, her eyes twinkling. “So… what do we do now, Gav? We build the cabin? Or do we just start where we are — figuring it out day by day, bruises and all?” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Because I’m all in. Even if I’m scared. Especially because I’m scared. I think that’s how I know it’s real.”

[the-sycophant]

18: Your OC is challenged to contest of strength or skill by someone of surpassing arrogance.

Confidence. Arrogance.

Where was it, exactly? The line that separated the pair. Was it drawn playfully with a single finger, something pulled through warm sand? Mayhaps it was made with little kisses down the midsection, like following a path of hair. Maybe instead a scalpel, precise and held with a firmness that made you trust it too wholly as it made an exact cut where it needed to. But who held the hand? Whose ideals made it so?

Whoever did it, by whichever hand, always seemed to know just where to put her.

Arrogant.

She was a prettily painted picture book with how easy it was to know what she was thinking. A lip curl of disdain, hooking up over one too sharp tooth as the tip of a tongue slathered across the inside of her mouth as if she tasted something horrid. The tilt of her chin, lifting so high up that one might think there wouldn’t be anyone tall enough she couldn’t look down her nose upon. Her laugh. Her grin. They all said the same thing.

She was better than you. Would always be better than you. It didn’t matter what you did. How you did it.

It made different people react in so many deliciously different ways.

Could they blame her, really? For riling them up? It was only in her nature, though sometimes she felt like it was some addiction she was dipping into, poking at people the way she did. To get them to feel something. It often seemed to not matter much to how they did, just that they did. The quick and painful burn was a temptation to sink her teeth into, a bit of a snack compared to the long, torturous simmer of her favoured companions. It was far too difficult to ignore, that opportunity. To make people feel like they had something to prove - she knew the sort that had little discipline. The sort that lashed out and had nothing to back it up. She could see how their toes teetered the edge, too. On that fine line.

She only wanted to shake it, just a little. Make their tightrope wobble to see what side they would fall on.

Confidence.

Or arrogance.

The floor was a disgusting shade of burnt coffee, the awful squelching sound her boots made as she stepped to the side caused the length of her spine quake unpleasantly. Crawled all the way up from the base to the nape of her neck, making her itch. She scratched it, fingers going scritch scritch scritch into her hair before sliding back under her nose. She held her sleeve there for a moment, though breathing through the fine fabric did nothing for the smell of the place. It was alarming that such a place even existed, and she felt dizzy as soon as the door had opened. There was no doubt in her mind that half the people inside hadn't showered in some time, whilst the others were sloppily treating the dingy drinkhole as if it were some raucus house party with the expectation there would be some loyal housemaid to clean up after them.

Then again she doubted they were aware of that experience. More likely they were just assholes.

And hole in the wall was generous. It was more a shallow grave than anything, the ambient aether full of violence and regret. People came here to die, she just wasn’t sure where. On the floor right where she was standing? Just one sucker punch away from cracking a skull on the corner of a table? A pistol or blade might have been it even if she couldn’t see any weapons on the establishment's wonderfully dressed guests, she knew they were there. Hidden against the flesh, up a sleeve.

Not her own sleeves, of course. Powdery blue and practically see through, she hid nothing of worth up there. Nor under her pretty dress, decorated with pearlescent buttons and beaded strings of silver. Weaponry was not something she tended to tote around besides, even in the worst of places. That’s what the hired hands were for. One of which was now lying on said disgusting floor by her feet, their beer spilled up and across their chest and dribbling down with the blood on their brow to make the floor have all the more…character.

“Oh.” And her mouth made a perfect little circle to match the perfect little sound. Oh. Not surprised in the slightest, but more of a curiosity. An amusement. An amusement that curled her lips up in a very particular way, the crease of her brow only stoking the miasma that hung around her.

Arrogance.

“Oh,” she said again, tongue tutting as her head shook somewhat from side to side, “well aren’t you a big man.” She could feel it, then. The spark of arrogance in him echoing her own, flaring up. She wasn’t talking to him like he was a big man, was she? Even if he was the largest in the room.

At least his head was.

“He was only asking a question!” Indignant, shrill. She nudged a boot tip into the ribs of her hire. They grunted. She sighed. Fluffed out her braids.

“You?”

Delicious, that derision. She could feel the sting of it on her tongue, could feel the heat of it. It took all her efforts to not tremble beneath its weight, instead a hand coming up to tuck a curl behind her ear. Her exhale was long and slow, fluttering of lashes erratic and quick. “Why not me?”

Yes, why not her?

The Seawolf, whatever position he had found himself in, had a very good night of boasting. He had obtained some…position or other - whatever it was exactly was not what she was particularly interested in. For the man’s employer, however…well she just couldn’t help take the bait. It must have been the way the Roegadyn moved, shifted. It was subtle, the way his eyes rolled around the room as if being knocked around by something. Something that felt both exceedingly distant and familiar to her. A treat for the senses.

Paranoia.

F̴̳̊e̵̗̱͉̿ͅả̴̗̹̹̄̉̌̔r̶̩̮̋͠.

Plenty of people boasted in taverns, wove stories and falsehoods to fill an emptiness in their hearts with a something. But not many had a falter in their grin like he did, had sweat gathering at his brow, cheeks turning a bruised purple shade as he flushed from holding his breath. He was waiting for something. A familiar face? For someone to stick him with a knife? There was truth to what he was saying, to whom he was working for. It tickled her interest in the worst of ways. Something told her that the thread in the needlestack she had been looking for was right here. Here in this hole in the wall away from everyone else he knew so he could be like her.

Be arrogant.

He explained as much. Told her that he already took care of her companion easily enough - why would he bother? She was a lover, not a fighter, and he was a...well a newly hired no one to a very important someone. She could work with that.

“Very well,” she sniffed. “How about this instead,” she took a step forward, over her complaining companion, towards the table. Placed gloved hands on it. Leaned forward. She saw his attention dip. “I get one hit on you, just the one, and you introduce me to him.” Her smile was wide and full, eager. Too eager. "I must defend my companion's honour, besides! From trash like you, it would be easy."

“And if you don’t?”

She shrugged, quiet as she made a show of rattling her brain for the what if, as if it hadn’t crossed her mind until then. She felt her companion grab her ankle. Gently. Their thumb moved over her bones as they remained on the ground. She would have to reward them later for that.

She sniffed again. “I’ll do whatever she wouldn’t.” She being a very spicy Hrothgar woman who had the most beautifully wild mane of hair. Fangs of gold. A regular with how comfortable she slouched in a chair that seemed to be moulded to her, playing cards in the corner. Or dice. Marlowe wasn't sure. What she was sure of was that the request was stupid and bold, something that made her laugh at him. Something that made Marlowe laugh at him. With her eyes, at first. Happy little crescents that shone with glee and rose the corners of her mouth like the ocean tide. Then she did laugh, stifled only a second too late as the Seawolf stood quickly, abruptly. Shook the table, shook her skeleton even if her companion anchored her. He leaned over the table, too. She could smell his breath. Some hint of floral on him. An illicit substance.

Her fingers flexed on the table top, teeth clickity click clicking with the excitement of impending violence, of the blooming garden of emotions she was about to rip from the roots.

"That's it? Agre--"

slap!

__________________

Prompt || [ List of Hypothetical OC Situations ]

TY || @dearestcherry

[kiwikiwiandkiwi]

HARRY BEING HARRY ON TOUR — Love on Tour: UK + Europe Leg, 2023

[wow-an-unfunny-joke]

Pick something for me to write

Ignore the blacked out thing, that’s someone else’s document

[athenasiuscorp]

Some skin woven dream

The drapings of skin upon shadow revenant correlates to my au- which takes place years in the future- after revenant had turned into shadow revenant- with the side effect of corrupting all life with his essence. Eventually, he became overwhelmed with the collective minds at his will- so he ceased it.

All that he had paralyzed for entertainment were now ash- they succumbed to time.

Bored, alone, suicidal, and truly immortal- he seeks out Ash, who had already been observing him within a nearby satellite for the duration of his reign. She had anticipated this, so there was little resistance on her end. He would be a fascinating subject.

Ultimately, Ash sets up her lab beneath the mountain Revenant now takes solace. He could have easily left the planet- but figured that familiar company was more tolerable than an endless squabble with the ashes of fleeting amusement. In return for his participation in the experiment, Ash would send distress signals to lure unsuspecting life to the planet for Revenant to toy with, and in turn, capture as subjects for Ash.

Ash is familiar with Revenant's... "rules" or poetics of killing- he operates on a large symbolic basis to justify most carnage- to enact a narrative of a purpose fulfilled. To keep him from leaving, she knew that appealing to this facet of expression could keep him "attached", and ultimately weave her into his narrative. Years of isolation and death games have made him difficult, almost regressive. She figures that he's already so deluded, that fostering more of it would be easy.

So, synthesizing some DNA that she had swiped from Revenant's source code years prior, she synthesized a blanket of his own skin for him to wear. Initially, he felt patronized- but eventually wove it onto himself. She knew he couldn't resist embracing the irony of such an item. Additionally, she could capitalize on his protectiveness- she knew not even he could resist a need for a familiar abomination in tandem with his grief.

Though there had been some hypotheses during the synthesis of the membrane, a small implication being that the material could make him feel more "himself" due to how the DNA material interacts with and contains his shadow. An ideal outcome would be for him to be feigned into thinking he's mortal, restricting him from the notion of leaving. Until she can synthesize some means of containing the planet without him knowing- this is her best option.

If her research proves successful, she could navigate any planetary terrain with ease, a curiosity endlessly satisfied. A purpose to look forward to past a lust for battle, which had ultimately proved monotonous in time. Perhaps a "redemption" of sorts. She isn't completely resistant to the notion of relaying her findings with humans- they would greatly depend on her, for anything that she requests would be taken as a messianic necessity. The thought that she could eventually hold such an advantage, on top of such vast means of exploration truly excited both halves of the retired simulacrum.

[cheolsbitch]

Don’t Look

Teaser…..

Jaehyun x Reader | Best friends to lovers | Smutty tension | One-shot

The sound of rapid clicking and muffled gunshots filled the air, blending with the occasional curse that left Jaehyun’s lips as he focused on the game. Y/N barely paid him any mind, curled up on his bed with her legs swinging lazily in the air, a well-worn manga volume in her hands.

It was a regular thing — crashing at Jaehyun’s place after classes, him glued to his monitor while she raided his snack stash and made herself at home in his room. They didn’t need to talk to feel comfortable. That’s just how they were. Easy. Familiar.

At least… usually.

Today was different.

Jaehyun had taken off his headset to answer a call, wandering out of the room mid-game. When he came back, the first thing he saw wasn’t the screen. It was Y/N, lying on her stomach on his bed, skirt hiked up just a little too high, and her eyes glued to a page that definitely wasn’t PG-13.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

Was she seriously reading that kind of manga? In his room?

He moved closer, quiet as ever, leaning over to glance at the page. Yup. That was definitely someone getting bent over a desk.

His voice came out lower than intended, a little too amused. “What are you reading?”

Y/N nearly jumped out of her skin. She snapped the book shut with a gasp and turned over, clutching it to her chest.

“W-What the hell, Jaehyun! Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he grinned, walking over and tossing himself onto the bed beside her. “You were just too into it to notice me.”

She narrowed her eyes, cheeks flushed. “You saw nothing.”

“Oh no, I definitely saw something. A lot of something, actually.” He smirked, eyes drifting not-so-subtly from the manga to her exposed thighs. “Didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

She threw a pillow at him. “Shut up! It’s just—plot. With… extra.”

“Mhmm.” He leaned in, voice dipping to a tease. “Didn’t know my bed was so inspiring.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to cover the blush blooming down her neck. “You’re such an ass.”

“Maybe.” His fingers brushed her knee, lingering longer than they should. “But you’re not denying it.”

Silence hung for a beat too long. The tension wasn’t like usual. It wasn’t playful… not entirely. There was heat in the air, thick and humming between them.

His voice dropped. “You know, if you wanted inspiration… you could’ve just asked.”

She stared at him, heart pounding.

“You’re joking.”

His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up. “Am I?”

Another beat passed. Her book slipped from her hands, forgotten.

And then—

CLIFFHANGERRRRR

Teaserrrrrr this is my first and tbh idek maybe last Fanfic i’ve ever wrote idk how to feel about it yet… if i see this get at least a few interests i’ll maybe do a continuing🧍🏻‍♀️

if yall actually loved it… here’s the continuation👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼

[sweetvoidstuff]

Where You Belong - Part 3

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Werwolf I Mates I Slow Burn I Asshole JK I Supernatural Romance I Yoongi I Violence

GIF von jung-koook

Summary : A festival meant to bring unity turns into something far more intimate when you catch the eye of a wolf who never intended to fall. Torn between the freedom to choose and the instinctual pull of a mate’s bond, you face both emotional and political pressure from the pack and outside forces. As loyalties are tested, the question lingers: will you run, or will you stay and claim your place?

Word Count: 35K (all Parts)

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! I’ve been meaning to post this one for a while, but I kept going back and forth on it. Life got a bit hectic, I got sidetracked, and took a few days off—so it took longer than planned. It didn’t turn out exactly how I first imagined, but for now, I’m calling it done. Maybe I’ll revisit and rewrite parts of it in the future, who knows. In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy it—please be kind, but I also welcome honest feedback.

Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me…again... so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 1 I Part 2

--------------

For a solid heartbeat, he didn’t move.

Then—after another sharp glance around the area, his ears straining for any nearby movement—he rose to his feet.

And followed you inside.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The tent was small—at least, smaller than he expected.

The inside was simple, with thick blankets piled over a sleeping mat, a few extra layers stacked against the far end in what looked like an attempt at a pillow. It smelled like you, too, but not strongly—not like a normal omega’s tent should. Jungkook’s scent had been muted on you ever since the festival began, and now, without it, the space felt wrong.

You were already curled up on your side, your back to him, as if you were ignoring the fact that he had just stepped inside.

Jungkook hesitated for a second.

Then he crouched near the entrance, unsure if he should lay down or stay seated.

He opted for the latter.

His eyes flickered toward your still form.

After a long pause, you muttered, “If you’re just gonna sit there, you might as well lay down.”

Jungkook bit his lip.

And then, slowly, he shifted, lowering himself onto the extra blankets, laying on his back beside you.

The space was tight.

If either of you moved even a little, you would touch.

And when you exhaled, shifting slightly—your back brushing against his arm—Jungkook nearly lost his damn mind.

Jungkook needed something to ground him—anything.

And the only thing here was you.

The tight space of your tent left no room for hesitation. No space for second-guessing. The moment your back brushed his arm, the fragile thread of his restraint snapped.

He rolled onto his side, one arm snaking firmly around your waist, his chest flush against your back. The heat of him bled through the thin layers of clothing, his grip possessive, securing you against him.

He felt your tense inhale.

"Did you already decide?" Jungkook’s voice was low, a murmur against the shell of your ear.

You hummed, your fingers lightly twitching over the blankets. “Kinda.”

Jungkook’s hold tightened.

"Kinda?" he echoed, voice gruffer now. "What does ‘kinda’ mean?"

You exhaled slowly, your tone shifting into something almost teasing, yet undeniably shy.

"Well, you already decided if you're going to scent me twice a day from now on..." You paused, then added with a smirk, "for safety reasons?"

Jungkook growled.

A soft, dangerous sound, curling around the whisper of your name on his tongue. His fingers flexed, gripping your waist tighter.

“You are my mate,” he rumbled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

His nose nudged into your hairline, inhaling deeply, and then—

He scented you.

A slow, deliberate drag of his nose from your temple to the base of your neck.

You shuddered.

His chest rumbled, another growl spilling from deep within him.

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin at the curve of your shoulder, his breath hot as his lips parted.

And when you whimpered, Jungkook nearly lost it.

"Don’t promise anything you can’t keep," you whispered, but it sounded weak. Like a plea. A warning. A wish.

"If… If this is just want—fine. But then tell me."

Jungkook’s chest ached.

He wanted to rip the doubt out of you, to prove to you that there was nothing about this—about you—that was temporary.

He exhaled sharply, his fingers skimming the edge of your ribs.

“Mark me.”

Your entire body locked up.

Your heart stuttered.

Slowly, your head turned, the dim light inside the tent casting shadows over Jungkook’s face as you twisted just enough to look at him.

Your eyes were wide.

“What?”

Jungkook growled again, this time more urgent, more raw—needy.

Your movement had shifted you slightly away, leaving a sliver of space between you, and the distance made something feral inside him snarl.

His dark gaze locked onto yours, unflinching. Unshakable.

"Mark me as your mate."

Your breath hitched.

Jungkook's jaw clenched, his pulse pounding.

"You can still leave if you want," he said, voice low, rough, as if the words physically pained him. "But I will follow you."

His fingers brushed up your spine, his touch feverishly warm.

"I will only claim you if you want me to," he swore, and fuck—he meant it. He would never take this from you, never force you into something you weren’t ready for.

But then—

His eyes burned into yours.

Raw. Unwavering.

"I want your mark on me. Now."

Your stomach flipped.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

You were shocked. Speechless.

And fuck—

You were so goddamn turned on.

Your eyes went impossibly wide, your breath catching as you stared at him.

"Y-You don’t mean that."

Jungkook’s gaze was intense, but gentle, steady in a way that left no room for doubt.

Without hesitation, he moved.

His strong arms shifted you, guiding you until you were under him.

He hovered over you, his body looming, broad and commanding, but he wasn’t caging you in—he was holding you close.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

His weight balanced on his forearm, the one marked with ink and meaning, etched with the responsibilities of his pack. But his other arm?

His other arm was wrapped around you.

A deliberate, possessive grip.

Like he was making sure there wouldn’t be the slightest bit of space between you.

And you could feel him.

The heat of him, the weight of him, the way his scent wrapped around you like a second skin.

The way he wanted you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your body suddenly too warm, too aware of how little separated you from him.

Jungkook’s nose brushed down your neck, slow and intentional, his breath ghosting over your skin as he inhaled deeply.

“I mean it,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

“And I can smell that you want it, too.”

Your stomach flipped.

Heat shot through you, every nerve in your body sparking to life, making your limbs tingle.

Your shaky fingers curled into the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt, your grip weak—like your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to pull him closer or push him away before you completely lost yourself. You were practically vibrating with nerves, the weight of his body, the scent of him, the sheer need in his presence overwhelming you.

Jungkook wasn’t rushing you.

But he wasn’t stopping, either.

His nose lovingly dragged up and down your neck, lingering at your pulse point, like he was savoring every inch of you.

And then—

His lips followed.

Soft, warm, achingly gentle.

He pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses against your throat, against the hollow where your neck met your shoulder. Pressing against your pulse, lingering.

His teeth nipped at your skin, not enough to hurt—just enough to tease.

To dare you to move.

To see if you would run or stay.

Your next whimper, the next trembling inhale, the next sharp jolt of your scent pushing into the air around him—

It was too much.

Jungkook rolled his hips into you, slow and controlled, and you felt every inch of him, every sharp, burning line of his need pressed against you through the thin barriers of your clothes.

Your entire body shuddered.

Jungkook’s breath was ragged, his lips barely a whisper from your jaw as he spoke.

His voice was like honey and smoke, thick with need, with restraint, with something wild barely held back. He rolled his hips into you again. A slow, deliberate grind, letting you feel exactly what you did to him.

"Can I kiss you?" His lips ghosted over yours, his nose brushing the tip of yours. His words came out hoarse, desperate. "Please. Let me fucking kiss you, at least."

His fingers tightened slightly where they rested against your ribs.

Your lips parted, air shaking as it left your lungs, and then—

“Please.”

Jungkook groaned, his forehead dropping to yours for just a second before he finally—finally— kissed you, got to taste you.

And fuck—

It was everything.

The first press of his lips was firm, but hungry. He wasn’t just kissing you—he was claiming you, pouring everything into it, his lips moving hot and slow against yours, his tongue teasing the seam of your mouth.

His mouth was hot, urgent, starving for you, but still so goddamn careful.

He kissed you like you were something precious, something he had wanted for so fucking long—something he was desperate to make his. The moment his tongue brushed against yours, he growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

And you melted.

Your fingers dug into his shirt, clutching him, needing him, and Jungkook felt like he was about to lose his mind with how sweet, how warm, how perfect you tasted, against him—

Until—

You made a pained sound against his lips, a small, pained hum muffled by the heat of the kiss.

Jungkook froze.

He jerked back, his breath was heavy, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises, his brows furrowing in concern.

Your lips were swollen, damp from his kisses, and fuck, you looked so beautiful like this, but—

His eyes locked onto your lips—

A thin red line glistened at the corner of your mouth. The small, still-healing cut from your fight with Yoongi earlier.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, guilt slamming into him. A low, guttural sound escaped him, something close to a frustrated snarl.

"Shit," he exhaled, his fingers lightly gripping your jaw.

Without a second thought, he leaned back in, but this time, his lips didn’t claim yours.

Instead—

His tongue dragged over the cut, gentle, careful, the warmth of him soothing the sting.

A sound rumbled from his chest—low and deep, a vibration of pleasure that was almost a purr.

Your breath hitched.

From something else entirely.

A deep rumble rose from Jungkook’s chest—not a growl, not a snarl—but something softer, so utterly full of warmth and possession, that it made your stomach flutter.

It was close to a purr.

If you hadn’t already been lying down, your knees would have buckled.

Jungkook stayed close, his forehead lightly pressing to yours.

His breath mingled with yours, his fingers twitching against your skin, like he was still trying to memorize you through touch alone.

And then, softly—so fucking softly—

“Say yes.”

His voice was hoarse, thick with something deeper than just desire.

“Say yes, and mark me right now.”

His nose brushed yours, his body still pressed so perfectly to yours.

“Say yes,” he whispered.

“And be mine.”

Your breath came heavy, your chest rising and falling too fast, too unsteady.

And then—

You nodded.

Your voice was shaky, but still, the word fell from your lips, wrapped in something breathless, something undeniable.

“Yes.”

Yes, yes, yes.

Because how could you not?

Jungkook had made your life difficult, had pushed and challenged you at every turn. But now—

Now, he was trying.

He wasn’t just taking, wasn’t just demanding.

He was offering himself to you.

If he meant it—if he let you mark him—then it wouldn’t just be you belonging to him.

He would belong to you, too.

Your fingers trembled as you slowly—so fucking slowly— pushed up the hem of his shirt.

Jungkook’s breath hitched, his entire body going taut at the first glide of your hands under his shirt, the first whisper of your touch against his bare skin.

And then—

A growl rumbled from his chest, and before you could even think, his shirt was ripped off.

Torn away like it was nothing.

Because if you wanted to touch him, if you wanted to claim him, then fuck—

He was going to let you.

Your fingers traced over the warm, hard planes of his torso, his body shuddering beneath your touch.

You were gentle at first, almost shy, your fingertips light as air over his abs, up to his ribs.

But then—

Jungkook let out a low, gravelly sound, his own larger hand capturing one of yours and pressing it flat against his chest, right over his racing heart.

“Mate,” he rumbled, the word vibrating deep in his chest—a vow, a promise, an undeniable truth.

And then he was on you again.

The intensity he couldn’t use on your lips—not with your still-healing cut—he poured into your neck instead.

He kissed you there, savored you, his lips trailing a path that burned in the best way, nipping, licking, tasting you.

You shivered, your hands growing bolder, moving freely over his skin now.

Your fingers skated up his sides, explored the taut muscles of his shoulders, then dipped lower.

And when you flicked your fingers over his nipple—just to see what he’d do—

A deep, guttural growl tore from Jungkook’s throat, his body jerking in response, a sharp inhale dragged through his teeth.

You fucking loved it.

Loved this power over him, loved the way his body shook under your touch, the way his need grew almost unbearable as you teased him. His hips rocked against yours, desperate for friction, for anything.

But then—

Jungkook wanted you in the same state of undress.

His hands moved under your clothes, hot and reverent, his touch just as exploring, just as aching.

First, his fingers glided over your stomach, smoothing over the soft curves, tracing up your ribs—

And fuck—

You fluttered under him, your body shivering at the warmth of his hands.

And when you lifted yourself just slightly, just enough for him to pull your shirt off—

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

He sat up, gripping the hem, and in one smooth motion, he had your shirt off and discarded.

And then—

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating silence.

Jungkook’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide, drinking you in, taking in every inch of your bare skin, every part of you that was exposed to him now.

You should have felt powerful.

You should have felt wanted.

But instead—

Jungkook’s gaze hardened.

His jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring as his eyes locked onto the bruises littering your skin.

There were blue and purple splotches, fresh reminders of your fight earlier.

There weren’t any bandages, you didn’t care to replace them after your little swim, but there didn’t need to be. The ugly mark near your ribs was more than enough proof of what you had been through.

Jungkook growled—

Deep and dangerous.

Furious.

The second he saw your reaction, he regretted it.

Because you weren’t proud, weren’t smirking like you had won a fight.

No.

You looked ashamed.

Your gaze dropped, your body curling in slightly like you wanted to disappear.

A shiver ran over you, but it wasn’t from pleasure.

Jungkook saw it all. Felt it all.

And fuck—

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

You already knew you didn’t smell as sweet as other omegas, your scent too weak to be truly enticing.

And now—

Now, your battered body wasn’t even nice to look at for your mate.

The realization hit you so hard it felt like a physical wound.

Jungkook saw the way your body stiffened, how your shoulders sank, the way you seemed to shrink into yourself, and his chest ached.

Because no.

He couldn’t let you feel like this.

Not for a single second.

A snarl ripped from him—sharp, frustrated, not at you, but at the world for making you think this way.

And then—

His hands grabbed your face, cupping your cheeks, forcing you to look at him.

“Stop.”

His voice was low, commanding, but desperate.

You hesitated, lips parting, eyes still downcast.

Jungkook wouldn’t allow it.

His forehead pressed to yours, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, soft, reverent, but unyielding.

“Look at me.”

It took a moment.

A long, painful second.

But then—

You did.

And fuck—

Jungkook’s eyes burned.

Because he didn’t see flaws.

He didn’t see imperfection.

He saw you—his mate—beautiful and raw and strong.

And he needed you to see it, too.

Jungkook’s lips found your temple, pressing soft kisses to your skin, down to your cheek, over the curve of your jaw.

And then—

Softly.

Almost pleading.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

Jungkook’s fingers traced the outline of your bruise, featherlight, like he was memorizing it, like he wanted to absorb it, take it into himself instead.

And your breath hitched.

He was so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, something warm and twisting pooling deep in your belly.

But you still didn’t understand.

“Jungkook…”

Your voice was small, almost shy—like if you spoke too loudly, he might change his mind.

Might see what you saw.

Might realize you weren’t worthy of this.

You almost couldn’t say it.

But the words tumbled out anyway, soft, fractured—

“I… I’m black and blue. I’m not… I—”

Your entire body curled inward, as if you could make yourself smaller, as if you could hide from him, from the way he looked at you.

And fuck—

Jungkook felt sick at the sight.

How could you not see?

You weren’t some fragile thing.

You had beaten a strong beta at the festival, had fought with everything in you for your pack.

You weren’t weak.

You weren’t ruined.

You weren’t less.

You were more.

More whole, more unyielding, more alive than anyone he had ever known.

And fuck, he needed you to understand that.

With one swift, careful motion, Jungkook moved—flipping you effortlessly until you were on top of him.

His hands found you immediately—

One curled into your hair, grounding you.

The other gripped your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

A surprised yelp escaped your lips, your hands bracing against his chest, wide eyes staring down at him.

You were straddling him now.

The contrast was dizzying— the way he had handled you with such ease, like he could break you in half—

And yet, beneath you, he was so fucking hard, his need pressing thick between your thighs, hot even through the layers of clothing.

Heat flared across your face, crawling down your neck.

You shifted, trying to put distance between you, your hands pressing into his chest, your knees digging into the mattress to lift yourself.

But Jungkook’s grip tightened.

The hand on your hip yanked you back down, forcing you against him again, another strangled sound breaking from his throat.

The hand in your hair held you firm, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look at him.

And fuck—

Jungkook, an alpha, the next to lead your pack, was beneath you, hard and desperate, staring at you like you were the moon itself.

Like you were his fucking world.

His voice was low, gravelly, but so fucking sure.

“My mate isn’t some brittle flower.”

His fingers dug in, his body coiling like a predator holding itself back.

“My mate gives alphas a run for their money.”

Jungkook breathed you in, a sharp inhale, a growl deep in his chest, the scent of your arousal spiking in the air.

“Your scent is just for me.”

His hips bucked once, slow, purposeful, grinding into you, forcing you to feel him.

“And every bruise you got, you gave back twice as hard.”

His hand tightened in your hair, his next words a growl—

“Don’t you dare think I don’t want you because of that.”

Your entire body burned, your stomach coiling tight, molten heat spreading like fire in your veins.

“But…”

Jungkook cut you off—his grip firm, unwavering.

“Just because I want to treat you like my fragile little mate, doesn’t mean you’re fragile.”

His fingers slid lower, teasing at the waistband of your pants, gripping at the barrier between you, pulling you harder against him.

His next words were a promise, a growled warning wrapped in heat.

“And if you let me, I’ll show you just how often I can put you back together tonight.”

And fuck—

Your scent spiked again, another wave of arousal washing over you, unbidden, undeniable.

Jungkook felt it immediately.

Felt the way you shivered, the way your body melted just slightly, the way your pupils widened, blown black with want.

His grip tightened.

His fingers curled under your waistband, ready to tear it away—

And his next word was simple, a single command, his voice dark and demanding.

“Off.”

You were both moving.

Fumbling.

Desperate.

Pants were kicked away, clothing discarded, and then—

Jungkook grabbed you again.

But instead of pulling you back onto him, onto his length—

He lifted you higher.

Your thighs trembled as he shifted you up, your core hovering over his face now.

Your breath caught, the realization slamming into you, heat flooding your cheeks as you stammered—

“Jungkook—?”

But his grip was firm, his eyes burning, filled with absolute hunger.

His hands guided you down, his head tilting back, reaching for you, and then—

His tongue flicked against you.

And fuck—

Your legs shook, a strangled gasp ripping from your lips, fingers fisting into the sheets.

Jungkook groaned, the sound low and ravenous, his hands clutching your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

He licked you again.

Long, slow, deliberate.

You were falling. No—flying? Maybe both. Your body no longer felt like your own, overtaken by sensation, by the fire spreading through every inch of you under Jungkook’s relentless touch. His hands, strong and possessive, held you firmly in place, keeping you from escaping the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. Every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue sent waves of shivers coursing through you, and the quiet, helpless whimpers slipping from your lips only seemed to feed his hunger.

Jungkook was insatiable, the deep rumble of his pleasure vibrating against your core, sending tremors through your entire being. He groaned against you, drinking in your scent, your taste, every reaction you gave him like it was the only thing he’d ever crave. The way you trembled, the way you gasped and arched above him—he wanted more. He needed more. He wanted to bury himself in every part of you, to pull every sound, every movement, every ounce of pleasure from you until you were entirely his.

His grip tightened, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you in place when instinct had you trying to squirm away. The intensity was too much, yet not enough, and Jungkook wasn’t about to let you escape—not when you were giving him everything he wanted. His mouth worked against you with precision, teasing, stroking, flicking, each motion designed to unravel you, to leave you shaking above him. You tried to find purchase, to hold onto something, but your limbs were weak, and the only thing grounding you was Jungkook himself.

And then he did something different—a new pressure, a shift that made your body jerk in response. He adjusted his hold, pulling you closer, locking you against him as he moved, his nose brushing against your clit, his tongue coaxing more pleasure from you than you thought you could handle. A strangled sound escaped you, somewhere between a gasp and a plea, and Jungkook’s deep growl of satisfaction sent another tremor through you. His grip tightened just a little more, as if reminding you that you were his, that you belonged to him, and the sheer possessiveness in his touch made your head spin.

Your breath hitched, body tightening, and Jungkook felt it—the way you were teetering on the edge, the way your muscles locked as the wave built inside you. He hummed against you, the vibration pushing you closer, and then, with one final movement, he sent you plummeting into oblivion. A sharp cry, a desperate breath of his name—"Kook"—was all you managed before the pleasure overtook you completely, your body shaking with the force of it. Jungkook didn’t stop, didn’t let go, holding you through it, watching with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as you came undone above him, utterly lost in the moment he had created for you.

His chest rumbled with satisfaction, his grip shifting as he slowly brought you back down, grounding you with gentle touches even as his own restraint frayed. Because he wasn’t done. Not even close.

Your breathing slowly evened out, your body sinking into the soft bedding beneath you, boneless and trembling in the aftermath. You barely had the strength to lift your head, but you became aware of Jungkook sitting back on his knees between your legs, his gaze locked onto you with something dark, something primal burning in his eyes. And for a second, you were utterly confused. Why was he still wearing his pants? Why had he held back when he was clearly fighting against every instinct to claim you?

Before you could question him, he pulled you closer again, his hands sliding under your knees, lifting your legs to rest over his thighs. His fingers traced delicate patterns along your skin, smoothing over the trembling muscles he had wrecked only moments ago. The way he touched you now was different—still possessive, still intense—but laced with something softer, something reverent. His touch soothed even as it sent more shivers down your spine. His chin was still wet from your arousal, his lips slightly parted as he caught his breath, his hair tousled and wild from how you had gripped him. And god, he looked beautiful. Absolutely untamed.

The sight made something in your chest tighten, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the heat between your legs. You reached for him without thinking, hands opening and closing in the air, needy, desperate for him.

"Mate," you breathed, the word slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Before you knew what you said.

Jungkook’s gaze snapped to you and froze. His breath hitched, and then a sound—deep, guttural, and dangerously close to a purr—vibrated from his chest. His pupils blew wide, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your thighs as if you had just broken him and put him back together all in the same moment. You hadn’t even realized what you had done. You had given him the one thing he craved the most—you had acknowledged him. Claimed him, even if you didn’t fully understand the depth of it.

A shudder ran through him as he leaned over you, letting you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, letting your scent fill his lungs as though it was the only thing keeping him sane. His lips pressed against your throat, slow and deliberate, before trailing up to your jaw, your cheek, and then finally—your lips.

“Don’t say that,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice raw with restraint. “Not right now. I’m already using everything I have to hold back.”

But even as he spoke, he couldn’t stop touching you. His hands never ceased their slow, torturous exploration, his fingers skimming the inside of your thighs, creeping higher, testing how much more you could take. The contrast was maddening—the way he spoke of restraint while simultaneously unraveling you all over again.

His teeth grazed the shell of your ear, a teasing nip, a quiet growl vibrating against your skin. “One more,” he murmured, his voice thick with want.

Your breath hitched. "I... I—" The words barely made it out before your body betrayed you, another shudder rolling through you, your legs trembling even as he tried to soothe them.

Jungkook only hummed, his grip steady, his patience razor-thin. Because if he had his way, he’d have more than just one.

God, it was embarrassing how fast he could reduce you to this—how easily his fingers found the spot that had you keening for him, how effortlessly he had you spread open and taking him. One, then two, then three fingers, stretching you with slow, deliberate precision, filling you so perfectly that you could barely think, barely breathe. Your body trembled, a shiver rolling down your spine with every slow push and curl of his fingers inside you. You were beyond holding on at this point, your senses overwhelmed, your nerves alight, and the only thing keeping your legs from snapping shut in sheer overstimulation was the weight of Jungkook’s waist between them.

Your hands were desperate, restless, running over every inch of him, gripping at his arms, his shoulders, his chest—anywhere he would let you, anywhere but where you really wanted to touch him. Because Jungkook wouldn’t allow that. Not yet. And it was driving you insane because he sounded just as wrecked as you felt, his breath uneven, his muscles tensed like he was barely restraining himself. And god, the way he looked at you, the way he kissed you—deep and consuming, like he wanted to devour every sound you made—it had you spiraling all over again.

The next slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, tightening around him, making your head fall back against the pillows. It was too much and not enough. You needed more. Needed him. And as your pleasure built higher and higher, as you scrambled desperately for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself, a broken whimper fell from your lips.

“Mate.”

Jungkook cursed under his breath, his body jolting as if the word had physically struck him. His control was slipping fast, but he didn’t care—not when he could feel the way your walls fluttered around his fingers, gripping him so tightly, so sweetly, as you shattered beneath him once more. Not when you were shaking in his arms, when you were looking up at him like that—fucked out and dazed and so incredibly beautiful.

His head spun, his blood roared in his veins, and the need to claim you, to take you completely, burned through him like wildfire. But he couldn’t let you touch him. Not yet. Because if you so much as brushed against his cock right now, he’d come in seconds. He was painfully hard, so fucking close just from watching you fall apart again and again, and as he finally shed the last barrier between you, he had to take a moment—one shaky, grounding moment—not to lose himself at the sight of you.

You were still catching your breath, your body soft and pliant, your legs trembling in the aftermath of your release. But then—god, you were a fucking minx—you looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, gaze dropping to where he was thick and aching for you, were he held himself not to come undone just by watching you, and without a word, without even a moment’s hesitation, you slowly spread your legs just a little wider. A silent invitation.

And that was it.

Jungkook was over you in an instant, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so deep it stole what little breath you had left. His hands framed your face, holding you with a reverence that contradicted the raw hunger in his movements, his groan vibrating against your lips as he completely lost himself in you.

He gave you whiplash—his touch still grounding, still careful, his fingers tracing over your bruises with a tenderness that sent shivers racing down your spine. But there was something barely restrained in him, something trembling at the edge of control.

"Mate," he growled, voice raw, the word vibrating from his chest like a snarl, like a plea, as if he might snap in half if he didn’t sink into you this very instant.

You met his eyes, still hazy from pleasure, still dazed from the intensity of it all, but you knew what he needed—what you needed. Without a word, you lifted one leg over his hip, opening yourself to him, guiding him closer. And slower than you ever thought possible, he began to push in.

The stretch was overwhelming, the feeling so intense it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. You could feel him everywhere, in every part of you, in every nerve ending, in the very marrow of your bones. Both of you groaned in unison, bodies trembling at the sheer overwhelming sensation of being joined like this, and fuck—you had never felt more full, more complete, more utterly his than in this moment.

But then Jungkook stilled.

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, pleading for him to move, to give you more. But Jungkook’s body trembled, his grip on your hips tightening—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor himself. Unintentionally, his fingers pressed just a little too hard against one of your bruises, and the sharp gasp you let out had him groaning. He pulled back instantly, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck. Wait—don’t… don’t move.” His voice was strained, wrecked. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his breath searing down the slope of your neck, over your collarbone, making your nipples harden further. His body shuddered. “You feel too fucking good.”

You didn’t care. You needed him to move.

“Jungkook,” you pleaded, trembling beneath him, body taut with need. “Please—move.”

He was shaking. He was trying so hard to hold himself back, but after a long, painful moment, he finally nodded, voice wrecked.

“Yeah… fuck.”

He pulled out agonizingly slowly, the drag of him against your walls, against every sensitive nerve inside you, making your toes curl and a desperate mewl escape your lips, making you whimper, your thighs trembling around him. Jungkook groaned—a deep, guttural sound—and his grip on your hips tightened, holding you still, not trusting you, not trusting himself—not right now, not with how tight and warm you felt around him.

And then he thrust back in.

Your breath hitched, a broken moan tearing from your throat, and Jungkook’s control snapped completely. His movements were still slow, but deep, hard, relentless in their precision. The force of each thrust sent pleasure crashing through you, your body arching into him, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. Your nails raked down his back, over his arms, but Jungkook didn’t let up. He was lost in you, drowning in the way you clenched around him, the way you took him so perfectly, as if you were made for him.

Your eyes rolled back, pleasure so sharp it left you breathless, and Jungkook wasn’t fairing any better. His hair clung to his forehead, sweat beading along his temple, his breath ragged against your ear. He didn’t dare look down, didn’t dare watch where his cock was disappearing inside you, because just the thought of it was almost enough to undo him.

He needed more.

His hands roamed greedily over you. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, dragging you against him, against the heat of his skin. His scent was thick in the air, intoxicating, wrapping around you like a drug.

“Fuck, I want you,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a desperate groan.

You gasped against his throat, shivering at the sheer need in his voice. Your lips brushed against his skin, soft and warm and reverent.

“You have me.”

A tremor ran down Jungkook’s spine, his hand tightening in your hair as he fought for control. But then—

“Where will you mark me?”

The question sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, your walls clenching desperately around him involuntarily. Jungkook let out a broken moan, his rhythm faltering. He was holding on by a thread, his entire body trembling with restraint, waiting—pleading for your answer.

"I—" Your voice faltered, your mind hazy with pleasure, with need, with the overwhelming gravity of what he was asking.

But there was no hesitation in him.

"Mark me, my mate,"

His voice was rough, commanding, leaving no room for doubt. And you didn’t hesitate any longer. You tilted your head, lips brushing over the spot that had drawn your attention from the moment he had leapt after you, the spot where his pulse thundered beneath his skin. You parted your lips, tongue flicking over the skin once, twice—

And then you bit down.

Jungkook shattered.

A deep, guttural growl tore from his throat as he slammed into you one final time, his entire body locking up as he spilled inside you, his pleasure hitting so hard it sent you spiraling after him. Your own release crashed over you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out, your body shaking as you clenched around him, milking him for everything he had.

His body covered yours, his hips rolling through the aftershocks, prolonging both your highs, until the pleasure finally faded into a warm, blissful haze.

You could feel him throbbing inside you, feel the way his breath shuddered against your skin, feel the way his hands still held you like he was afraid to let go.

You had claimed him.

And he was yours.

Jungkook collapsed against you, panting, shuddering, his lips pressing feverish, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone—anywhere he could reach. His breath was still uneven, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his release, but he never stopped touching you, never stopped grounding himself in the reality of you beneath him.

You had marked him.

There was no going back now.

He was yours.

But as you slowly came down from the high, your mind clearing in the hazy warmth of his embrace, a realization settled over you—one that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

He hadn’t marked you.

Just as he had promised, he had held himself back, had given you the choice to wake up in the morning and decide for yourself. He had been careful, considerate, exactly as he had sworn he would be. And yet… you found yourself wishing he hadn’t. Wishing he had been selfish, had lost control, had claimed you the way you had claimed him.

Your body betrayed you, walls fluttering involuntarily around him at the mere thought.

Jungkook groaned, his body jolting in response. His head dropped to your shoulder, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest as he realized what you had just done.

You gasped, your face burning. “That— I didn’t mean—”

But Jungkook lifted himself up, still nestled deep inside you, still keeping you close, and the look on his face nearly made you forget how to breathe. His dark eyes drank you in, half-lidded and lazy with satisfaction, yet still burning with something deeper—something raw and unfiltered. He looked wrecked in the best way possible, his skin flushed, his damp hair falling into his eyes, his lips still swollen from kissing you. And yet, it was the way he gazed at you, the way he took in every inch of you, the way his scent wrapped so thickly around you, mixing with yours—it made your stomach flip.

And, of course, the bastard knew it.

A slow, wicked smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “You’re a menace,” he murmured, voice still rough from pleasure.

You let out a breathless laugh, your body still too spent to do anything more than weakly swat at his arm. But Jungkook was faster, capturing your wrist and pinning it beside your head, his nose brushing teasingly along the curve of your throat before he playfully nipped at your skin. You squeaked, squirming, but he only chuckled again, his hands steady on your hips, making sure he didn’t slip from you just yet.

After a moment, his voice softened.

“You good?”

You took a slow breath, nodding. And then, as you met his gaze, the question that had been lingering in your mind slipped out before you could stop it.

“You didn’t mark me.”

It wasn’t an accusation, wasn’t even disappointment, just a quiet observation.

But Jungkook’s reaction was immediate.

His gaze dropped to your neck, to the exact spot where he already knew—without a doubt—his mark would one day belong. His fingers twitched against your skin, as if barely restraining himself from reaching out, from pressing his lips to that spot, from sinking his teeth in and sealing the bond.

“You want me to?”

The roughness of his voice sent a fresh shiver down your spine, but before you could even answer, you felt him twitch inside you.

A startled yelp left your lips, and now it was his turn to chuckle, clearly pleased with himself as he nosed at your throat, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin.

“Jungkook,” you whined, still sensitive, still overwhelmed.

He hummed in amusement, pressing another kiss to your neck. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes,” you admitted, breathlessly. “But… but not today.” You swallowed, suddenly shy. “Thank you. For… for letting me choose.”

Jungkook stilled for a moment, then pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, and something warm, something dangerously tender flickered in those dark irises.

“Don’t mistake me, little mate,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “If you decide to leave the pack in the morning—which would be a fucking terrible decision after all the work it took for them to recognize you—I’d simply follow you.” He smirked, eyes dark and unwavering. “I’m yours now.”

Your heart swelled, a feeling too big, too all-consuming wrapping around your ribs, threatening to steal the breath from your lungs. You barely had the strength to say it, to let the word slip from your lips in a whisper so soft it barely existed between you.

“Mate.”

And then you kissed him, slowly, deeply, reverently, brushing your nose against his before your lips met.

Delighting in the warmth of him.

Delighting in the fact that he was yours.

Jungkook adjusted you carefully, rearranging your limbs so you could rest comfortably for the night. But even with all his care, a hiss of protest left you both when he slowly, begrudgingly, slipped out of you—dragging out the inevitable as long as he could.

Still, he helped you clean up, albeit reluctantly. Even as he wiped you down, his hands lingered, his touch reverent, his lips brushing over your skin as if he could somehow preserve the moment. And when he finally let you settle back into the furs, his scent still clung to you—enough to satisfy him, though not nearly enough for his liking.

Jungkook tucked himself against you, his nose buried in your hair, his arms wrapped protectively around your waist. Your lips hovered near his neck, your hands resting over his heart and around his shoulder, holding him just as much as he held you. Your legs tangled together beneath the blanket draped lazily over you—not that you needed it. Jungkook’s warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the safety of his presence—it was all you needed to lull you into sleep.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It was early when you stirred, blinking against the soft light creeping through the tent. Jungkook was still wrapped around you, his body heavy with sleep, his grip unyielding. With a sleepy groan, you tried to sit up, pushing away the haze of drowsiness.

Jungkook mumbled something incoherent, his arms tightening around you as he buried his face deeper into your neck.

You chuckled, trying again—only to be rolled onto your back, his weight pressing you down. His nose nudged against your throat, his breath warm against your skin, still lost in the remnants of slumber.

A laugh bubbled from your lips as you tried to wake him with kisses to his neck. He grumbled in response, pressing closer instead of pulling away, a deep sound of protest rumbling in his chest.

“Don’t start anything,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep, comfort, and something dangerously close to temptation.

You huffed, nudging him playfully. “I need to get up. I have to pack.”

The reminder brought reality crashing back in. The festival was coming to an end. Soon, the packs would return to their lands, carrying stories back to their elders. And for the first time, you weren’t bound to leave with them.

You had a choice.

A choice that both thrilled and terrified Jungkook.

Because he had meant every word—if you chose to leave, he would follow. His heart had already decided. But still, a sliver of anxiety gnawed at him. Would yesterday—everything he had done, everything he had given—be enough to make you stay?

With a deep, reluctant sigh, Jungkook finally rolled off you, though not without a few more mumbled complaints.

He helped you pack, though his mood darkened when you disappeared to freshen up. And when you returned, smelling like soap and morning air instead of him, a displeased growl rumbled low in his throat.

His scent wasn’t entirely gone—he could still catch traces of it on you. But had you deliberately left it there? Or had he marked you so thoroughly last night that no amount of scrubbing could erase him?

He didn’t know.

But what he did know was that he had no interest in finishing the rest of his morning tasks—not when he could be pulling you back into bed, pressing his scent into your skin all over again.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Before Jungkook could act on his impulse to pull you back into bed and mark you all over again, two wolves arrived. And unlike you, he wasn’t particularly happy to see them.

Namjoon and Yoongi.

They greeted you warmly, their smiles easy, their presence familiar. And Jungkook—who, just moments ago, had felt content in the lingering haze of your shared night—now found himself gritting his teeth.

It wasn’t fair, but it still made his chest tighten to see you smile at them like that, to witness the genuine affection on your face. He understood, of course. Yoongi and Namjoon had been kind to you, had offered you a place where you wouldn’t have to fight to be recognized.

But understanding didn’t make it easier to watch Yoongi hover so damn close to you.

Jungkook dropped the tent pole he’d been holding, nearly bringing the entire structure crashing down on Jimin in his haste to move toward you. Yoongi barely spared him a glance, smiling as he met your gaze.

“So, Thunder, have you decided?”

You blinked. “Thunder?”

Yoongi looked just as confused as you. “Yeah. You smell like it. Didn’t you realize?”

Your brows furrowed, and you shook your head. Jungkook’s hand hovered just over your lower back, the heat of his presence grounding you, even as you remained puzzled by Yoongi’s words.

Then, Yoongi’s sharp gaze flickered to Jungkook. His expression shifted slightly, as if piecing something together. His eyes dipped to the collar of Jungkook’s shirt—where, if one knew what to look for, they’d see the faintest hint of your mark. Barely visible, easy to miss.

Yoongi chuckled under his breath.

“So?” he pressed.

“I…” You faltered, fumbling with your words.

Jungkook clenched his jaw.

He wanted to step in, to tell Yoongi off, to grab you, scent you, take you home before anyone else had the chance to make you second-guess your choice. But this wasn’t his decision to make.

Then, just as he braced himself for your answer, you took a step toward Yoongi.

And hugged him.

Jungkook’s heart lurched.

It wasn’t a possessive hug, not the kind that sent fire roaring through his veins. It was soft. Grateful. A gesture of appreciation rather than hesitation.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you murmured, stepping back. “Really.”

Then, you turned—your gaze sweeping over the rest of the pack.

Jimin looked like he was vibrating with nerves. Hana seemed as though she might faint. Seokjin was gripping Hoseok’s hand so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, as if awaiting the decision of a lifetime.

You chuckled.

“Thank you for seeing me,” you said, voice steady now. “But I want to truly see them before I can go anywhere. So, I have to decline.”

Yoongi nodded, hands tucked into his pockets, his smile warm but knowing. “Thought so.”

His gaze flickered to Jungkook, unreadable for just a second.

“But the invitation still stands,” Yoongi added, meeting your eyes again. “If you ever see something you don’t like—if you ever need a way out—come looking for me.”

A low, dangerous growl rumbled from Jungkook’s chest before he could stop it.

You only chuckled, nudging him in warning.

With that, Yoongi and Namjoon left.

Jungkook barely gave you time to breathe before he had you back in his arms, pulling you flush against him. His grip was firm, his lips pressing against your temple, his body curling around yours in a way that left no room for argument.

You laughed, struggling half-heartedly against his hold. “Jungkook—”

“You smell like that mutt,” he grumbled, voice dark, but not truly angry. His lips ghosted over your skin, his teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Jungkook,” you scolded, half amused, half exasperated.

“Not my fault he got too close,” he muttered, his hands sliding over your hips, as if physically reclaiming you. “Gotta fix it.”

“You can’t just—”

His nose brushed against your neck, inhaling deeply. “I can. And I will.”

But before you could say anything he continued “I meant what I said,” his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, quieter now, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “If you’d left, I would’ve followed.”

“I know.” Your hands moved from his hair to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. “But I didn’t want to leave. I want this. I want—”

“Me,” Jungkook finished for you, and there was a hint of something teasing in his voice, but mostly, there was relief.

You rolled your eyes but smiled, brushing your nose against his. “Yes, you, idiot.”

A deep, pleased sound rumbled from his chest. “Then let me fix this.”

You huffed. “At least let me finish packing first?”

Jungkook let out a displeased sound but, begrudgingly, let you go—“Put your stuff with mine,” though not without grumbling under his breath as you moved to help your pack. You exhaled a soft laugh, warmth spreading through your chest.

And it didn’t take long for the teasing to begin.

“Oh, he’s not letting you out of his sight, huh?” Jimin snickered, watching as Jungkook hovered near you like a restless shadow.

“You better not run off,” Seokjin called out, smirking. “I don’t think he’d survive it.”

“You’re lucky, you know,” Hoseok added, throwing an arm over your shoulder. “He never acts like this. Usually, he just scowls at everyone.”

Jungkook growled, yanking you out of Hoseok’s hold with a glare.

Hana, still looking slightly overwhelmed, gave you a hesitant smile. “I guess that means you’re really staying?”

You glanced at Jungkook, at the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire world. His fingers curled around yours instinctively, possessive but warm.

A slow smile spread across your lips.

“Yeah,” you said, squeezing his hand. “I’m staying.”

Jungkook exhaled, relief flooding through him, though he tried not to show just how much your words meant. But when you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his entire body melted against yours. And as the pack continued to tease and celebrate, as laughter and warmth surrounded you, you realized—this wasn’t just Jungkook’s pack anymore.

This was your home.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Part 1 I Masterlist

[katzenklavierr]

Despite her being the Animal Lover(TM) of the group I don't get the impression that Yasmin is a furry. I think she knows what furries are and she thinks they're cute and all but she's just not one herself. If prompted to make a fursona, she would spend way too much time trying to decide what animal even best represented her because she likes just about all of them but doesn't feel any are strongly tied to her identity. Her friends would suggest frogs because of the whole Princess thing and she'd roll with it, though.

Jade and Sasha, however, are definitely furries, though different degrees. Sasha has a fursona (a bunny, of course) but she's more casual about it and really only interacts with the music scene of the community.

Jade's fursona is a (very fashionable) black cat and she actively draws furry artwork and would make fursonas for her non-furry friends. It probably started with her getting a little too into warrior cats in middle school or something. She would definitely make a partial suit and style it with different outfits.

Cloe doesn't really know what furries are and, if prompted, would just ask for her fursona to be an angel. If pressed further that it needs to be some kind of animal she'd probably suggest a pig (that is importantly also an angel) only because she had one as a kid and thinks they're really cute.