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purest-expressionofgrief · 1 month

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im sure there’s a reason why yoongi had hyewon there but still… a part of me wants to see him hurt and break for our girl here ☹️ (i lowkey need her to find happiness with someone else!!!)

(edit: i saw people saying they wanted a tae second lead but i think a seokjin one would be interestinggg ngl)

fail-safe (2)

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you've heard nothing about it, so you're thankful.

alternatively, yoongi reminds you of home in more ways than one.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, brother's best friend AND single dad au, eventual fluff, a lot of yearning but For What, they reunite but at what cost rlly, jealousy, self-loathing, unrequited love (initial), deja vu but in the worst possible form, eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: i am So sorry for this .

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even reading ur thoughts in the tags give me life :) | series masterlist

FIVE YEARS LATER

The trip back home wasn’t as rough as Yoongi expected it to be.

Somehow, there’s a huge difference between sitting in economy seats versus first-class seats, even if they’re situated on the same aircraft. When he left, Yoongi was irritable (amongst other things) to keep bumping elbows with everyone else; now that he’s back, he almost misses the ruckus in the cabin that’s far too cramped for everyone who could afford it.

Yoongi used to hate people like himself — atleast the version that he is now. He hated bastards sitting upfront in seats that reclined all the way back and ate off plates instead of noisy, flimsy plastic containers. Back then, deep down to his very core, he wanted that lifestyle for himself. To become bigger and better than he could ever imagine for the life ahead of him was always the goal.

Now that he’s at the peak, maybe even being the peak himself, he feels weirdly homesick.

“You need to bundle up all the way, Haneul. They’re gonna scold me if you’re not covered from head to toe,” Yoongi playfully chides his son, the insecurity and nervousness underneath his tone flying right over his head. It’s not even that cold, but still, a huge part of Yoongi worries.

He worries everyday if he’s a good dad to his four-year old. He worries if he’s good enough to be a solo parent because after all, he’s the one who has main custody of Haneul anyway. He worries and worries, but there’s nothing quite like the trepidation he feels being back home with everyone who has ever known him prior to all this success, suddenly seeing him come home.

It should be the opposite way around, that’s what everyone says to him. Yoongi had been queasy the whole flight back home despite the flight being one of the smoothest trips he’s ever been on in his life. He’s nervous to be back where he had been born and raised and he doesn’t know what’s that supposed to mean, except for the fact that he has an inkling of what the weight in his chest pertains to.

He’s back because it’s your mother’s 60th birthday. He’s back because her and Namjoon had asked him to, and he obliged without even thinking about it. Yoongi had offered numerous times to throw a party for the woman who had practically raised him alongside his closest friend, and even if Namjoon had backed him up on the grand idea for such a large milestone, she said no. All she wanted was for everyone to be back home, and Yoongi couldn’t say no.

Neither could you.

Yoongi is not the most modest person alive, but he is at his humblest when he drives the long way home just to delay the inevitable. He’s happy to the point he could be sick. He can’t tell if it’s the joy or the anxiety in his chest that makes it tighten, almost unbearably so, that he makes Haneul reach up to his forehead to check if he has a fever.

Yoongi’s home.

Not Los Angeles home, and not New York home. Not his home with a closet that’s the size of his childhood house’s living room, and not his space with the big windows and concierge downstairs.

Yoongi’s home — where the streets are narrow and the stairs are creaky; where this time, it’s all of him and none of you.

Enduring is different than working.

You’ve realized that the two concepts are drastically different as soon as Yoongi left, leaving you to survive the remaining years of your degree before you had to face the reality that you had to work to the bone for the rest of your life if you wanted a shot at living an average, food-stocked-in-the-fridge kind of life.

You didn’t know anyone who was connected to someone of importance one way or another, your family had zero ties, and you graduated from a university that raised more eyebrows in confusion than it tilted heads in awe. Your degree does havehigh promises as far as everyone in your town was concerned — it does and it should be, if only you were born and raised in different circumstances.

There’s not one acclaimed and high-profit company that would ever accept the likes of you. You worked hard and even if there were no exchange student agreements and Latin honors to show for it, you really did. You gave your best to graduate with a degree you never really liked and was only forced upon you, all for the promise of a future. It didn’t matter if it was extremely good or bad — everyone else just said you had to have one.

Your misfortune is what it is. It’s empty and haunting and the two weeks you had spent in the city right after graduating is truly something you never want to relive.

In hindsight, gambling the rest of your pocket money on a bus fare in your last day of job-hunting in the city at the time was a stupid decision. It was impulsive and irresponsible and everything your family scolded you for, what Yoongi hated you for, but it ended up being the single best gamble you’ve ever made, even above entry-level lottery tickets.

The same circumstances that held you back from where you’re supposed to head ended up propelling you to somewhere far, far different. Your degree became completely irrelevant, and the fact that you had nobody of significance in the city– no person to pass malice and gossip onto— made you a manager.

It had been a gamble to go work for an unknown entertainment company, much more a sinking one. It was an insult to have busted your ass back in your hometown, studying and working at the same time, only to work professionally in the city for a field that you didn’t even study about.

Your fate is what it is. You’ve endured and worked hard enough to the point that you had finally lucked out. Being the manager of someone who had later turned out to become the biggest actor in the industry, even in Hollywood, became your biggest break up to date.

Your way back home feels like an embrace you’ve denied yourself for far too long. You’ve mainly stayed in Seoul apart from the several hundred times you had to come with Jungkook for filming outside of the country, yet you could only count on one hand the amount of times you came home without anyone telling you to.

Coming home had become foreign to you as much as leaving it had become familiar.

“I’m near, Joon,” you hum to your phone, taking a quick glance at the cake you’ve strapped to your front seat. “It’s only us, right?”

“Yeah. Just us.”

Maybe it’s your fault for changing what us meant throughout the past five years, but Namjoon’s definition never changed. Maybe it’s your fault for not clarifying what he meant when you’re still kilometers away, when you can still leave, but nonetheless, you were cornered.

Us meant what it used to be when you were a kid in your childhood home — when Yoongi was still in the picture and you didn’t hate him for it.

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that Yoongi was right — nothing valuable was left for him in your hometown anymore. He was as right as you were wrong every time he went on a monologue of how he thinks there’s no problem in him admitting that he’s full of envy. He had been right for being bitter that there’s people who have and get much more than him, more than what they deserve, by not even putting a fourth of the effort that he does.

In the same way that he was right, you were wrong for thinking each time that Yoongi would soon outgrow his ambitions and instead, see things for what they are. You were wrong for thinking Yoongi would stoop down to your page, much less ever think of it.

Yoongi was right for saying that his stomach’s made of steel, and you were wrong for trying to convince him otherwise. He’s always had the appetite for more, the digestion of whatever life throws at him coming easy. Yoongi can choke down the reality of leaving Namjoon, your brother, who’s been buddies with him even before they could talk. He could forgo the only brother figure he’s ever had in his life if it means making something of himself.

He doesn’t get constipated from the reality of no longer having the homemade meals your mother would make that the younger, more innocent, and less ambitious version of him would literally jumps fences for. In fact, Yoongi’s palate craved something more foreign and sophisticated; not familiar, hearty meals served in dinnerware dulled from years of routine.

His stomach doesn’t turn thinking about how the skyline he said he’d never get tired of, wouldn’t appear in his new side of the world. The little, unassuming, and far too comfortable version of him who used to chase sunrises with his bike as a child and chase sunsets with his car as a teenager, doesn’t feel like he’d be poisoned if he were to see the sunlight in a high-rise instead of a run-down pavement.

Yoongi’s right when he said he had a tolerance because he doesn’t even get heartburn when you cry for him to no longer leave. You’re not in the position to beg him to stay (and you probably never will be) because as you’ve come to realize, he would only stay for the big things.

The only thing that would anchor Min Yoongi into place and dissuade him from chasing more is by being the most. One would have to be extremely significant, even bigger than Namjoon’s brotherhood, your mother’s impact, and what your hometown has to offer. You can’t even hold a candle to the aforementioned.

In Yoongi’s grand plan that’s as big as the galaxy, you’re merely a speck of dust that had the luck of hovering around him. You realized it back then when you blew over and fought with him right before his flight; right when Yoongi was clutching his one-way ticket, right when one foot was already out of the door.

“But the future that you want is not easy, Yoongi!” you gritted through your teeth, the grip you had on his suitcase too visceral that it bends under the pressure. Yoongi snatches his luggage from you in a blink, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“Of course you’d be the first to say that,” he seethed, eyes wild and unforgiving. He drills his finger into his temple, inching towards you with an anger he had never shown before. “You don’t work as hard as I do, Y/N! You always settle. You always go for mediocre. You never put your head into anything because you’re too immature for any of this shit!”

“I’m not immature, you asshole!”

“Yes you are, you dipshit!” Yoongi scoffed, throwing his head back. “You cave and you bend and you let the whole world fuck you over, then you come running to me whining. You don’t have a passion in life, Y/N! You’re begging me to stay in the same predicament that you’re in now, what’s not immature about that?”

“When you leave now and decide to come back one day, Yoongi,” you spat with resentment, the tears that pour down your cheeks no longer out of sadness but instead, out of promise. “Nothing will ever be the same.”

“Good,” Yoongi clipped, turning his back on you for the last time. “Good for me.”

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that when Yoongi left five years ago, he also took the large chunk of your soul that had been shaped over and over again the entire time that he stood by you. He’d gotten his hands on the security and contentment you used to take pride in, weaponizing them against you.

You’re unsure if you have to thank him for that, the uncertainty being on par with the insecurity you had felt when he left you with his truth.

When you visit your mother for her birthday and see Yoongi emerge from your childhood bedroom, hand-in-hand with a toddler that looks like an exact carbon copy of him, you’re unsure of what to do either.

You’re not hysterical in the same way you stood before him when you even considered ripping up his plane ticket, but on the other hand, Yoongi’s inconsolable in the way he flounders before you.

“Y/N,” he says breathless, the lump in his throat even bigger than the tiny fist that grips his hand. “I… I-I didn’t-…” Yoongi tries again, his mouth dry at your appearance. “You came home.”

“I’m only visiting,” you answer, the curt smile on your face that Yoongi recognizes to be the one you’d give to strangers making his blood run cold. “I don’t plan on staying.”

You’re numb if that’s the word for it.

Your chest buzzes emptily the same way your fingers clench around nothing. You look at everywhere and everyone but Yoongi and his son. It’s nauseating to even think that everyone’s eating dinner as if everything’s okay; what’s even more sickening is that somehow, you’re willing to settle for it.

Yoongi is your mom’s cross-stitch project of a teddy bear that she hung up in your room one day when you were in school that you never took off by the time you came home. He’s a dent at the corner of your gate that could’ve only been made by Namjoon when he was practicing his soccer skills. He’s a Snellen chart that nobody really uses, stuck to the side of the refrigerator that you walk past.

Yoongi’s here, there, and everywhere, but you don’t question it. He’s simply there in your orbit and even if he exists, you don’t follow up on him.

You stay quiet at the talks of the sleeping situation because it turns out that Yoongi’s family had long sold their house. You never knew that throughout the several times you came down to visit.

Frankly, you’re relieved to barely know anything about Yoongi these days.

“You and Haneul can take my room,” you half-heartedly offer, not because it’s Yoongi who tugs at your heartstrings and demands your pity, but his child instead. The two, three (?) year-old baby (read: you’re too hesitant to ask what his age is because if it’s anything higher, then that meant Yoongi had moved on earlier than you did) you didn’t even know existed because you’ve completely cut off Yoongi from your life and refused to listen to Namjoon every time he talked about him, will be sleeping in your room; it just happens that he’s with his dad.

Yoongi’s awed at your preposition but he’s even more worried. He can’t tell a single thought that’s going on behind your eyes nor a single hint behind your tone. You’re formal; neutral. You’re detached even when you utter Haneul’s name and gesture them to your bedroom as if he hasn’t spent years and years of his life in your home.

“Where will you sleep?” he furrows his brows, his hand that had been rubbing circles on Haneul’s back faltering.

He’s asking because he doesn’t know anything about you at this point. He can’t tell if it’s the indigestion he has from resisting to talk your ear off at the dining table (like he’s always did when you were young) because you barely even spoke to him, or if it’s the overwhelming feeling of being back home with everything feeling familiar but you — either way, Yoongi thinks he’s gonna be sick.

“I’ll sleep at my mom’s,” you purse your lips, leaving him at that.

Between the yearning, demanding looks you get from Yoongi, the nosy and concerned glances from Namjoon, and even the guilt that you get from keeping all of your emotions from your mom when you used to confide in her religiously when you were younger — you’re drained. The urge to wash off all your anxiety can’t be done in your childhood home’s small bathroom. You can’t with the faulty water heater (you have to keep one finger pressed on the button at all times to keep it running) because you can’t even cry in peace under the either scorching or freezing water.

You can’t evade everything by grabbing a drink from the fridge that runs loudly as if it’s excavating oil from underneath your floors. You can’t curl up on the couch that’s become worn with age because there’s dents of you and Yoongi, the only two people who had sat on it the most every late night for years on end. You can’t romanticize any of the things in your home that have brought you joy all your life at this point in time.

To sleep under the same roof with your mother and brother again after so long feels foreign. It’s a language you can perceive but can’t translate and the frustration that comes with it seeps into your bones. There must be some common ground between the three of you; it should be anything and everything. With Namjoon being a world-renowned football player and you being somewhat accomplished and decorated in your field, you’ve managed to retire your mom early.

The three of you are doing fine. Not one interaction in the past five years has ever felt this tense and unfamiliar, but if you could pick just the odd one out, the very reason why you feel like falling to the floor and crawling your way out of your own home because you feel like you don’t belong to it — it’s Yoongi.

You feel awkward in your own four walls, whereas Yoongi finds your nightlight that you keep tucked in your closet without breaking a sweat.

Namjoon tugs you right when you’re about to call it a day in your mom’s room, his hushed whispers taking you back to when he pleaded for you not to rat them out whenever he and Yoongi crashed at the couch drunk.

“Give them this,” he shoves the can of bug spray into your hands, your immediate reaction making him wrestle with you just to push you closer to your own bedroom.

“No, Joon. You give it.”

“Y/N, no. You give it,” he whines, purposely having given Yoongi extra sheets and blankets earlier without the bug spray so you’d have something to take to him.

“I don’t wanna see Yoongi,” you whisper, trying to pathetically regain your footing even if you know your attempts go futile against an athlete for a brother.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snarks, giving you one last shove with a stern finger. “We’re gonna talk about whatever the hell happened between you and him, but right now, you’re gonna offer him bug spray like the gracious hosts that we are!”

You crash too far to your door that it could be mistaken as a knock, making you hiss because you know you can’t retract it. You actually knock this time, being met with nothing but a quiet Yoongi behind your own door.

Even when he opens it fully, even when it’s your own room — you enter hesitantly.

Yoongi’s already made a home out of your room. He knew where your nightlight was, knew which good extension cord (that didn’t spark every time it shifted) to plug into the wall, and even knew where you kept the magazine that you had to wedge between your windows whenever they didn’t fully close.

“Namjoon told me to give you this,” you put your hand out, looking at everything but Yoongi. You could look at Haneul who’s sprawled in the middle of the bed, but it isn’t any different than looking at his dad himself.

Yoongi, on the other hand, can’t see anything but you. He feels like an intruder who just happened to know the confines of your life almost better than his own, holding bug spray and the remainder of whatever recognition you have left for him.

“Will we ever be alright?” he whispers, not for the sake of keeping Haneul asleep, but for the sake of his sanity. If he makes his voice any louder, he’ll spill all his grievances and question if he had ever meant anything to you.

“We’ve always been alright,” you smile tightly, wrapping your hands around your back.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he pleads, swallowing the lump in his throat. “When did you ever give me bug spray? When did you have to knock on my door, o-or when did you ever have to treat me like I’m some guest and not a huge part of your life?” Yoongi stumbles over his words, correcting himself with a huff. “Most of your life.”

The sarcasm that coats the last of his words makes you twitch, the clench in your jaw being unmistakeable. Yoongi almost forgot what you looked like whenever you argued with him — talked to him, even. “Why are you only bitching about this to me and not to Namjoon? He’s the one who told me to give you the bug spray.”

“This is not about the bug spray!”

“What is it about then? Is this, is this some sort of long-winded euphemism that involves bug spray? What is it Yoongi, are you gonna hound me for an essay about it?” you spit, exhaling heavily. Haneul twitches in his sleep from the corner of your eye. “You grew up and so did I.”

Yoongi flinches like you’ve shot him.

“Don’t do this to me, kid. Don’t do this to us.”

You flinch because anything is better than to have him dig up his old nickname for you as if he’s close; as if he’s still the Yoongi that you chased, as if you’re still the Y/N he looked out for.

“Don’t call me that.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi’s in the kitchen with your mom.

He looks domestic this way, hair tousled and pajamas loose. Even if you have unbridled internet access (courtesy of the high-speed package you split with Namjoon for your mom even if the most she does online is repost motivational quotes, reels of Namjoon and his team, and clips of Jungkook where you’re seen), you can’t muster the courage to search Yoongi’s name and what he’s made of himself.

You’re too scared to search up articles about his success as a producer because if you do, you’re terrified by the thought of accidentally clicking a link that leads you to a page of him and his ex-wife.

You’re too weak to search up the songs he’s had a hand in (that is if you hadn’t heard them before) because you fear that if you even listen for a single second, you might hear how perfect his life has been ever since he left behind everything that he’s ever known.

Even now, you’re too uneasy at the sight of him. He’s in your home and he looks like the version of himself that had never left. The Yoongi in front of you, sitting on your seat at the dining table and peeling tangerines with your mom, resembles the Yoongi that would top off your glass with water whenever you ate with him.

It’s as if you’ve always been in touch for the past five years; it’s as if Yoongi has never aged and you never drifted apart.

“You’re awake,” he remarks, greeting you first before your mom could even register your presence.

“You’re still here,” you reply, the exhale that leaves you making you deflate in reflection. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, but Yoongi’s already slid over a plate to you.

“There. Just how you like them.”

There’s tangerines with barely any pith on them, and iced tea that had more ice cubes in them than there are in the freezer.

Yoongi smiles at you like you’re the old you again; the one who is more forgiving, and the one who is more hopeful.

( ♡ )

If it wasn’t for your brother guilt-tripping you into joining the impromptu road trip, you never would have come.

You didn’t want to come with them in the first place because the very thought of hanging out with Namjoon and Yoongi like old times, this time with the addition of the latter’s son, was too close; too familial. The three already knew each other and had kept in touch and you’re the odd one out. You’re the only planet out of the system and once you’ve come to think of it, that bit of their galaxy never failed. Whether you were in it or not didn’t matter — atleast that’s what you thought.

Yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you’ve heard nothing about it.

You blocked his number and on every social media account he had to his name. Even with Namjoon as a prominent variable, you’re amazed to how you’ve heard little to nothing about Yoongi ever since he left your hometown. You still talked to your brother, of course, but there was an obvious difference to how your conversations went because none of them ever went to Yoongi.

You didn’t tell him to not talk about Yoongi at all. You didn’t instruct him to never utter a single word about his closest friend whom you also grew up with. You never told Namjoon anything concerning Yoongi and what unfolded between the two of you before you left, and yet, it’s almost as if he had already been in your mind and knew exactly what to do.

You’ve come to realize that the prospect of growing up never used to be in your cards. The whole concept of it sat at the very back of your mind, the only times you used to pay attention to it being whenever Yoongi picked at your brain.

You thought your world would have ended when you were 19. You didn’t think you would grow up and see past high school. You didn’t think you would finish college, much less pick a degree to pursue in the first place. You didn’t think of having a future — you didn’t think you’d be living it now in this way.

“Joon,” you mutter, voice barely being heard at the expanse of the balcony you’re in. It’s his balcony in his vacation house he barely stays in, overlooking the waves by the beach he isn’t even that fond of to begin with.

Yoongi and Haneul are already asleep, the father-son duo knocking out way ahead than everyone else. They stayed with the two of you in the balcony hours ago, the bug spray in both the adult and kid edition being proof of it.

Tonight, alone, felt different. It’s as if the younger version of you was gazing out to what was supposed to be your future, except neither the past nor present variant of you could have ever had it for yourself.

“Hm?” he hums, sipping the last of his drink while he’s sat at the far end. You know about each other’s presence, and while years ago, the two of you would’ve been giddy staying in a house as grand as this whilst drinking behind your mom’s back, you and Namjoon grew up. You didn’t fight or anything — you simply grew up and grew apart.

“I never said it before, but thank you,” you exhale, clenching Haneul’s towel as you try to warm your hands. You may have spent the better part of the day not even acknowledging his dad, but you did fawn over him like you would with any other child. “Thank you for not telling me a thing about Yoongi.”

“You’re welcome,” Namjoon finally speaks as soon as he grasps what you were talking about, the smile on his face only lasting for a second. “If it were up to me though, I would have told you everything.”

“Good thing it’s not up to you, hm?” you laugh uneasily, running your hand through your hair. You didn’t know how much you had to be grateful for until Yoongi came back and reminded you of how little you knew about him.

Namjoon breathlessly laughs, looking up at the sky to try and condense everything that has happened through his words before you leave again. “I would have told you that he confessed what happened that time you ran away from home a couple years back, and I beat his ass. We didn’t talk for like, I don’t know, three months? Even when I was still training in the US that time.”

Your lack of a reply is what makes him take notice, the stunned look you have on your face making him snort.

“What?” he questions, eyebrows furrowed as he throws a stray bottle cap at you. “Why are you so shocked? I love him like a brother, but you’re my actual sister,” he confides his loyalty to you, yet you don’t even have a second to express your awe before he opens his mouth again. “I would have told you that I became the best man at his wedding. Even mom was there.”

“You can stop telling me these things now.”

Namjoon exhales, already feeling deep in his chest that you’re gearing up to leave. He wants to get the last word in, not to prove himself, but to try and vindicate you and the quiet suffering you endured without telling anyone.

“I would have told you that Yoongi kept trying to come back to you.”

( ♡ )

Haneul wakes up before Yoongi does.

You’re confused for a second because the moment you hear the lightest footsteps that you ever could pad along the kitchen, you become completely disoriented. There’s a child that looks like Yoongi, wandering off to where you are.

For the briefest second, your heart drops because the whole situation resembles a vignette. In another lifetime, it could’ve been your child, your Haneul, waking up before his dad, trudging to the kitchen where you are is if you’re his mom.

He’s an observant kid, far too trusting unlike his dad who used to scold you to hell and back for even entertaining strangers that asked you for directions. He’s friendly to you; to someone Yoongi had introduced as appa’s close friend. There isn’t even a single hint in how he introduced you to Haneul that the two of you stopped being close. Yoongi didn’t leave the faintest indicator to him that you most probably hated his guts and would probably choose a lifetime where he hadn’t even been in your life at all.

Haneul is innocent to yours and Yoongi’s history and it’s going to stay that way. You don’t meant to change whatever he introduced you as because by the time your mom’s birthday week is over, or by the time Yoongi takes the hint and leaves your hometown again, you would be a fleeting persona in Haneul’s life.

You’re not his mom. You’re not anyone of significance to either him and his dad.

“Good morning,” he greets shyly, his diction telling of how just attentive Yoongi is as a dad. You mostly listened to whatever Namjoon told you last night anyway, tuning out the parts where he rounded to how Yoongi had been miserable not having any contact with you (you don’t believe that at all), and instead zeroing in on the large details that you’ve missed. “Auntie.”

You smile tightly, patting the empty seat beside to you to which he climbs effortlessly.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you do know him. You know that his dad is a doting, slightly paranoid one whose current dilemma is whether or not enrolling him in kindergarten early or waiting for one more year. You know that Yoongi doesn’t want him to know about the existence of iPads for probably ever, so he spends almost every waking moment talking to him to the point that Haneul’s eloquent at speaking for his age. You also know that Namjoon’s his godfather, and that he had looked after him for a whole day by himself when Yoongi went to settle his divorce.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you know his parents. You know Yoongi is his dad, and more importantly, that Hyewon is his mom — the same Hyewon who had been with him in your room before, and the same woman Yoongi shared his success with when he made it big.

“Hi,” you greet him softly, handing him his bottle for him to drink from. It’s a warm, domestic vignette for a split second. You’ve watched Yoongi far too many times at the corner of your eye to know where he gets the distilled water. “Why are you up already?”

“Uncle Joonie promised yesterday we can watch the sunrise together,” he says in between sips, letting you comb his hair into order unconsciously. You didn’t even think of it before your hand sweeps the strands scattered on his forehead, the hum you have at the back of your throat pausing when you realized what you’ve done.

“He’s still sleeping right now. He had uh, a long night,” you mutter, at a loss for a child-friendly alternative word for hangover. You keep your hands to yourself because you fear falling into the domesticity that isn’t yours to relax into; if you think about it for a second longer, you’d think that Haneul is yours and Yoongi is the final piece to your puzzle.

“Oh. But I, I wanna watch,” Haneul frowns, brows softly furrowed at your revelation. He’s not close to throwing a tantrum, but the upset expression on his face keeps tugging at your heart to cave.

“You can take your dad with you,” you offer, willing to knock on Yoongi’s door if it meant his son smiling again.

Haneul shakes his head at that, looking up at the ceiling as he recalls the events of last night before being tucked in. “Nuh-uh. Appa had a long night too. He just kept crying.”

A part of you wishes that Haneul didn’t speak so clearly.

“What?” you clarify, heart skipping a beat the more you replay his words in your head.

“Crying?” Haneul repeats, tilting his head as he tries to figure you out. He says it again for a third time as if you needed any clarification of the word and not because of your disbelief that his dad was capable of it. “Like this,” he adds, pretending to bawl with his hands wiping at his eyes.

The scene before you is your brief moment of reprieve, making you chuckle breathlessly as you try to regain your senses. Whether or not Haneul was sure of what he was saying, if Yoongi had cried, it’s most probably not because of anything that has to do with you.

“Oh. So that’s what it means. Thank you, Haneul,” you laugh lowly, patting him on the head until you retract your hand again in realization.

Haneul thinks nothing of your trepidation; he thinks nothing of the yearning behind your eyes, and thinks nothing of the tremble in your voice.

“Can we watch the sunrise together?” he asks, eyes looking up at you as if doing so would be the equivalent of hanging the stars up for him in the sky.

(Read: it probably is, and in another lifetime, or in the far-shot that it happens in this one, you’d do it if he asks you to do so.)

You want to ask Haneul why it’s you who he wants to accompany him, but you don’t. You can wake up either Yoongi and Namjoon to go with him instead, but you won’t.

In another lifetime, this would have been your son, your Haneul asking to watch the sunrise with you. There’s a Yoongi-shaped hole and a Haneul-shaped vacancy in your chest, but you don’t prod about it further.

You don’t question what’s happening, and maybe, just maybe, there’s a tiny part of you that wants to fully accept it instead of hesitating to do so.

“Okay.”

Haneul puts his hand in yours, but you don’t pull away. You just hold him tighter.

( ♡ )

A large part of you forgot that for as long as Yoongi’s here, he’ll treat every interaction you have with Namjoon as an open invitation for him. He had always been this way; for as long as you could remember, he’ll include himself even if he isn’t needed nor wanted.

You can’t count the amount of times your mom had berated Namjoon for something and oddly enough, Yoongi also happened to be there. Whether it was to rat out on his own best friend or being at the receiving end of said scolding, Yoongi jumped at every opportunity to come along as a package deal.

When you asked Namjoon to drink with you at the balcony two days ago, Yoongi butted in and asked what brand of alcohol he should buy you at the convenience store. When you were on the way home and asked your brother what he wanted from the rest stop, Yoongi said he wanted the biggest can of coffee you could find.

And when you asked Namjoon what time you should come to the stadium to watch him practice, Yoongi said he’ll pack you an extra cap while Haneul bonded with your mom.

Sometime long ago, you and Yoongi saw each other eye to eye. You can’t determine when and how exactly, but there was a point in your life where everything you had to say to each other was what the other was thinking all along. Nowadays, you can’t even look at Yoongi in the eye while all he wanted was for you to return his gaze.

If there’s just one thing though, one single variable that remained unchanged between the two of you, it would be Namjoon.

The way Yoongi engages you in conversation this time around is not to trap you and to ramp himself up to apologize again, but purely, it’s to talk about your brother. Namjoon’s a lot of things, and one thing you pray would remain unchanged is the love you have for each other.

“Who would have thought, right?” Yoongi nudges, asking you sincerely. “Who would have thought that the Namjoon who had knockoff cleats years ago would become this world-famous athlete?” he chuckles, shaking his head as he once again tries to digest the fact that this very stadium in your hometown had been built and refashioned in his honor.

You laugh genuinely, the sound being the first he’s ever heard in such a long time.

“Abibas.”

Yoongi has his lips parted, shocked that you were even answering him.

“Abibas. That was the brand of his knockoff cleats,” you chuckle, bowing your head as you try to contain your laughter. “He could’ve bought the original with his allowance and everything, but he split it so he could also buy me knockoffs.”

Yoongi laughs at the memory you jog up in his mind, remembering distinctly how Namjoon kept asking for his opinion repeatedly on which colorway of the knockoff pair he should gift you.

Even if things are still tense between you, even if Namjoon is the only salvation that Yoongi could bring up in a conversation to which you don’t run from, nothing from the past five years could ever take this moment away from you.

The three of you have grown up. Some faster than they’d like, and some because they had no choice but to — nonetheless, in this moment, it’s the three of you back at home like it used to be.

“Namjoon was always meant for greatness. Even from the start,” you murmur, your attention waiting on Yoongi’s response even if your eyes were on Namjoon in the field.

“You are too,” he interjects quickly, voice defensive at the lack of your name to your own sentence.

“No I’m not,” you snort, crossing your arms. You’re not angry when you say it; in fact, you’re calm as if you’ve always seen it coming. “You told me I’d amount to nothing.”

You’re calm, seemingly at peace with what you just said and what Yoongi had ingrained in your head before, but he’s the furthest thing from it. His mouth hangs open, chest tightening impossibly as he shakes his head eagerly.

“I never said that!”

You’re about to counter him when you hear a familiar holler reach you at the lower section of the bleachers, eyes perking to see a familiar figure who isn’t blood-related to you.

“Y/N!” Jimin runs up to you faster than to whenever he passes the ball to Namjoon, engulfing you in a massive hug that forces you up to your feet before you know it.

“Oh my god, Jimin! I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” you awe at the sight of him, unwilling to break away from the embrace until he does so. It’s been ages since you’ve seen him, the second-best player in the team (you’re biased because of course Namjoon had been the best player to you since you were kids) being the closest member to you out of everyone.

Jimin doesn’t care for Yoongi. He knows of the guy and he doesn’t want to know any more than he already does. He doesn’t even acknowledge the guy’s presence; all he does is squeeze you tighter and twirl you briefly in his arms.

“Fuck, me neither. Heaven must’ve healed my ankle quicker so I could come here and see you,” he flirts playfully, earning a well-deserved eye roll from you.

“And you know, play for Korea.”

“Eh. That too, I guess,” he shrugs, sitting at the seat beside you. He looks straight at you and only you — Jimin only pauses to snort to himself when he notices that Yoongi’s squirming in his seat, beyond annoyed and frustrated.

( ♡ )

On the fifth day of Yoongi staying over at your house, there’s a power outage.

The sound of everything shutting off together in sync makes you jolt, the collective groan you hear outside from the neighborhood comforting you in solidarity.

You can only make out a grunt from Namjoon and a gasp from your mom until you hear the trembling voice of Haneul, the sound of a cry that crawls up his throat putting everyone on their feet.

“Oh baby, it’s okay, it’s okay! It’s just a little dark, that’s all,” Yoongi pipes up instantly, scooping him up in his arms without having to fumble for where he is because he could practically locate his son in his sleep.

You didn’t want for it to be a power outage, but oddly enough, you feel sorry that it happened while you’re here. “It’s okay, Haneul,” you whisper as consolation, the dark of the night shielding you from how Yoongi’s eyes widen at your cooing for his son. “Mom, where did you put that generator I got you?”

“About that,” she sheepishly shrugs, turning on her phone to illuminate her shyness. “I donated it last year to the public school nearby.”

“It’s gonna get so hot,” Namjoon groans, the sound of him clumsily feeling around for the lights alerting Haneul briefly. He comforts him instantly, finally turning on the torch in his phone instead of relying on his instincts. “Don’t cry, Haneul, alright? Uncle Joonie’s gonna get the candles and the flashlights.”

“I’ll go try to find a guy,” you get up as soon as Namjoon hands you a flashlight, your contribution to help instantly being shut down.

“You can’t just try to find a guy, Y/N. That’s dangerous,” Yoongi scoffs, putting a hand on your forearm to pull you.

“I meant on my phone, Yoongi,” you grit. “I was gonna go outside to try and look for a signal.”

“That’s still dangerous,” he narrows his eyes at you as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Give me a break,” you mutter, removing his hold from you. You’d save your pride and actually go outside if not for your mom interjecting that she knows an electrician from her contacts.

Namjoon comes back after his quest for battery-powered fans and flashlights, unaware of how Yoongi’s protective streak for you practically never disappeared; in fact, it came back twofold. “Whole neighborhood’s out. Must be a broken transformer or something.”

Your mom consoles Haneul in her arms.

Namjoon waits by the gate for the electrician.

You and Yoongi clean the fridge up before anything spoils.

In between getting food out and embracing Haneul every now and then who insisted on obediently sitting atop the counter so he’s closer to his dad, Yoongi holds your hand.

“That’s my hand that you’re holding,” you murmur, assuming that he had mistaken yours for Haneul’s as he’s always chuckled how yours always seemed to be small against his.

Yoongi only hums.

“I know.”

( ♡ )

You’re falling back into your old routine.

Maybe it’s how your mom has to shake you awake because otherwise, you’d sleep through the afternoon and would therefore be unable to sleep through the night. On the other hand, it could be Namjoon who either hounds you to hang out with him or tell you off for clinging to him too much.

Maybe, it’s just Yoongi. It’s him who’s tricking your brain into thinking that has nothing changed with the way he keeps peeling fruits for you and telling you to be safe even if you’re only buying ice cream from the convenience store.

It’s only been a week and a half of almost normalcy, save for the fact that there are certain things and connections you can neither reverse nor rekindle.

You’re convinced, almost fully convinced that history is repeating itself except for the bitter, ugly parts of it that you never want to pop in your head again.

Like the past, Namjoon blocks you for whatever reason in his head but this time he does it to you while you’re on the way to your room, on the quest to retrieve your charger for your phone that you barely even used for work purposes.

“It’s my room. Why can’t I go in my room?” you furrow your brows at him, your amusement turning into annoyance the more that Namjoon pushed you with actual strength instead of playfulness.

“Are you hungry? Let’s go out for dinner,” he changes the subject quickly, turning you towards the stairs.

You shouldn’t have questioned him further — you should’ve left it at that.

“I guess? I’ll just get my purse,” you concede, dodging his attempts to haul you downstairs.

“I’ll pay,” Namjoon insists and although it’s not out of the blue for him, his franticness is what keeps you on edge.

“I still need my-…” you counter, being interrupted when he holds you firmly as you attempt to walk towards your door. Namjoon grips you with a silent plead, one that you can’t even decipher. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

You finally break off his grip at once, walking into your room with a renowned determination.

It’s not only your routine that falls back into place, but it’s your whole worldview that does.

Love is terribly human. It’s a loose thread on your shirt that gets snagged on your doorknob. It’s a coat in your closet waiting to be worn for the supposed perfect time, and when you do, you realize that it no longer fits you.

Love is terribly human, and it is terribly Yoongi, Hyewon, and Haneul.

Love is terribly human and fragile, and it’s Yoongi, Hyewon, and their son sleeping on your bed.

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purest-expressionofgrief · 3 months

Text

man needs to get humbled soon !

(also omg the past few weeks have been hectic as fuck 😭 i miss being on tumblr)

fail-safe; intermission.

wordcount: 2k

glimpse: you’re left behind, as always.

alternatively, yoongi can’t give you the closure that you need.

[ part one + intermission + part two + intermission 02 + finale ]

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even replying to this post sends me over the moon :) | series masterlist

Yoongi has to watch you for the night.

He has to “strictly” watch you for the night or whatever Namjoon had instructed him in verbatim, even if this wasn’t the first time that you’ve been left alone. You get that every once in a while, your mom still has to meet her wretched in-laws in the city for whatever reason they could call, and with Namjoon being the eldest child, he volunteers himself for moral support.

He’s always been the stronger, more driven child between the two of you. He knows where he’s heading and he knows how to get there; slowly but surely, Namjoon’s becoming the football player he’s always dreamed of. Not only did he inadvertently become the man of the house, he also became the familial figure that doted over you the most.

You don’t blame your mom for being busy trying to hold her jobs down just to keep everything in place. You don’t blame your brother for his increasing busyness in juggling college, football, and being a fixed figure in your life all at once.

You don’t blame either of them for pushing you to grow up faster than you’d like.

You love their company but you don’t mind being left alone either. You know how to double-lock the doors and secure the barrel in the front gate so tight, you’d have to break out the oil just to loosen it up to let them enter. You have a system for keeping track of turning off the gas and even putting out fires should there be one.

You don’t mind being alone, and although it’s not your favorite thing in the world, you know how to be.

You’ve been through this dozens of times before, so seeing Yoongi look after you despite what happened is an unwelcome sight. Having him watch you like you’re a child puts a bitter taste in your tongue, his presence being an eyesore altogether that you haven’t moved out from the living room once. You can’t stay cooped up in your room either, because you’ll only be reminded that Yoongi had been there as much as Hyewon was the last time.

You’re studying for your exams when Yoongi makes his presence known, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He had been scowling at you for the better part of the whole day, although you wouldn’t really know because you barely spared him a glance the whole time.

Yoongi, surprisingly, was waiting for you to bother him. He was waiting for you to make conversation somehow, whether it was over an obscure topic only you would know so much about or over a shared interest that he knew you only cared about because it mattered to him. A whole week already passed since the incident yet the both of you barely ever spoke, the longest being from awhile ago when he asked how you wanted your rice cooked. (He knows you like it moist and fluffy instead of dry and separate, but he still asked a stupid question just to get you to talk.)

There’s something about the sight of you looking calm to the point of unperturbed that annoys him all the way to the end of his spine. You look studious and composed and not at all displaced that the both of you haven’t been interacting at all.

Yoongi jumped at the opportunity when Namjoon asked him for a favor of watching after you, but seeing to it that you don’t care at all to try and make up for lost time — all his thoughts fly out of his head as he confronts you.

“Don’t do something stupid like that again.”

You raise your head up from your book in confusion, mouth slightly parted at the sudden intrusion. You know exactly what Yoongi’s pertaining to — it just happens that you’re speechless.

He huffs at your indifference, tightening his fists. “Don’t run off recklessly just because you’re upset. What would’ve happened if we didn’t find you, hm? Namjoon was worried sick,” he enunciates, pursing his lips at you in disappointment. You’re no stranger to his glare because you’ve already received many whenever he critiques your intellect and your passion or whatnot, yet in this context, you can’t believe him at all. “I was worried sick.”

You’re silent as you just take it, even throwing him a pitiful nod as soon as you’ve digested his words. You don’t even want to talk to him because you’ll break if you do; you’re going to become more of the weak, good-for-nothing Y/N that you already are to him.

Yoongi only weaponizes your silence, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears when you can’t even look at him. “Also, stop hanging around friends who aren’t good for you. You can’t have all the fun you want. Sooner or later, you’re gonna get hurt, Y/N. We can’t always be there for you.”

You nod again, and that’s when he breaks.

“Is this a joke to you?” Yoongi snaps before walking over to you and putting your textbook down, the grip he has on it leaving an indent.

“What?” you clarify, still calm with the practice that after everything, Yoongi can’t possibly hurt you more than he already did.

“I’m asking you — is our concern a joke to you?”

You only raise your brow, anger barely brewing. “It’s not.”

Yoongi awes mockingly, his temper rubbing off on you. “Then how come I haven’t heard a single apology from you? Why are you acting as if that day never really happened when in reality, Namjoon’s so scared that you’ll do it again and put me in charge?”

“You could’ve said no.”

“Well, genius, I couldn’t say no either because I feel the same! If I wasn’t worried shitless, do you think I’ll be spending my weekend babysitting you?”

“I’m not a kid. I don’t you need to babysit me,” you grit, the repeated insinuation that you’re nothing but an inconvenience to him making you tip over. “If you hate it so much, then just go.”

“Because that’s your go-to solution lately, right?” Yoongi scoffs, his chuckles patronizing you. “Why can’t you just grow up and own up to all of your mistakes? Why can’t you just say sorry-…”

“I’ve already apologized!” you burst, the calm you think you’ve mastered around him already being broken. You settle, even for the misplaced anger Yoongi has on you because you don’t want to make a bigger deal, but what you won’t settle for is having your character misjudged — especially if it involves your family. “I already apologized to Namjoon for causing him so much panic, and I can’t apologize to my mom because she doesn’t know about it. Maybe he hasn’t forgiven me yet because he sent you to look out for me when I don’t need you to, but I apologize to him whenever I can! I screw up but I own up to it, Yoongi.”

He’s silent at that, your outburst shutting him up contrary to what you expected. You thought you would set him off completely, and just when you think your fight’s already over and you could go to your room, you’re struck with reality.

It’s not about Namjoon. It’s not about apologizing to your brother at all.

“You want me to apologize to you?” you whisper, your disbelief growing into exasperation. “I’m sorry, Yoongi, for reacting the way I did,” you spit. “I’m sorry for being upset because I saw you fucking your girlfriend in my bed.”

Yoongi’s ears prick at that, your bluntness ironically catching him by surprise. “You’re so upset about it that you leave your home? You’re so upset about me being with my girlfriend that you think you’re entitled to just driving your loved ones into a heart attack?”

“Why are you so hung up about me leaving? Why can’t you be the one to apologize to me?”

“Because I’m not the one who’s beyond irresponsible and hopped up to whatever roadtrip my friends planned on the spot!”

“Maybe you should go on one just to get that stick out of your ass,” you scoff, running a hand through your hair. The bile’s rising in your throat again and you desperately want to find an outlet for it; anything that would remind you that even now, you pray, nothing Yoongi could say would hurt you more than he already had. “And for a change, before you leave for it, I’ll make sure to fuck someone on your bed, in your room, and get angry when you’re upset at me for it.”

“Why are you upset?” he raises his brows at you.

“Why are you angry?” you return the question, tucking your bottom lip to keep the tremble away from your voice.

Yoongi smiles tightly at you, far from pleased. “I’m angry because you’re upset that I’m fucking my girlfriend, when at the end of the day, it just happened to be in your room. Are you upset at me too for being with her outside of your room? Will knowing that make you run away again?” he laughs breathlessly, the recollection of the anxiety he felt when Namjoon called him making him shudder. “I’m angry because you think that me being with Hyewon is the end of the world. Y/N, do you know how much danger you could’ve been in? Could you even use your brain for one second and realize that you could’ve been hurt and everyone else would be devastated to know that?”

It’s that same tone again — that same, extremely familiar tone whenever Yoongi looked down on you.

“Do you know how your family would go insane? Do you know how devastated I would be if the worst happened to you?” he licks his lips, voice cracking near the end. “I’m angry because you keep wanting me. You keep being upset at me and I can’t do anything about that unless you let go of the idea that we’re going to be more than this.”

He looks down on you for many things; your intellect, your passion, and most recently — your love for him.

“Why can’t it be me?” you whisper, eyes downcast because in case Yoongi gives you the truth, you don’t want his gaze to be embedded in your brain forever.

“You’re Namjoon’s-…” he sighs, interrupted instantly when you stumble over your words in desperation.

“No, Yoongi. Without mentioning that I’m your best friend’s sister — why can’t it be me?”

Yoongi sighs heavily in the same way he looks down on you, calculated and exhausted.

“It’s late,” he lulls as if he’s talking to a kid, the warm inviting smile nowhere to be found on his face. “Go to sleep.”

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purest-expressionofgrief · 3 months

Text

day 21 ; spitroasting

↠ roronoa zoro x reader x vinsmoke sanji

fandom: one piece word count: 2.1k warnings: nsfw 18+, caught in the act, jealous!zoro, possessiveness, spanking, praise, blowjob, face fucking, gagging, fingering, rough sex, unprotected sex, squirting, overstimulation, cum marking, cum eating, creampie, aftercare, some unintentional homoerotic subtext if you squint

kinktober m.list || read on ao3

Grunts and skin slapping together are the only sounds in the room as Zoro fucks into you from behind.

Your arrangement with him was as simple as it could be, whenever the two of you were stressed, and whenever the other crew members were occupied, you would fuck. It was a lot easier than trying to pick up strangers from whatever bar you could find everytime you guys docked at a new town. The last time that happened, you may or may not have brought back someone that had a hidden vendetta against Luffy, and it resulted in yet another fight aboard the Going Merry.

Oh well. Mistakes happen.

You moan into the pillow beneath you, doing your best to conceal your sounds of pleasure. You were in Zoro’s bed, as all of the crew were out exploring the newest town

Despite that fact, it never hurts to be too careful.

And indeed, you were right. Because not even a minute later, you hear the door to the men’s quarters open and you gasp in surprise. You involuntarily clench around Zoro, making him hiss as you both turn to see who walked in.

Sanji stands in the doorway, jaw dropped and suit jacket halfway off his body.

Zoro turns to maneuver the bed sheets in a way that covers your body from Sanji’s eyes. You could tell that the cook was staring at you, just by the way his eyes completely avoid your gaze and he looks upward as a blush rises to his cheeks. He looks cuter than ever in that moment, and maybe it's because you have a dick inside of you at that very moment, but you desperately want to fuck him to see what other reactions you can get out of him.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Zoro growls out. The hand that was splayed across your hip tightens in anger the longer Sanji stands there. “Fucking scram.”

You could tell by his initial embarrassment that Sanji was planning on leaving, but Zoro’s reaction has him heated up, and you know that neither of them will let the other have the last word.

You roll your eyes and get settled in, waiting for the argument to begin.

Sanji tsks at Zoro, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “Putting her in such a degrading position like that, it’s a wonder she stays with you.”

“She stays with me ‘cause I fuck her right every time. Not like she’d have the same experience with you.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve never gotten a single complaint about my performance in the bedroom!”

“Yeah, right. Like she’d ever go for you when she has me here.”

“A-actually,” you speak up for the first time during their spat. Both men turn to you, Sanji with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, and Zoro, who’s glare seems to scream don’t you dare, as if he knew exactly what you were going to suggest.

“Sanji,” you swallow, hoping you’re not making a mistake, “you should join us.”

“Join—?” He chokes on his spit, and you can see the way his cheeks turn red from his blush.

“Please?” you put on a classic pout that you know will make Sanji weak in the knees.

Hook, line, and sinker.

He scratches the back of his neck, feigning concession. But you can see the tent in his pants that is clear as day. “If you insist, madam.”

“Madam,” Zoro mutters from behind you, mocking Sanji’s choice of word. You kick at the back of his leg in warning.

Sanji approaches you in the front of the bed (staying as far away from Zoro as possible, you notice) and stares at you hesitantly. You motion him closer, and begin palming his erection through his pants. He moans softly, his hips subtly bucking into your touch.

Zoro, having enough of your attention pulled away from him, begins to thrust back into you from behind. The sudden movement has you moaning, and the force of it pushes you right into Sanji’s crotch.

The ship’s cook grabs your hair by the root and keeps you in place with one hand as he uses his other to undo his pants and free his cock from its constraints. His hard erection springs out, hitting you in the face, and without any prompting you stick it in your mouth, sucking on it furiously.

You bob your head up and down, swallowing him all the way down to the root. You swirl your tongue around the head, and Sanji’s grip in your hair tightens as he groans from the sensation.

“Better not make any noises over there, cook,” Zoro says. “I was planning on finishing.”

Sanji’s response comes back within a second. “I can’t help it when your woman is giving all her attention to me.”

You don’t even need to be looking at Zoro to know what his reaction is to that—you can just picture the glare that he gives Sanji as he slaps your ass and ruts his hips into you more.

The force of his cock filling you to the brim has you moaning around Sanji’s cock as your eyes roll into the back of your head. Your hands grip the sheets below you as you make a feeble attempt to stabilize yourself as you lay helpless between the two men who use your body for their pleasure.

Zoro does his best to ignore Sanji and occupies himself with grabbing the flesh of your ass and spreading you open wider than before. He bullies his cock deep inside of you, and the bulbous head reaches parts of you that have your vision going blurry and your mind going numb, only able to focus on how much he fills you up.

“You see this?” Zoro motions to you, and the way your body shakes in pleasure from his cock thrusting deep with you. “This is all ‘cause of me. You couldn’t make her feel even half as good.”

As you look up at Sanji through your teary vision, you can see the way his eyes narrow at Zoro’s fighting words. Suddenly your nose is pressed up against Sanji’s pubic bone, his cock stuffed all the way down your throat, you cough and gag around him, spit dribbling down the sides of your mouth yet he doesn’t relent.

He has one hand entangled in your hair at the scalp, and the other moves to wrap itself around your neck, gripping it lightly, feeling the imprint of his cock on your throat as he fucks it in and our of your mouth.

You moan around him, relishing in the sensation of fullness that you’re getting inside of you from both ends. Your hands move to grasp onto Sanji’s thighs and you suck down as much as you can on his cock, gagging as his cock reaches as far as it could possibly go within your mouth. Tears start to stream down your face now at the way he pounds himself all the way to the back of your throat.

Sanji looks down at your reaction, and then up at Zoro with his trademark smirk. “Seems like she’s too occupied enjoying my cock down her throat.”

Both men are relentless in trying to prove themselves, and you’re on the receiving end of it. It seems as though you’re never going to catch a break between the two of them. They constantly try and one up each other, with each new action or technique they try on you has you edging closer and closer to your eventual orgasm.

The final straw is when Zoro, through his relentless ruts into you, begins to stick his thick fingers inside of your pussy as well, curling them up in the perfect spots where he knows you’ll fall apart.

And you do. You attempt to pull a hand back and slap him against his arm to warn him or your incoming orgasm, but Sanji’s grip in your hair remains as solid as ever and you don’t have enough strength to pull yourself back.

Your arms flop to your side, weak and useless, the two men being the only things holding your body up now. Your screams of pleasure are muted around Sanji’s cock, but the vibrations from it have him groaning nonetheless.

Your orgasm comes like a colossal wave, crashing down onto you with so much pain and pleasure it becomes too overwhelming to bear. Your whole body goes rigid as you climax. Your pussy clenches like a vice around Zoro’s cock, and your mouth tightens around Sanji. The two men groan in unison as your release washes over you, squirting juices all over yourself and Zoro, who you can hear laughing (and probably mocking Sanji) from behind you.

Neither man lets you rest after your orgasm, though. They both continue to fuck you with intense vigor, as if it’s their dying wishes. It’s Sanji who finally folds first and cums, doing so by holding you by your hair as he smashes your face all the way to the base of his cock. His groans are loud and continuous as you suck down on him furiously, swallowing the jets of cum that shoot out of him.

A mix of your saliva and his cum leave the sides of your mouth as you do so, causing you to make a mess of his cock, slobbering all over it as he guides your head up and down.

“Fuck, so good for me,” he mutters out with his jaw clenched, just loud enough for you to hear, and you preen under the praise.

After he’s done cumming, you open your mouth wide and stick out your tongue for Sanji, showing him your empty mouth from swallowing all of him. And you’re glad you did so, because based on his lovesick expression alone it looked like he was about to cream himself for a second time that night.

Zoro cums soon after, his cock throbbing harshly as he buries himself to the hilt deep inside your pussy. He tends to be quiet when he cums, save for a few grunts here and there as the jets of hot liquid pour into you. But this time, you can hear him uttering praises to you.

“That’s it baby,” is what you hear the clearest through his groans, his voice gravely and deep. “Fuck, squeezing me so tightly. Could die in this pussy.”

If you literally didn’t just have your orgasm a second ago, you probably would have cum again right then and there.

Zoro always came inside of you whenever you two fucked, insisting on going bare. You never minded it; it felt better without a condom on, anyways. But you always knew that the reason why Zoro truly did it was because he loved marking you with his cum, seeing it drip outside of your pussy whenever he finished.

The swordsman reluctantly leaves your pussy after he cums. He watches the way the excess liquid seeps outside of your pussy, which still clenches around nothing, desperately looking for his cock again. He scoops it up with his fingers, pushing it back inside of you and barks out a laugh at the way you moan pathetically and your pussy walls quiver as they constrict around the shape of him.

He takes some of the excess left on his fingers and wipes it across your ass, rubbing it into your skin.

It takes you a couple of moments for you to finally open your eyes and register your surroundings after all of that. Zoro is wiping you with a wet cloth, and you see Sanji coming back in with a glass of water and a snack he no doubt whipped up quickly, then and there.

Once you’re finally calmed down from the overstimulation and cleaned off from all of the stickiness, you roll back into Zoro’s bed with a sigh collapsing from the exhaustion. Zoro moves in next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and rubbing circles into your skin.

Sanji glances at the two of you. “Room for one more?” he asks cheekily.

Zoro glares at Sanji and his arm tightens around you. “Fuck no. Piss off.”

He closes his eyes, and within seconds he’s snoring away, dead to the world.

You look over at Sanji and roll your eyes at Zoro’s words. Silently, you scootch over in the bed, making some room for him. You motion with your hand for him to climb in, and he does so gladly, nestling himself into your body. With Zoro’s arm around you and your face resting in the crook of Sanji’s neck, you’re able to fall asleep quickly and peacefully sandwiched between your two favorite boys, not having a single care in the world.

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purest-expressionofgrief · 5 months

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slipping through my fingers (myg) {series masterlist}

pairing: min yoongi x reader genre: dilf!yoongi, exes and co-parents au, angst!!, fluff, smut summary: you've always thought you had it way too easy. all of a sudden, your life seems to be taking a few unexpected turns. it's time your luck ran out.

[prologue]

1. will i ever see you again?

2. and the hits just keep coming 1.0.

3. the calm before the storm.

4. and the hits just keep coming 2.0.

5. a one time thing.

6. ...tba.

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purest-expressionofgrief · 5 months

Text

as an angst enjoyer !!!!! i am loving this sm so far

slipping through my fingers (myg) {series masterlist}

[prologue]

1. will i ever see you again?

2. and the hits just keep coming 1.0.

3. the calm before the storm.

4. and the hits just keep coming 2.0.

5. a one time thing.

6. ...tba.

916 notes · View notes

purest-expressionofgrief · 5 months

Text

Gods of the Dark | Two | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Dream god!Yoongi x f. human!reader

☾ Summary: Don’t ask for help in the dark. It’s an old tale you always heard whispered among the people of your village. But when you find yourself dragged kicking by the man you’re to marry, you have little choice but to beg for help long after the sun has set. The god who answers your pleas promises to save you, but every deal comes with a price.

☾ Word Count: 21,443

☾ Genre: Fantasy, angst, strangers to lovers, smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

☾ Warnings: Sexist and patriarchal society inspired by medieval europe, a lot of world building and discussion about theories/concept of dreams, discussions of morals and ethics, world building, angst, mentions/light depictions of an abusive family, discussions of gender roles and forced marriages, attempted murder via arson, sexual dream sequences, depictions of oral (f. receiving), exposed bodies (in a brothel), pining, townsfolk essentially bullying reader, intense nightmare sequences, light depictions of PTSD (including memories of almost drowning/being physically attacked), explicit language, idiots who are obviously into one another being idiots, recreational drinking, topics of desire, feelings of shame, depictions of anxiety and fear, slight voyeurism, attempted murder

☾ Published: December 2, 2023

☾ A/N: It's finally here! This chapter took so long to write and I want to apologize for how long it took. The creative process can be so difficult sometimes, and I have been having a very hard year, which reflects in my writing. Thank you for sticking with me - I really hope this chapter is okay. This originally wasn't going to be as slow of a burn as it is, but this is where the story took me naturally, so I hope that's okay with everyone. I am going to be adding an extra chapter to this now to tell the story the way I want, so we will have five total chapters to this. I am already working on chapter three, and my goal is to write just this series until the next three chapters are done! Note: The sections of italics are used to indicate dream sequences for this fic - the way I use these are very specific and with intent... that's the only hint I will give you.

A huge thank you to @here2bbtstrash for being my beta reader - I give them huge beta projects with very little time to do them, and this story would not be nearly as polished or tuned as it is now without them. Also thank you to everyone who has been so encouraging and patient with me - your kind words are not lost on me and I'm thankful for you all!

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Eyes in the sky crying geysers How dare I have private desires

First is your mother’s screaming. It’s loud enough to make you clap your hands over your ears, wincing as she drops all of the things in her hands. Second is your father storming into the house like a hurricane, an axe clutched in his hand from cutting wood in the yard. When he sees you, he blanches and takes a few steps back, raising the axe.

“Demon,” he whispers. He reaches for your mother and pulls her behind him. “You are a demon.”

“No, I-”

Without a warning, your father launches the axe at you. You scream, arms going up to block your face, unable to dodge the attack. There’s a loud crack as the axe hits an invisible barrier. You feel your hand fly to your open mouth, staring at the axe that’s now hewn in two on the floor.

Silence follows the destruction of the weapon. In that silence, it occurs to you that your father has attempted to kill you, and was only stopped by whatever protection Yoongi promised you. The realization is dizzying and you stumble away from your parents a little, bumping into the wall that separates the kitchen and the entryway.

No one says anything at first. Your mother clings to your father, trembling violently. Her hair is greyer than you remember and it looks like the last few days haven’t been kind to her. But she has always been soft and weak.

It’s your father who no longer looks the same. Always such an imposing figure in your life, he looks aged. His face is wrinkled, his hair is grey. His presence is so much smaller than you remember, once full of rage and ferocity, now just a terrified man in a doorway.

You cannot believe this is the man you’ve spent most of your life afraid of. Where once stood a great fear of yours now stands nothing more than a shadow of a man. Weak. Afraid. Vulnerable.

“You can’t hurt me anymore,” you say in a voice much steadier than you feel. “You can’t marry me off, you can’t make me burn my books, and you can’t hurt me anymore.”

“What kind of demon are you?”

It occurs to you that you could tell him you’re not a demon. You’re just you, with a little added protection. But the realization that they are afraid of you wakes up something ugly inside of you. Something oily, that slithers, something wicked and sharp.

You don’t have to tell them you’re not a demon. You don’t have to tell them that you are. They have come to that conclusion themselves, and it has put them beneath you. Afraid of you. You’re more powerful than you’ve ever been in this home.

So you let them think you are. “The kind that survived Nathaniel Laudermill beating me in the woods and trying to drown me.”

Your father straightens. “That wasn’t supposed to happen! You weren’t supposed to run and he- he wasn’t supposed to hurt you.”

“Well, he did. And he paid for it, didn’t he?”

When you say it, you have a sneaking suspicion that Nathaniel Laudermill is dead. When your father nods feebly at your question, the knowledge slides into place. You don’t feel bad. It almost horrifies you that you don’t, but you think of the burning in your lungs, his nails against your skin, the roaring of the water.

You’re glad Nathaniel is dead.

“What do you want from us? Money? Our lives?”

“Nothing.” You realize it’s true, suddenly stricken with wondering why you came back at all. “I want you to go about your lives, and let me do what I will.”

Pushing off the wall, you turn around and head out the front door. You feel their eyes on you as you go, but you don’t look back.

For now, you walk out into the woods. Crickets chirp happily, growing quiet as you walk by and starting once again when you’re a distance from them. Under the shade of the trees, it’s cold. The river isn’t flooded up into the woods anymore, but the ground is soft beneath your feet, mud giving way to your steps.

It feels different when you walk through the woods this time. They aren’t as vibrant. No Tiera is lurking in the boughs of the wisteria. There’s no lake with merfolk peering at you with large, alien eyes. A world that was once so full of life and peace feels unsaturated now. Devoid of color.

A nasty feeling creeps up on you as you walk. You look for the creatures of the wood, hoping to see their bright colors and little lives. A snake slithers away from you, but it’s just that. A snake with normal scales, in a normal bush. A rabbit rushes by, quick as lightning, a blur of fur.

None of the birds have plumes of purple feathers. There’s no trilling song that sounds like dreams spun into notes, no smell of drifting sweetness on the wind. The air is damp and cold, and it smells like fresh earth and water. But there’s nothing about it that seems as vibrant as before.

By the river, the water rushes as fast as your thoughts. You weren’t sure what to expect when you came home, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t your parents thinking you were a demon, but that isn’t the worst part.

The worst part is that only after two weeks, your world has lost its magic. It pales in comparison to Yoongi’s world or even your imagination. You stare at the water you used to think rushed with so much promise, the waxy leaves that used to contain so many shades of green. Now they’re just leaves and the river is just water.

A tingle presses at your neck. You turn, expecting Yoongi to be looming behind you. There’s no one there, but the feeling of awareness doesn’t go away. Frowning, you lean against the tree and stare out into the woods unseeing.

Clove and cinnamon hang in the air. You close your eyes, inhaling. The tingle at the back of your neck feels familiar. In your mind, you feel it like a phantom touch, sliding from your neck across your shoulder, dragging down the length of your arms until there is a soft twitch in your palm.

It’s easy to imagine Yoongi this way. But when you open your eyes, Yoongi isn’t there. The feeling doesn’t go away. But you always have that feeling out here, the something of other. Your heart flutters at the thought of the god lurking somewhere that you can’t see.

A silly thought. You brush it away, trying not to delude yourself into fantasies that Yoongi has any interest in you beyond your deal and beyond that night in the woods where you asked for help. Yoongi’s kindness is just that, and though you dream of him often, you know the difference between your dreams and reality.

Instead of leaving to go back to the house, you sit down on the ground. Closing your eyes, you imagine a brighter world. A more magical world. It’s easier to do this than to contend with the fact that the woods you loved so dearly are not as you remember them.

This, at least, is familiar. Sitting in the woods for hours and imagining worlds away from yours. Now, you imagine a specific world, made up of twilight and mountains in the distance. With a wonderful castle full of rooms saturated with candlelight and books you’re learning how to read.

When your stomach growls, you’re forced to stop your imagination and get up. You feel a bit better, knowing that you can at least remember what Yoongi’s dream realm looks like. Two weeks. You have two weeks until you can go back, and until then, Yoongi expects you to study.

Back at the house, your parents stare in silence when you enter. You hardly look at them, walking to the kitchen as though they are merely ghosts harboring the same space as you. Your movements are methodical as you make yourself lunch. When you reach for the knife to cut cheese, you feel the pointed look of your parents.

Part of you wants to turn around and scream at them to scare them. Another part of you has divorced the idea of them as your parents already. Yet you do nothing, biting a piece of cheese as you finish plating your meal and go to your room. They say nothing.

Sitting on your bed, you eat your meal. The world is quiet for the most part, though the muted sound of nature hums beyond your closed window. You realize there is a desk in your room stacked with books, parchment, and inkwells.

Heart racing, you get up from your bed and cross the room. You wipe your fingers on your shirt as you pick up a note written in Yoongi’s neat scrawl. You chew your lip as you look at the swirls and dips of letters on paper, immediately intimidated at the prospect of making sense of the writing.

You take the note with you to the bed and begin to parse the letters and sentences apart. It takes all of your concentration, going over the sounds each letter makes in your head to build a word. It’s not fast work and it isn’t easy, but after a while, you work out the first sentence.

Do not forget to practice every day.

A smile makes your mouth twitch, both in pride that you managed to work out the sentence and at the thought of Yoongi hunched over his desk writing you a note.

The second sentence is trickier. Afternoon light pours through your window as you spend another fifteen minutes sounding out the letters, quietly muttering them to yourself until you’ve got full words to build the sentence.

I will be watching, so you better practice as often as you can.

You bite your lip. It sounds like a playful threat, quietly muttered in one of Yoongi’s teasing moments. You can almost hear the soft rasp of his voice and picture the smirk that would accompany his words. You shiver before reading the final sentence.

Sleep well, and dream as often as you can.

The desk is a nice touch. You don’t remember seeing it this morning and you wonder how it got there. Remembering Yoongi’s magic is overwhelming. You’re still unsure what the limits of his power are, if there are any at all.

Hunched over the papers, you begin to trace letters again. It feels good to have the quill in your hand. You’re careful not to spill the ink all over the paper like you do when you’re practicing in the library - you have a limited amount of parchment here, compared to Yoongi’s endless amounts in the House of Dreams.

It does beg the question whether he’ll drop you off more magical paper if you run out, though.

By the time your hand is cramping too much to practice more and your head hurts, it’s evening. Your parents are locked away in their room when you come out. You can hear the soft voice of your mother go silent when they hear you enter the kitchen for food before heading out to the porch.

Twilight skies stretch above you. Sitting on the edge of the porch, you watch the world fade from purple to black. The stars begin to dot the sky, the moon making her climb upward. You grin, feeling relieved that maybe not all of your world has lost its magic.

Perhaps it’s just the light of day you’re no longer interested in. The night is far more mysterious and alluring, calling to you as you finish your last bite of dinner. You set your plate down on the porch and hop down, feeling the soft grass beneath your bare feet.

The last time you entered the woods in the dark, you were almost killed. That memory alone makes you pause at the edge of the woods. Your mouth dries a little bit and though the urge to step into the shadow of the night is strong, the memory of Nathaniel’s hands on your hair is stronger.

You turn around quickly and walk back to the house, picking up the plate along the way. It feels shameful to be afraid of the dark woods, a sour taste in your mouth as you lock yourself in your room and crawl onto the bed.

Closing your eyes, you try not to think about Nathaniel. His yelling haunts you, the phantom grip of his fingers pulling your hair, the way your mouth filled with water- a hooting owl disturbs your spiraling thoughts.

You open your eyes, straining your ears, only to find silence. Just as you begin to close your eyes again, you hear the hoot once more. Turning toward the window next to your bed, you sit up and pop the latch, casting open one of the shutters.

Above the house, the moon is a glowing coin in the sky. Everything her light touches is awash in grey. Sticking your head out of the window, you sweep your gaze back and forth, trying to look for the sound of the hooting.

As though it senses your gaze, the owl hoots again. You see it this time. A great horned owl stares at you from its perch on top of a pile of chopped wood. Its eyes are burnished gold, like two burning beacons in the night. It’s a stunning owl, all browns and whites, feathers luminous under the sheen of the moon. It moves its head in a circle, opening and closing its beak.

Then, the owl surprises you. You flinch and sit backward on your haunches as it takes flight, great wings flapping as it flies to your window and lands on the ledge. You gasp in delight. The creature is far bigger up close, its ochre eyes warm and intelligent.

The back of your neck tingles familiarly and you smile.

“Are you supposed to watch over me?” The owl chirps, a much higher-pitched noise than the hoot. “Hmm. I see. Do you have a name?”

The owl bobs its head from side to side in an uncanny movement. Though you’re not sure, you think it means to tell you no. “Well, what if I give you one?” The owl chirps again. “What about… Moony?”

Fluffing its feathers, the owl shifts back and forth and lets out a hiss. You giggle, covering your mouth as the bird settles, looking at you in a way that certainly feels haughty and bothered. “Alright. What about… Dream?” Another hiss and a bob no. “Okay, well you’re making this quite difficult. What about…”

A dozen names run through your mind. You think of the owl as Yoongi’s way to watch over you at night. It makes you feel warm and far less alone than you were before. It’s nice knowing that you have a protector, someone to warn Yoongi if you’re ever in danger. Or to steer you away from your bad thoughts.

“How about Guardian?” you offer. It blinks two large eyes before chirping and bobbing its head in a circle, pleased at the name. You grin and slowly reach your hand forward. “I like it. Guardian, then.”

Gently, the owl leans forward and lets you brush its feathers. They are silky under your touch, each plume delicate and wonderful. You can’t help but smile, stroking the owl's chest until it shuffles back and forth and gives a short hoot.

“Go on,” you urge. “Do whatever you need to do. I’ll leave the window open?”

Guardian hoots in affirmation before shuffling its wings and flying off into the night.

Laying in your back, you stare up through the open window, watching the stars go past. Slowly, you feel sleep pull at your edges, beckoning you to give in. You finally do, drifting asleep under the silver light of the moon and a blanket of stars.

Yoongi sits in front of the fireplace in the library. You blink a few times, a little dazed. You don’t remember how you got here, but you know the smell of this library and you know that shadowy frame better than anything. It suddenly makes you ache to realize how much you miss it already.

As if sensing your presence, Yoongi turns to look at you. He smirks, showing no sign of surprise at seeing you standing behind him. He gestures to the armchair next to him and you grin, quick to join him.

Warmth leaps from the fireplace, the logs popping and crackling under the hungry, orange flames. Yoongi is dressed in a simple linen shirt and pants, his necklaces reflecting the burning light. He watches you sit down and fold your feet onto the chair.

“Am I here? Or am I dreaming?” you ask.

“Are both not possible?”

You think about it. “Well yes, I suppose they are. I’m dreaming but I can come here because I’m dreaming.”

“Clever girl.” Yoongi’s eyes dance as he looks you up and down. “How was your first day back?”

“Strange. I…” You chew on your lip, wrapping your arms around your legs. Suddenly, you feel more at home than you did earlier that day in the place you were raised. You think about the woods out behind your house, the alien way you felt among trees that should be familiar. “It feels as though the world doesn’t hold as much magic anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like here. It is so vibrant and beyond imagining that now that I’ve gone back… nothing compares.”

Yoongi hums. “I promise you that there is so much magic in your world. There is real magic in living that cannot be found among the imaginary.”

You rest your chin on your knees and sigh heavily. “If only I could find it.”

“You will.”

Silence passes between you. It’s comfortable. You watch the dancing fire, the world fading away. Though you are acutely aware that Yoongi is staring at your side profile, you don’t squirm or feel anxiety. You simply feel peace, happy to be here. Happy to be with him.

That makes your stomach flutter. At least you’re not dreaming of him in ways you shouldn’t tonight. As soon as you think about it, you feel your cheeks heat up hotter than the flames from the fireplace.

After a little while Yoongi sighs, drawing your attention back to him. “You should sleep.”

“I thought I was.”

“Sort of. You’re more… dreamwalking right now. You’re not really resting.”

“Do I have to stay here?” The question is small. You don’t meet his eyes when you ask, suddenly filled with shame that you can’t even last a day in the world you’ve known for over twenty years. “There’s nothing for me here.”

“There is. You just have to find it again.”

“I don’t know how.”

Yoongi stands up. You look up at him and see that his expression is soft. Kind. Your heart speeds up, tongue heavy in your mouth as he slowly reaches out to you. His hand hesitates for a second, pauses in mid-air like he’s unsure, and then he touches your cheek lightly. “Trust me.”

Before you can respond, Yoongi is walking away. The skin on your cheek tingles where his fingers were a moment before, a shiver racing up your spine. You lift your hands to touch your cheek where his fingers were moments ago. You can’t help but smile, fondness for him growing. Blooming.

Leaning back in the chair, you close your eyes and settle into real sleep.

Tap tap tap.

You twitch your nose and roll your head to the side, sniffing. For a moment, it felt like something had been tapping your nose, almost waking you from sleep. You start to sink back into it, pulling your covers tighter as your thoughts drift… further…

Tap tap tap.

You frown. Now you’re awake, your thoughts clawing their way to break the surface of sleep. When you finally collect yourself and register that you’re waking up, you open your eyes to reveal a face hovering inches from yours, so close that you cannot make out the features.

A shriek rips through your room as you scramble away from the face, clutching your blanket. You slam into the wall near the window, heart hammering as you press yourself flat, trying to make yourself small.

Taehyung falls backwards on his ass, covering his ears and giving you a ghastly expression, as though horrified to be screamed at in such a manner. Your hand clutches your chest as you realize it’s him sitting on your floor and him who had been inches from your face - tapping your nose.

“What are you doing?” you holler at him, fisting your blankets. You suddenly feel sick, the adrenaline making your stomach turn and your head spin. Groaning, you lay on your side, squeezing your eyes shut. Colors coalesce behind your eyelids as you take deep breaths, hoping it will pass. “Are you insane?”

“Well, that is up for debate.”

You open your eyes and glare at him.

Taehyung sits with his long legs out in front of him, leaning back on his palms. His dark hair hangs in his eyes as he grins at you, giddy. He’s dressed in a flowing white shirt with laces at the front that he’s kept open, revealing a tanned chest. His shirt is tucked into brown trousers and you spot a small chain with a charm tied through one of his belt loops.

You think you recognize the charm from one of Yoongi’s necklaces.

“What are you doing here?”

“Visiting, obviously.”

“You can just… visit?”

“I do what I want.”

As the adrenaline rush fades, you slowly sit up, glaring at the man on your floor. “I doubt that. How did you get in here, anyway?”

“Your window is open.”

The window in question is still wide open from last night, only now, morning light streams through. The air is cool and smells of rain, the wind rushing through the trees and making them bend and dance under its guidance. A robin flits from bough to bough, singing.

“So you came through the window?”

“No, I came through the front door. No one else is home.”

“Then why did you say you came through the window?”

“I didn’t. I said the window was open.” Taehyung gives you a white, square grin. You clench your teeth and resist the urge to throw a pillow at him. Though you’re pleased to see him, you’re equally as vexed by his teasing. “Anyway, I want you to show me around.”

“Show you around what?”

He gets up from the floor, clapping his hands together to get rid of the dirt and dust before doing the same to his pants. He shrugs, giving you a cheery smile. “I don’t know. Anything. Everything. I want to see what your life here was like.”

“It wasn’t very good.”

“That’s okay. I want to see it anyway.”

Slowly, you get out of bed. He makes room for you, walking over toward the desk where your writing practice sheets are. He flips through them, examining your work as you eye him, stretching. Your joints pop and you groan, eyes fluttering at the release of tension.

“Why?” you ask. He looks up at you, brows raised in a question. “Why do you want to see?”

Taehyung contemplates his answer. He taps one long finger on top of your tracing. “You’re getting better.” He leans against the desk and crosses his arms, regarding you steadily. “I’ll make you a deal. Show me about your life here. Teach me about you. And I’ll tell you about me.”

That sparks your interest. You know so little about Taehyung, even in the two weeks that you’ve lived in the House of Dreams. He is a charming mystery, someone who speaks in riddles and likes to goad you and talk about so much that you realize he talks about nothing at all. At least, not anything substantial.

For the amount of things you know about Taehyung, like how he enjoys cinnamon in his tea or that his favorite color is green like the bottom of the lake, or how his favorite snacks are honey cakes or that music makes him cry, you also know… nothing about him. Where he comes from. Who he was before he was Yoongi’s companion in a big, lonely castle.

Sighing, you walk up to him and extend your arm. “Deal.”

Taehyung’s hand is warm and tingles when you shake it. He grins at you, happier than ever before he drops your hand and gestures at your clothes. “Well go on,” he says. “Change out of your nighties. Unless of course, you’d like to stay in them.”

“Get out of my room and I will!”

He raises his brows. “Don’t want me to watch? How boring.”

You don’t take his teasing to heart. You’ve already adapted to Taehyung’s jesting and prodding, learning that it’s a key part to the way that he shows his affections. For the first few days, you’d thought perhaps he didn’t like you much, but after seeing him rib Yoongi for two hours straight in the library, you realized it was good that he was teasing you.

You open the small trunk of clothes and slide on pants and a loose shirt. When you enter the main house, you find Taehyung standing on the porch with his arms crossed over his chest, looking into the woods with a frown. Tucking in your shirt, you step out onto the porch, the wood creaking underneath your weight.

“What is it?” you ask when Taehyung doesn’t turn to greet you. His eyes are dark and there’s an expression on his face that makes you nervous. “Is there something out there?”

Instead of answering directly, he asks, “Is that where Yoongi found you?”

Oh. Oh. Taehyung is looking at the woods where you ran off the night that your parents tried to make you marry Nathaniel. You nod and hum, trying not to think much about it as you finish tucking in the shirt and adjusting the material.

“There’s a bad energy there,” Taehyung observes. He turns away from the woods finally and drops his hands at his side. “You should stay away from that place moving forward.”

“I didn’t exactly go in there on purpose.”

“I know.” Something flashes in his eyes. “Best not to do it again, if you can help it. You can go into the woods, just not there.”

“Okay…”

You wait for Taehyung to elaborate, but he doesn’t. A chill settles over your skin, the wind picking up to rustle the trees. He shrugs and grins, the dark expression gone in a flash as he gestures for you to enter back through the house and leave by way of the front door.

Taheyung follows you, a bounce to his step as he hurries to walk next to you. You say nothing as you lead him out of the yard and toward the main road by your home that leads into town, your stomach fluttering with nervousness as you go.

If Taehyung is confused as to why you’re not starting the story of your life at home, he doesn’t let on. He tucks his hands into his pockets and walks next to you, his feet crunching the gravel beneath his boots and the wind lifting his hair.

Studying Taehyung’s side profile, you think he looks like something from a dream. He has the kind of beauty that seems purposeful and handcrafted, each one of his features carefully designed to be the wonderful, glowing being that he is.

You don’t know what he is, really. But you’ve made a deal and you have to deliver on your end first.

“We live a bit away from town,” you say eventually. “My father inherited the house after his father, who was a very talented wood carver. He used to cut the trees here himself and decide which tree was perfect for what project, which is why we live almost thirty minutes from town.”

“A wood carver is a nice talent to have.”

You nod. “He was very good. It made a good income. My father had no talent for it, though, and opened up a store instead. He sold my grandfather’s wares and then eventually added items from other folks in town, including my mother's clothes. She’s a seamstress.”

“You were wearing a dress the night Yoongi brought you home.”

Home. Taehyung says it so easily, like he’s already accepted that the House of Dreams is yours as much as it’s his. A warm feeling blooms through you, and you look up at Taehyung and smile at him despite the looming subject of the doomed wedding dress. He returns your smile just as broadly, even if he doesn’t know the reason for your sudden turn of happiness.

“Yeah. That was one she made,” you sigh, turning back to the road. “A wedding dress.”

“It was beautiful, but I did burn it in the fire.” You look at him with your brows raised and he gives you a sheepish shrug. “You were assaulted in that dress. We wanted nothing to do with it.”

“I’m glad that you did. I never want to remember that night again.”

“Good. Memories have a way of haunting us, even when we don’t know it.”

Taehyung’s tone is ominous. Instead of asking him what he means, you let his weighted silence fall around you, propelling the both of you toward the town.

As you get closer, houses and other roads begin to pop up. You see the pathways leading up to the homes of your neighbors, pointing out each one to Taehyung along with filling him in on summaries of their family histories and gossip. He listens with a conspiratorial smirk, gasping and asking you scandalous questions as you whisper rumors you’ve long heard from eavesdropping on your parents.

Gossiping with Taehyung is nice. You feel lighter than you had the day before, nearly skipping as you near the town proper. You start passing people on the road. Normally, you’d greet the ones you know. Now, you hear gasps as people flinch when they see you, making signs with their hands to ward off evil.

You blink in surprise, glancing at Taehyung for his reaction. He frowns when he sees the second group of people do it. By the third, he pulls a snarling face at them, making a child cry. You jam your finger in his ribs and he hisses in pain, shoving lightly back.

“What?” he demands. “You’re not evil. That sign doesn’t do anything, either. If one of the more malevolent deities wanted to snatch them, they would.”

“Really?”

Taehyung rubs his ribs where you poked him. You pass the bakery owned by the Yen family, heavenly smells wafting out the door. “Of course they would,” he huffs. “Most deities aren’t bound by the rules and logic the mortals try to make to create a sense of safety from them. Many can simply do what they want.”

“Then why don’t they?”

“Because of Eternals, like Yoongi. The gods who are always here, never changing. That’s why they’re called Eternals.”

“I see. There’s seven of them, right?” Taehyung hums the affirmative. As you pass a music shop, Taehyung slows. His hands are linked behind his back as he eyes the instruments through the window and gestures at them. You nod and follow him indoors, the bell on the door above chiming. “So other deities are afraid of them?”

“Of course they are,” Taehyung muses. He stops to admire a mandolin. “Yoongi, for example, is a being that creates dreams themselves. He manipulates reality. He can create things on a whim. He’s almost as powerful as life.”

“Really?”

“What are dreams if not creation? The difference isn’t all that big, though it drives Seokjin mad to admit it.”

“Who?”

Taehyung plucks the string of another instrument. You don’t know what it is, but the note is sharp, making you cringe. “Life, of course.”

“You know Life? What are you?”

He glances at you sidelong. “We’re supposed to learn about you first. I’m doing a lot of talking.”

“Not like it’s hard to get you going,” you mutter.

Taeyung shoots you a scowl, but is interrupted by the shop owner coming around the corner. He’s a man in his late thirties, greeting Taehyung politely and wiping his hands on his trousers. He asks Taehyung if he’s looking for anything and just as Taehyung leans out of the way to reveal you standing behind him, the shop owner’s eyes go to you and he gasps, stumbling backward.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” he whispers, his back bumping into a shelf of items. You feel a shiver slip down your spine as you stare at him, arms tingling. He makes the symbol to ward off evil, the whites of his eyes wild. “Evil. Evil creature, you are a demon. You do not-”

“Another word,” Taehyung cuts in, his voice dark in a tone you’ve never heard. “And I’ll show you what evil is, sir.”

“G-god of Light spare me.”

“Your God of Light won’t answer.” Taehyung spins on his heel, facing you. His expression is thunder, his gaze dark and eyes wild as he hisses, “Speak their name all you wish. It's not daytime in here, sir.”

For the two weeks you’ve known Taehyung, you’ve never seen him like this. The room feels oppressive and dark, and you swear the lights have dimmed, shadows pressing up against the wall as Taehyung strides forward and passes you, taking your arm firmly in his hand.

Taehyung escorts you out of the store, walking swiftly. When you hit daylight, the oppressive dark sheds itself immediately. Taehyung’s presence dims with the sun beating down on him and turning his skin copper, black hair shining almost blue in the light.

He lets go of your arm and shoots you a troubled gaze. “Don’t listen to him,” he grunts. “You’re not a demon, nor are you evil.”

“My parents called me the same thing.” He scowls and begins pacing. To keep him moving, you start walking toward the other side of town where the old cemetery and abandoned church is. You don’t know why you go there, but you’re drawn to it. “They called me a demon.”

“Demons are much nastier. You might be annoying, but certainly not a demon.”

You scowl and he shrugs. “I didn’t realize everyone here thought I died. I thought I would come back and it would be…”

“Normal?” You shrug a shoulder.

The houses on the edge of town are shabbier than the rest. People hesitate in their doorways, staring at you and the tall, handsome man next to you. You see them do the warding sign as you go, and you squeeze your hands into fists as they do.

Weeds crawl up the side of the old church. The structure leans heavily to the left, the stairs unusable and the ceiling fallen in. Instead of walking up the hazardous steps and inside the dilapidated building, you lead Taehyung around it, where the grass grows higher than your knees and the sound of grasshoppers buzzing by you follows.

A dry-rotted fence surrounds what was once a graveyard. You walk toward it, leading Taehyung until he starts slowing down a few paces behind you. You stop and turn over your shoulder to look at him, bringing your hand up to shield your eyes from the sun.

Taehyung looks thoughtful, dark eyes scanning the area. He’s stopped walking entirely, head cocked to the side. “Why’d you bring me here?”

“I don’t know. I just… walked in this direction. I used to come here for the silence, sometimes.”

Taehyung has a strange look on his face. “Is that so?”

“Why do you look like that?”

“How long has this place been here?”

“The church closed before I could remember. Honestly, they said it was haunted by this graveyard, which has been here a lot longer than the church. Even the oldest families in town don’t have their dead buried here. Rumor has it that it was built long before the town was.”

Taehyung starts walking normally again. Side by side, you begin to navigate around the graveyard. “And you come here? Why?”

“It’s quiet. When I was too young to stay at the house alone, my mom would bring me to town while she ran errands. I was allowed to explore, but I liked to come here.”

“Most kids are afraid of places of the dead.”

You shrug. “It was quiet, and it gave me time to imagine things. I liked to make up fantasies about the old gods here or… what I imagined they might be. Of heroes descended from them, maybe.”

“And you felt drawn here?”

You startle when a grasshopper shoots across the grass in front of you. You laugh as it vanishes into the foliage. “Yeah, it just felt… safe.”

“Strange.”

“Am I allowed to ask why or are you going to complain you’re talking too much again?” He snorts and gestures for you to continue. “Why is that strange? Beyond the fact that it’s, you know, a graveyard.”

Sighing, Taehyung squints up at the line of trees nearby. His hand hovers along the tops of the grass as he runs it over each blade, letting the tips tickle his hands. You’re almost waist high in grass, glancing down to make sure you don’t step into any holes.

“This place is old. The people of the church felt haunted because they were. Death owns this land.”

You frown. “Well, the dead are here. The other graveyard doesn’t feel the same.”

“You misunderstand me. Death - the Eternal. His presence is all over. Someone important to him must be buried here.”

“Oh.”

You stop and think about that. Turning to look at the unmarked and lime washed tombstones, you scan for any sign of Death. You have no idea what you’re looking for. Ivy and time have taken over most of the concrete slabs, and none of the names or dates are legible by now. They’re just hewn stone, buried in green and grime.

But you feel something here, a tingling on the back of your neck like the one you felt in the woods by your house. A chill wind blows over the land, sweeping the grass and rattling the trees. You feel the breeze against your neck, cool as fingers trailing down your spine.

Suddenly, you feel a buzz on your skin. It’s not so different from Yoongi’s presence, and it chills you.

You look up at Taehyung with wide, fearful eyes. He smiles and shakes his head. “You don’t need to be afraid of Death. Death is neither good nor bad, he just is. He only takes those who are ready.”

“Have you met - um - Death?”

Taehyung nods. “He is a man of few words, but Namjoon is unwaveringly kind and wise.”

“Strange that I was drawn to coming here.” You head back toward the town. The sun passes its zenith and makes its way into the early afternoon. “Is this whole place filled with Eternals or what?”

“No, it’s actually a rather unremarkable location. Namjoon lingers in many places. Yoongi was simply drawn here.”

“By what?”

Instead of answering the question, Taehyung sticks his hands in his pockets. “Show me more of your town.”

So you do. Taehyung is a good companion. Where Yoongi would quietly observe and make sounds to indicate that he’s listening and admires the things you’re talking about, Taehyung asks questions. You realize he’s a tactile person as well. He touches things as he walks by them, brushing his fingers on fabric, touching jewelry at vendor stands.

Everywhere you go is a similar reaction to the instrument store. People seem happy to see Taehyung at first before they see you, fear making them lean away and ward you off. You realize you don’t know how much time has passed since you vanished from the woods and returned.

When you ask Taehyung, he shrugs and explains that time moves differently and inconsistently. It could have been a day, it could have been a week, it could have been five months. By the looks on the faces of those you pass, you think perhaps it’s been a little longer than you anticipated.

Part of you wonders what lie your parents must have told them about your death. You almost want to ask, but you don’t, anxiety stilling your tongue. You probably wouldn’t be able to get close enough to anyone to ask anyway.

By the time the sun has sunk beyond the horizon and the moon has begun its climb, you and Taehyung stop at the tavern to eat. Your stomach rumbles as you step into the warmth of the room behind Taehyung, and you notice that the place goes quiet.

It’s subtle at first, something you don’t notice as you kick dirt off your shoes, but the hush becomes so intense that you can’t help but look up, gaze sweeping the room as everyone turns to stare at you.

Behind the counter, the barkeep straightens. His name is Sloan - you’ve known him since you were a little girl - and he looks less than happy at your arrival.

“I know I’m pretty,” Taehyung announces loudly, tossing the hair out his eyes. “But you don’t need to stare.”

“You aren’t welcome here,” Sloan says, voice wavering like he’s unsure if he means it. “Begone, demon. We are men and women of life and light!”

You swallow thickly and look around, feeling prickly heat crawl up your neck.

Like at the music shop, something happens to Taehyung, except this time, it’s stronger than before. The candles in the chandelier and on the tables flicker in a phantom wind and darkness pulses in the room. You feel energy rolling off of him and you swear Taehyung gets darker as he steps forward, his presence oppressive and threatening.

There is crying and gasping in the room as he seethes. “We are not demons, and you will not disallow this woman to enter your shops, your homes, or anywhere else she wishes.”

“Taehyung,” you whisper, throat dry.

He doesn’t seem to hear you. You swear there is thunder in the distance. Whatever power belonging to Taehyung is tenfold now that the night sky stretches over the tavern. “Refuse her service, and there will be consequences.”

“Taehyung,” you hiss, snatching his sleeve. You pull his attention to you. His eyes are like two obsidian coins. There is something sharp and lupine about his face, sending your heart hammering. “Stop. This is making it worse.”

“They should not insult you.”

“It’s fine.”

He softens a touch. “It isn’t. You are not… they do not understand you.”

“They never have. Come on, let’s just go.”

For a second, you think he might not. You don’t know what Taehyung is or what he can do. It doesn’t frighten you, though. Because whatever Taehyung is and whatever his intentions are, he’s linked to Yoongi. Yoongi would never put you in harm's way or let Taehyung near you if he was a threat.

Even after such a short period of time, you know this in your heart of hearts.

Taehyung relents and the light returns to the room. No one makes a sound, all eyes on Taehyung as he lets you pull him out of the door and into the night. You immediately feel better outside, the moon washing your skin in light and the stars watching you march into the street.

“You can’t just threaten everyone who insults me,” you snap, though you’re not really mad at him. “They’re only going to hate me more. And they will think you’re a demon when you do that.”

“I’m far more powerful than a demon,” he sniffs primly. “And they should not insult you. You have the favor of Dream. You are -” he cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Well, you’re far above their station. They know nothing.”

“Far above their station,” you snort, crushing a rock under the toe of your boot. “I’m a girl who was strange when they knew me before they thought I was dead, and now they think I’m a demon walking around with her scary demon husband. Or perhaps they think you are an evil entity.”

“Don’t make that joke around Yoongi,” Taehyung mutters, putting his hands on his hips. Before you can ask what that means, he says, “What if I took you somewhere instead, then?”

You raise your brows and look around. “Where?”

“Well not here. Somewhere familiar to me, where they won’t ostracize you.”

“We’re going to travel in the middle of the night.”

Taehyung gives you a square grin that lights up the world. “Time to learn about how we travel.”

You almost vomit on Taehyung’s shoes. He squeals and steps out of the way as you bend over, holding your middle as bile burns its way up your throat and splatters onto the gravel beneath you. It feels like your world is spinning and you’ve lost your center of gravity, having been pulled by something sharp in your stomach into a vortex of what felt like twisting and spinning.

It could only have lasted a second, but Taehyung has to hold you up for a moment as you gasp for air, the taste in your mouth sour and gross. You crane your face to look at him, glaring as he winces. He had given you no warning of what his travel was like or how it would feel.

You’re not looking forward to it again.

“What,” you pant, “was that?”

“Teleportation, mostly. I kind of forgot what it feels like when you’re… human. You get a little scrambled.”

The nausea makes your throat clench and unclench again. You dig your fingers into his arm as you dry heave but nothing comes up. “A little?” you rasp. The world slows its spinning and the watering feeling in your mouth that preludes puking fades. “That was awful.”

“Sorry, it’s different than portaling. That’s more stepping through the door while teleportation is like... Jumping.”

“Don’t jump me again any time soon.”

Taehyung pats your back heartily as you stand up straight. The stars swim above you in a spiraling cosmos. You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, waiting as the nausea fades away and the world around you bleeds into the forefront of your attention span.

Noise hums from in front of you. You’re standing in an alleyway, looking up at the side of a building. It looks a bit like an inn, but you can hear the clamor of a crowd and loud voices coming from inside. Each window is curtained, keeping wandering eyes and the moonlight outside.

Taehyung leads you around to the front of the building. It’s two stories and on the first floor there’s a porch filled with chairs and gambling tables. There are men and women draped over the furniture, smoking sweet-smelling cigars and laughing loudly as they throw dice on the table.

Women and men in various states of undress sit on the laps of the others. You feel heat crawl up your neck as you avert your eyes, looking up at the sign hanging over the building that says Desert Rose. Nervousness tingles at the back of your neck as Taehyung strolls up the steps to what you’re sure is a brothel and a gambling den, greeting people as he goes.

You’re shocked that Taehyung knows people here. You’re sure that you’re still in… your dimension, as Yoongi calls it. The people here talk with an accent that is different from what you’re used to, but you still understand the language, even while struggling to keep up with the lilt.

Eyes follow you as Taehyung leads you inside. The air is thick with perfume, smoke, and loud voices. Tables are pressed closely together, filled with people. There’s a bar at the back of the room and a small bard and band in a corner, singing a raucous song with the crowd about Lady Trown who gets around and will go down.

“Where did you bring me?” you ask Taehyung as he guides you through the rowdy room. A woman falls over a card game laughing, her breasts spilling out of her shirt while another woman plants a kiss right on her mouth. “This place is - is -”

There are no words for it. You’ve never been somewhere that is so openly indecent and carnal in your life and yet… the colors and the sounds and the overflowing joy hit you like an arrow to the chest. You can’t help but be drawn to look at the exposed bodies before darting your gaze away, only to be drawn somewhere else out of insatiable curiosity.

“A haven!” Taehyung offers as he leans on the bar. “Two pints of whatever!”

You press close against him, hands shooting to his shirt as someone pushes by you. It’s a little overwhelming and you feel hot all over. Taehyung shoves a wooden tankard of amber liquid into your hands and grins, raising another to his lips before taking several swigs, liquid running down his chin and neck.

He comes away and smacks his lips, giving you a delighted grin. “It’s awful, just the way I like it!”

You take a sip and make a face. The watered-down ale is certainly nothing like the sweet wine Yoongi likes to treat you to over dinner. Taehyung seems to know this, laughing loudly as he leads you through the crowd toward an empty table in the corner.

Back against the wall, you take a moment to look around the room. There are card and dice games being held at multiple tables, alongside other games with rune-marked stones, cups and trinkets that you don’t recognize.

It’s wildly different from anything back home. You’ve never been to a brothel - at least, you think this place qualifies for one, based on the various states of undress and a few couples doing something that makes you avert your eyes - but this is nice. In its own loud and carnal way.

Taehyung people-watches with you. He feeds you information on the faces that he recognizes, lips curling as he gossips. He looks alive and happy, his golden skin glowing with a radiance that seems a little magical.

“So is it my turn to ask questions?” you ask, sipping the awful beer as you look over at Taehyung. His gaze reluctantly strays away from watching a card game where you’re pretty sure the woman who is winning is cheating. “Or do I still have to talk about myself?”

He smirks. “You can ask questions, a deal is a deal.”

“What is this place?”

“The Desert Rose.”

You glare. “What is this place to you?”

Taehyung takes a sip of his ale and grins, winking at you. “A better question. This place is somewhere I used to visit when I wanted to feel alive. When I wanted to feel humanity for its raw intensity.”

“So you’re not human.” He shakes his head. His face grows a little hesitant, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. “What are you?”

“I’m a dream.”

You blink once. Twice. You expect Taehyung to start laughing and indicate that he was teasing you, but he doesn’t. He leans back in his chair, watching you evenly with his dark eyes.

“What?” you finally ask.

“I’m a dream. The second ever, actually.”

You think about what you’ve observed of Taehyung. The way that he seems to draw people in, the animated manner in which he speaks. He seems to contain so many multitudes of the things you know that Yoongi enjoys, and yet so many things that press Yoongi’s buttons and rattle him.

Taehyung is… beautiful. Enchanting. Both to look at, and to talk to. He has a carefree personality and you know he’s magical, having witnessed it in the House of Dreams in snippets but also today, when he became angry and the darkness seemed to swell around him. Not to mention his awful teleportation to wherever you are in the world now.

He is exactly the kind of person you always imagined being the lead in your fantasies. Brave and charming, handsome and adventurous. He looks like he belongs here, melding to the energy around him, fitting in perfectly.

Suddenly, the thought of Taehyung being a dream makes more sense than anything else. A being of infinite possibilities, one who can shape themselves to anyone and anything, who can sense what people want and become that very thing.

You’re not sure what the complexities of dreams are, but you understand the very basics from Yoongi: most dreams are flexible and full of infinite possibilities. It’s what makes them so real, so strong.

“That makes a lot of sense,” you murmur. “So you’re old.”

“Very.”

“If you’re the second dream…” you trail off, thinking about how Yoongi explained how he came to existence. How life dreamed and so he was born. “Yoongi is the first. That’s why you say he is Dream - he is the first and the essence of dreams.”

“Very clever.”

“When you said you came here to feel alive, what did you mean by that?”

He sighs heavily. “Yoongi was born because Life dreamed of - well, making life. And when Yoongi was born, he was the very concept of dreaming itself. Imagination, creation, wonder, hope. It’s why creation and dreaming are so close in their nature. But still, there is a difference between lifeforms and dreams.”

“You wanted to know what it was like to feel life?”

He nods. “Yoongi made me as his first companion. He couldn’t help it, really. He didn’t make me on purpose so much as he thought of someone to spend time with, someone to offset him. To balance him. And then there I was.”

You chew on your lip. There is a distant look in Taehyung’s gaze. He stares at his ale, not drinking anymore. He picks at splinters in the tankard handle, the noise around the two of you a dull roar.

“But?” you offer, sensing his hesitance.

“But,” he agrees, nodding. “When Life created humans, I wondered what the difference was between us. I sort of looked like them and I talked like them, but I wanted to know what it was like to be them. And dreams… They are wonderful. Beautiful. But I was afraid they weren’t real, so I started to visit here. To go places. To see if life was the same as dreams.”

“Is it?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not better, it’s not worse. It’s just different. But I did learn that dreams are as real as life. Perhaps you cannot always see them and feel them depending on where you are, but anything someone dreams here is real there.”

“That’s sort of comforting.”

Taehyung smiles. “It is. Plus, I really enjoy people. They have an edge to them that dreams don’t.”

Someone catches Taehyung’s attention. He turns in his seat, head craning as though he senses something. You follow his line of sight to where a young man descends the stairs leading up to the second floor. He is unlike anything you’ve ever seen, with dark, silky hair tucked behind his ears, full lips that pull into a smile as someone greets him, and sharp, dark eyes that crinkle when he laughs.

He’s beautiful. Suddenly you think that this might be what a dream truly looks like. Taehyung is all dark and shadows, but the man Taehyung watches is lightness and magic, his face so perfect that you cannot help but imagine it must be the result of someone carefully painting every feature.

Your eyes flicker back to Taehyung when the man leans on the bar, talking to the barmaid behind the counter. Taehyung doesn’t move. You don’t even think he’s breathing. He sits in his chair, knuckles paling under the grip he has on the back of his seat, his eyes filled with such sudden longing that you have to look away.

“Who is that?” you ask gently. Taehyung doesn’t seem to hear you. He watches and watches, wanting to look nowhere else but at the bar. “Taehyung?”

“His name is Jimin.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

Taehyung nods. “He’s like you.”

“Like me?”

“He dreams loud enough for us to hear it. For me to hear it. I’ve been coming to this place long before he existed. A silly coincidence that he exists here, too.”

“Fate, perhaps?”

That makes Taehyung turn around. His expression is dark and he’s frowning. “Don’t start talking about Hoseok,” Taehyung mutters. “Lest he show up.”

You didn’t mean Yoongi’s sibling Fate, but you realize that’s who Taehyung is talking about. Your eyes drift back to where Jimin is at the bar, sipping a glass of amber liquid. As though he senses eyes on him, his gaze sweeps the bar until it lands on Taehyung, who straightens immediately.

Jimin smiles and it’s like watching the first ray of sun break over the horizon. You can’t help but blink at his radiant beauty, completely taken aback by it as Jimin pushes off of the bar and begins heading your direction.

Taehyung swivels in his chair, taking in a few calming breaths. You giggle and he looks up at you, giving you a pitiful smile. You reach across the table and squeeze his hand quickly. “Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous!”

“You definitely are.”

Before Taehyung can hiss a rebuttal at you, Jimin sidesteps a woman and grins at Taehyung. He drags his gaze to you and startles, as though he had not realized you were there, eyes going round and mouth forming an ‘o’.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were with anyone,” Jimin says. His voice is soft and smooth, immediately comforting. “I wanted to come say hello.”

“Hi,” Taehyung breathes, blinking up at Jimin as though he is lost in starlight. Perhaps he is, you think. “Your hair is longer than the last time I saw you.”

Jimin flushes, a hand coming up to touch the ends of his hair gently. “Yeah, I thought I would grow it out.”

“It looks great.”

For a moment, they stare at one another, Taehyung grinning with his eyes gleaming, and Jimin soft with his eyes scrunched. You look at the table, trying not to disrupt whatever spell they’re under as they peer at one another, but it seems Jimin senses your presence still. His eyes flicker to you and he raises a brow, questioning.

Taehyung fumbles to introduce you, turning and giving you a sheepish grin. You smile and stretch your hand over to shake Jimin’s. His hands are small and delicate but his grip is firm. “It’s nice to meet you. Taehyung wanted to show me this place because he enjoys the people so much - I believe that includes you.”

Jimin smirks and shrugs a shoulder while Taehyung looks for a chair, yanking it away from someone to give Jimin a place to sit. He does, throwing Taehyung a grateful smile. “Hmm, is that so? Has he said nice things about me?”

“The nicest. In fact, the whole reason we came here is because he wanted to introduce me to the amazing Jimin.”

Taehyung shoots you a look that tells you to shut up, but you hide your grin in your tankard as Jimin raises a brow, glancing at Taehyung.

Watching Taehyung and Jimin is comedic and sweet. Taehyung isn’t an entirely different person around Jimin, but he becomes softer at the edges, his smiles gentler and his laughs louder. The longing in Taehyung’s gaze when he thinks Jimin isn’t looking is palpable, and even as a bystander and a friend, you feel a pang watching the two of them dance around one another.

For his part, Jimin seems equally enthralled. He watches Taehyung with rapt attention, asking questions and touching Taehyung gently everywhere he can - the tops of Taehyung’s hands, his arm, his elbow. When Taehyung turns around to watch the table next to you topple over, you realize he’s unaware that Jimin is looking at him as though begging for Taehyung to see.

You see. And you want.

Never before had your parents inspired much desire for love in you. While they worked well together, you still can’t call what they had happy or loving. Functional, sure. Successful, even. But they did not look at one another the way Taehyung and Jimin seem to, and you can’t help but suddenly feel like that is something you want.

Someone to look at you when they think you’re not looking in a way that implies you are their sun and moon. Someone who smiles with such mirth at something you do or say that you can feel the heat of it.

Jimin gets up to refill the drinks, scooping yours with a grin before vanishing in the crowd. Taehyung watches him go, craning his neck to ensure he has eyes on Jimin as he makes his way to the bar.

“Have you told him you’re in love with him?”

Taehyung shakes his head, eyes never leaving where Jimin is leaning over the bar to order. “There’s no point.”

“What? Why not?”

“I’m a dream. He’s a human. We could never be something.”

“Oh. Surely there’s a way?”

Taehyung turns to look at you, the joy on his face slipping to be replaced with a soft sadness. He shakes his head again, picking at the splinters on the table. “I would be no good for him. We live in two different worlds… I come and go… He deserves a normal, human life. We could never be something.”

Jimin starts to head back toward the table. Taehyung shakes off the melancholy and smiles just as bright when Jimin returns, as though he wasn’t sad only a moment ago. You accept the refilled drink from Jimin with a weak smile.

Taehyung’s words cycle through your mind as the two men fall into giggling conversation, and all you can think about is a pair of dark cat eyes, a soft raspy voice, and a man who is made of dreams.

We could never be something.

“I was starting to worry, you know?”

Yoongi’s voice makes you blink. You realize you’re standing among the wisteria, the breeze carrying their sweet scent over your warm skin. You turn to look at him over your shoulder. He’s leaning against a tree, his long hair down and dancing in the breeze. The thin white shirt he wears does little to hide the lines of his stomach and chest today, making you avert your eyes.

“Why?” you ask, voice steadier than you feel.

You walk toward a low-hanging vine, bringing your hands up to brush along the purple petals. You feel the tree shiver under your touch. You sense it, like it purrs, a response that is hard to explain but you innately know.

“It took you longer than usual to fall asleep.”

“Can you not see me when I’m not asleep?”

“I could, but prying is rude. I only see you when you come to me.”

You turn to look at him sharply. He seems a little smug at that, the corners of his full lips twitching like he’s fighting a smirk. Your heart skips a beat for a moment before Taehyung’s words from that night play in your mind. We could never be something.

And yet Yoongi is implying it’s you who visits him.

You scowl and turn away from him suddenly. Yoongi makes a sound like a sigh and pushes off of the tree, his footsteps quiet as a whisper. “Have I upset you?”

“I want to go to sleep.”

He hesitates. You cannot see his expression, but you can picture it perfectly: brows drawn together, mouth pouted slightly, head cocked. His confusion is evident when he says, “You are asleep.”

“You know what I mean.”

Silence, for a moment. Then, in that soft, rasping voice that you know so well, he murmurs, “Goodnight, then.”

Silence greets you when you wake up the next morning. Your home is still empty - you have not seen either of your parents since you arrived the night before. Either you’re coming and going at hours they’re not around or they’re avoiding you. The latter is most likely, and you certainly don’t mind.

Your day goes similarly to the day before. This time, when you walk through the woods, you feel a little more of a spark. You’re sure it has to do with your conversation with Taehyung, his words about dreams and reality being different but equally powerful pouring a little bit of magic back into the woods you loved so dearly.

Still, you miss the other realm and the House of Dreams, even if you’re a little embarrassed by your dream last night, recalling the way you dismissed Yoongi.

Sitting on the ground with your back pressed against a cypress tree, you let out a heavy sigh and close your eyes, your arms hugging around your middle. You try not to think too hard about the way Yoongi looked leaning against the tree, dark eyes drinking you in.

Yoongi occupies more than his fair share of thoughts. You hate it, the way your mind strays to him, thinking this is something Yoongi would like or Yoongi would find this funny. Only two weeks and he and Taehyung are suddenly all you know, your experiences with them painting most of your thoughts.

Thoughts of Taehyung don’t plague you, though.

The fluttering feeling every time you think of Yoongi has not faded with time or distance. It might be easier if he didn’t visit your dreams every night - or if you didn’t visit him in your dreams, which you don’t know how to do.

But Taehyung’s forlorn words come drifting back to you, reminding you that there is some distinction between humans and dreams. That even for Taehyung, it cannot work.

When you return home, your parents still aren’t there. You busy yourself with lunch and then begin practicing your letters, tracing them until your hand is cramping and your head is starting to hurt. You manage to take up most of the afternoon that way, focused solely on your studies and trying to read through your work.

Just as evening falls, Taehyung appears in the yard, hands on his hips as he looks up at your window, whistling to catch your attention. You grin when you see him, happy to have a friend, even if it’s just Taehyung. You don’t ask why Yoongi doesn’t come with him - the Eternal is busy, you’re sure - but you’re pleased to just have Taehyung.

It becomes a routine. It’s not as thrilling as your life in the House of Dreams, but it isn’t as terrible as you thought it would be. The few times that you do see your parents, they glare at you as though you have become something evil in their house, lurking and stealing their joy.

You say nothing to them and they stay away from you.

It’s the same in town. You only visit with Taehyung, otherwise you are too afraid to go on your own. The villagers say nothing when they see the two of you walking around and visiting the old church, but they glare and you catch them doing the signs to ward off evil as you pass by.

Still, Taehyung makes it worth it. He visits you nightly, whisking you away to the Desert Rose, which has become a refuge for you. You’re no better at teleporting, but you manage not to vomit on his shoes each time you do it.

Tonight, the energy is thrumming at the Desert Rose. Your gaze lingers longer on those around you and you even introduce yourself to the people that Taehyung is familiar with. Though Taehyung opts to play a game of dice, you do not. You’re content to watch, standing over his shoulder with your arms crossed over your chest.

You feel… alive. Just like Taehyung described when he started coming here. It’s so different from your life before, and after over a week of being around people who seem to spill over with joy without restraint, you feel yourself loosening up. Becoming something a little different. Someone who wants. Someone who wants openly.

You think about Yoongi. Once he’d told you that he wasn’t just Eternal of dreams. He also has power over desire, and he believes in indulgence. He wants to teach you to indulge more. It suddenly makes all the more sense that Taehyung likes it here. He’s someone who dives in head first to things, taking any bet someone throws his way and snatching drinks off of passing trays.

Even his desire for Jimin is open and obvious, though you’re sure Taehyung doesn’t know that.

It’s a lovely night. You feel warm all over, the drink getting to you as you guzzle down the remainder of your cider, which you favor far more than the ale. Jimin clambors onto the table, a cup in hand as he starts yelling the words to the song the band is playing in the corner.

Taehyung begins to slam his wooden cup on the table in time with the beat, yelling the words and standing up as the room joins in, stamping their feet and slamming on tables. You don’t know the words but you laugh loudly, slamming your palms against the top of the table. They sting with the force of your slap, but it feels good.

You feel good. Happy. Drunk. A little dizzy as the table wobbles and you dive out of the way as Jimin comes tumbling down. It doesn’t stop you from taking a shower of beer from Jimin’s cup, dousing you in warm liquid as you shriek and laugh.

Taehyung catches Jimin, of course. They’re a tangled mess of limbs and wet with beer all the same, pointing at you and laughing as you blink through the drink dripping down your face. You flick beer at them with the liquid on your hands, making them howl.

“Gross! Jimin!”

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps through the laughter, his arms slung tight around Taehyung’s neck as Jimin leans into him. “I slipped!”

“You owe me a new shirt!”

Jimin nods, grinning so broadly his eyes are crescents as he stands properly and beckons you. “Come on, both of you. I’ll get you new shirts that aren’t soaked.

Upstairs is a series of private rooms. The hall is lit with flickering sconces and the plush carpet mutes your footsteps. Jimin leads you and Taehyung, giggling, to a door. He thrusts it open and the three of you tip inside, stopping short at the scene in front of you.

Your hands fly to your mouth to mute your gasp, but Taehyung and Jimin collapse into another fit of laughter. If the two people in the bed are bothered by the interruption, they don’t show it. They are a tableau of pleasure, a woman laying back on the bed, arching upward as she lets out a moan. Her skin is slick with sweat, nipples hard as she teases them with one hand, another hand slipping between her legs to cradle the head of someone there.

The shock roots you to the spot. You can’t look away, completely hypnotized by the way the person between the woman’s legs moans, pressing their mouth further into her, the wet smack of their mouth loud over the woman’s trembling moans.

You’ve never seen such a raw, carnal exchange. As Taehyung apologizes and grabs you and Jimin, pulling you back out into the hallway, you know you’ll never forget that momentary vision. Even as Jimin directs you to the right room to change your shirt in, you replay the scene over and over in your head, thinking of a different detail every single time: the pleasure on the woman’s face, the delicate bow of her back, the soft swells of her breasts, the wet sounds of the mouth between her legs.

It haunts you. You swallow thickly when you’re done changing, skin still smelling like beer. Your mind wanders to Yoongi, wondering if this is what he was talking about when he spoke of desire. If he also meant physical desire, the indulgence of the erotic variety.

The thought shames you so thoroughly you’re silent the rest of the night. You’re embarrassed by your immediate curiosity - angry that you even entertained the thought of being in that position with Yoongi, no matter how fleeting the idea was.

Yoongi certainly did not mean he was going to teach you that - did he?

You shake the thoughts from your head and focus on reality. Of course he didn’t mean that. Taehyung was right when he spoke about the relationships between humans and dreams - it could never be something.

Sweat trickles down your neck slowly. You feel every inch of it, your skin sensitive and over-warm. Your stomach clenches and your hands twist in your sheets as a hot mouth presses against your throat, teeth scraping, tongue licking.

An inferno grows inside of you as the mouth sinks lower. You hear your heaving breaths, loud and ragged. Your heart beats in your ears, the staccato almost louder than the whimper that leaves your mouth when a wet, messy kiss is placed on your collarbone.

It’s madness. It’s tortuous. It’s glorious, this feeling thrumming through you, making you twist your head to the side, muscles clenching and letting loose over and over again, your body completely at war with itself.

But it feels so good.

One of your hands shoots to the silky, dark hair of the person kissing your chest. You card your fingers through soft strands, tugging a little. A deep, throaty moan escapes the lips pressed to your skin, breath hot and warm.

Dark eyes meet yours, lips parted and swollen, Yoongi’s pupils blown and -

Panic explodes. You realize it’s Yoongi kissing you this way. Yoongi’s hands skimming up your sides, Yoongi’s mouth pressing searing kisses to your flesh, Yoongi’s moan that is falling from his lips, honey sweet.

“We can’t,” you whisper, though dream-Yoongi just stares at you, eyes fathomless. “We could never be something.”

“Of course we can,” he murmurs, tilting his head to the side. “You are everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

The weight of his gaze is blazing. You feel your skin burn under the heat of it, you feel like it’s harder to breathe, you feel the sweat run down your spine, your arms, you feel like you’re overheating, it’s hot it’s too-

You wake up to something screeching. For a moment, daylight blinds you. You hold your hands in front of your face, shielding your eyes from the light. But the light is an inferno of heat against your hand, making you gasp and choke on thick air as you blink sleep away, trying to make sense of where you are.

Fire. It isn’t daylight you’ve woken up to, it’s fire.

Leaping up from bed, you throw your sheets off, scrambling to push yourself against the wall. The flames are already high, licking toward the ceiling and filling your room with thick, grey smoke as the fire eats at the old wood of your house.

The screech comes again, the shutters on your window rattling. Heart pounding, you slide your hand along the wall, fingers trembling as you press them into the wood, trying to find the metal latch to open them. You cover the lower half of your face with your opposite arm, coughing into it.

Your fingers slip on the latch, sweaty and shaking. You inch closer to the window, getting a solid grip on the metal and flipping it upward. The latch clacks and the windows swing open, a gust of wind entering the room. It makes matters worse, the oxygen fueling the fire into a rage as it climbs higher and jumps towards your bed.

You look frantically around your room, realizing you can’t take anything. The writing desk in the corner is aflame, all of the sheets of paper and your hard-earned practice curling into smoke as they’re consumed, your letters from Yoongi turning to ash.

“No!” you sob, realizing those things are lost forever.

Again, there’s a wild screech. You turn to look out the window to see a large, brown owl - Guardian, you realize - screeching, flapping its great wings, gold eyes fixated on the fire. It yells at you again, as though imploring you to move.

You take a breath and dive out the window. For a moment as you fall toward the ground, you’re reminded that this is the second time you’re having to use it to escape danger. That thought sinks like a stone in your stomach, going down, down, down until it rests weighty in your gut.

The smack of the ground rattles you. Every part of you hurts, bones jolting as you roll until you’re flat on your back, gasping as the air leaves your lungs momentarily, knocked out of you. Scrambling up despite your limbs protesting in pain, you look up at the fire crawling over your house.

That’s when you notice it - the noise and the yelling of voices. Inside your home, with the roaring and crackling of the fire, you couldn’t hear the crowd outside. Now, you see them in full. They carry torches and farm tools, some of them with axes and hoes, others with scythes.

They don’t see you yet, giving you a long moment to stare open-mouthed as the pieces of the puzzle slide together. They’ve set your home on fire because of you - they’ve tried to kill you. Because they think you’re a demon and because they think you’re an evil creature.

Heart in your throat, you scan the lines of the faces. Toward the edge, you see your parents. A group of women consoles your mother, holding her by the shoulders gently as she stares into the orange flame. Your father stands a few feet away, almost by himself, watching and watching and watching.

They knew you were asleep. And your window had not been closed before bed - you’d been leaving it open at night so Guardian could come and go as he pleased.

You sit there on the ground, staring in shock, for too long. Someone notices you and points, screaming something that you cannot hear over the blood rushing in your ears. Panic seizes you and you scramble to your feet, sliding a few times as the crowd runs at you.

There’s no time to see what your parents do. The image of them watching their home burn with the thought of you inside is fresh in your memory, a razor-sharp cut that flays you open as you turn and run. Run toward the woods where Nathaniel chased you on that fateful night.

Run to the woods you almost died in. Run to the woods where Yoongi swooped in and made a promise to protect you.

Darkness descends. You think for a moment as you enter the woods that you won’t get lucky a second time, that your luck has run out. It’s the panic that scrambles your thoughts, and the memories of Nathaniel chasing you through these woods make you stumble and fall.

You don’t make it far. You trip over a tree root and tumble into strong arms. The smell of clove and cinnamon is overpowering as you look up at Yoongi, who pulls you into his chest. You let him, sliding your arms around his middle and pressing your face into his neck as you squeeze your eyes shut.

“I’ve got you, little lamb.” His voice is dark as the shadows that wrap around you, cool and soothing to the touch. “They cannot hurt you.”

As Yoongi whisks you away like that fateful night, you hear the echoing voice scream behind you. Devil! Demon King! The Dark God!

“It’s my fault,” Yoongi murmurs, cradling your face to inspect it for the tenth time. He’s crouching in front of you, dark eyes wild as he inspects your face for any damage. You pull your jaw from his grasp - even if his touch tingles pleasantly - and look in the other direction. “I should have known.”

“Yes,” Taehyung snaps behind Yoongi, arms crossed and presence thundering. “You should have.”

There is no fire going in the library tonight. You have a feeling Yoongi has extinguished it for obvious reasons, but you say nothing. You look over Yoongi’s dark head to where Taehyung is raging, his face pinched with anger. You give him a look and he tosses his hands in the air.

“What?” he demands. “It’s true.”

“Taehyung.”

“I’m not going to lie to him. He should have known sending you back was an idiotic idea. Thinking anyone would have accepted you was an oversight.”

Yoongi grits his teeth and stands. You watch as he visibly tries to control his frustration, taking a step back from you. Tonight, he’s dressed in all black. His cloak is still on and his necklaces pool at his throat, the silver cold in the dark of the library. His hair is pulled back out of his face and you think he looks like the real Eternal, tonight.

He turns to Taehyung. “You know why I sent her back.”

“Yes, your fucked up sense of morality and-”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not sitting right here,” you snap. You ball your fists in your lap. You’re still dressed in night clothes and the scent of ash and sweat is heavy on your skin. You stare at your hands. “I want to go to bed.”

“Alright.” Yoongi’s extended hand appears in front of you. You drag your eyes up to meet his. Gone is the anger and severity, replaced only with a soft, almost fond expression. “I’ll walk you.”

Putting your hand in Yoongi's, you let him pull you out of the chair.

You could be mad at him if you tried. Perhaps it would be easy to blame Yoongi for sending you back to keep some semblance of normalcy in your life. Maybe you would feel lighter if you got angry with him for promising to protect you, but only being able to physically do so, unable to shield you from the hatred of your community.

If you tried, perhaps you could blame him for not letting you drown in the first place. For bringing you here with the fantasy that you could exist with one foot in each world.

You’re not mad at him, though. Unlike Taehyung, you don’t need to wonder why Yoongi wanted you to spend two weeks in the real world. The real world is yours. It’s where you belong. To want some sort of normalcy for you or hope that you’d be able to pick up your life there anew was perhaps shortsighted, but rooted in the desire to do good for you.

So you’re not angry with Yoongi, though you’re not sure you’re pleased either.

The walk to your room is silent. Yoongi has let go of your hand but he walks close enough that your arms brush, sending shivers down your spine. You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing, and he seems content to let you keep your thoughts to yourself.

This isn’t how you wanted to see him for the first time since your two weeks spent in your realm.

The inside of your room is warm, but there’s no fire. You almost ask if he’s doused every flame in the house, and protest that you’re not afraid, but you don’t. He follows you into your room and shuts the door behind him. You walk toward the chaise and sit on it, looking up at where he hovers by the door.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, eyes finding yours. The emotions there are deep, but unreadable. “It was foolish of me to think they’d accept you as you were. Foolish to think that maybe the relationship with your parents might mend.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I am thousands of years old. Humankind has not changed so much in their ability to fear the unknown and react violently. I do know better, but I…” You wait for him to explain further, but he doesn’t. Yoongi lets the sentence drift off into the night. Instead of finishing it, he ventures, “Are you sure you’re unharmed?”

“Yeah, Guardian was screeching at the window.”

“Guardian?”

“Yeah, the owl. I assumed you sent it to watch over me.”

Yoongi frowns. “No, that’s what Taehyung was for. I did not…”

“What?” You see the look on his face change, shifting from confused to steel calm. “What is it?”

“Hoseok,” Yoongi mutters, turning to exit your room. “Try to get some sleep. I have a meddling owl to deal with.”

As he moves to close the door, you lean forward. “Yoongi?” He looks up, eyes wide, expression soft. He looks like a dark star, just then. The light from the window makes him glow from within, his eyes endless pools, his power ebbing in the room, a constant energy. “Thank you.”

His mouth turns downward. “For what?”

“Saving me. Again.”

His eyes darken. “Your safety will always be paramount to me. I’ll do better.”

“I think you’re doing the best you are able.”

“Thank you for saying so.”

Silence hangs between the two of you. It’s heavy, filled with friction that wasn’t there before. You squirm where you sit, suddenly unable to meet the set of eyes pinned to you. You’d forgotten what his gaze could do to you in person, and now the full force of it is dizzying.

“Goodnight, little lamb.”

A gentle scratch sounds on the other side of the window. You look up from your writing desk to the windows facing the mountains. Beyond the first sprawling peaks, you see the tallest of them all, the dark mountain wreathed in shadow and lightning.

The thunder rolls, vibrating your bones. You stare at the mountain, feeling the hair at the back of your neck stand on end. You grip the quill tight.

Beneath the hum of thunder, you hear a scratching on the glass again. You squint, but you see nothing there. Just open air and those ominous mountains in the back, watching you as you scrawl your letters.

Carefully, you set the quill down and get up. The floor is cold as you walk toward the window, which is strange. The floor is always warm in your room, as are the walls and most of the House of Dreams, fueled by whatever magic lives through Yoongi.

Near the glass, you almost feel how cold the window is. You frown and lift a hand, pressing a single finger against a pane. It’s freezing to the touch and you yank your hand back, perplexed as you stare at the single fingerprint left by your warm skin.

The fingerprint fades but the scratching sound does not. A gentle scritch scritch scritch, like a nail on the window.

“My betrothed,” someone whispers. Your blood runs cold and you whirl around, expecting to find someone standing in your bathroom. “Won’t you open the window for me? It’s so cold outside.”

Fear turns your stomach into acid. Your hands begin to shake as you stare into the emptiness of your room, suddenly feeling like it’s darker. Did the ceilings get taller? Is your room blurry at the edges? The scratching on the window intensifies, and with trembling lips, you turn to look over your shoulder.

There’s nothing outside, but there’s a shadowy reflection on the glass. A little taller than you. A little wider.

“Betrothed,” Nathaniel whispers again. “Won’t you let me in to reunite?”

For a moment, there is silence. The shadow doesn’t move. You don’t dare breathe. The shadow leaps at you and a scream tears through you -

Hands press you into something soft. You kick and scream, lashing out. Sheets tangle your legs and stick to your sweaty skin. Suddenly it feels like you can’t breathe and you thrash wildly, screaming at the top of your lungs as you claw at whatever’s holding you down.

Panic like never before seizes you. Your head smacks into something hard and it knocks you backward, suddenly dizzy as a hand comes up to your head automatically. It hurts where your fingers press into the skin, and you’re momentarily subdued by the way the room spins; the pain morphs your panic into confusion.

Breathing heavily, you blink your eyes rapidly, tears streaming down your face and vision a little blurry as you try and put the pieces together. Finally, you realize Taehyung is sitting on the floor next to your bed with his hand pressed against his forehead, in a similar fashion to your current state. Yoongi stands next to him, hands held up tentatively, as though he is about to grab you or has just let you go.

Silence hangs in the air, your breathing ragged. Your head - which you can surmise you’ve smacked against Taehyung’s - throbs wildly. As though sensing your discomfort and sticky thoughts, Yoongi’s eyes flicker away from your gaze to your head.

“May I fix that?” he asks slowly, voice gentle. “You smacked heads quite hard. I’m concerned you may be concussed.”

“Concussed,” you repeat back slowly. The word feels heavy on your tongue. “Right.”

Yoongi’s face colors with concern and he gestures toward you, asking permission again. It takes you another minute to put it together, but you nod dumbly, watching as he steps forward very slowly, dark eyes looking for any sign of protest or panic from you.

When you don’t bolt or swing at him, he takes another step toward you, hands reaching up toward your skull. You flinch when he reaches near and he stops, hands hovering. You can feel the heat of his skin a hair's breadth away, feel the magic skimming along him where he hesitates.

You look up at Yoongi. His eyes are wide and full of concern, his brows pulled up. His tongue darts out to lick his lips nervously as his eyes shift from your head to your eyes, trying to assess what to do. You smell cinnamon and clove and it calms you a little.

This is Yoongi. Not Nathaniel. Yoongi, who saved you from the grips of that hateful man and who brought you here. Somewhere that made you happy.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You feel tired suddenly, like your adrenaline is waning and the aftereffects are bleeding you out. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers, pressing his hands gently to your head. You wince, the lump there giving a painful throb as he does.

“Maybe apologize,” Taehyung mutters from his spot on the floor. “Are you going to give me magic hand, too?”

“Silence, Taehyung.” Yoongi’s voice is cutting. It’s a voice you’ve never heard him use with Taehyung, your eyes shooting up to his in shock. He pays you no mind, focused on his hands.

Warmth emanates from his palms. Immediately you feel the tingle of magic. It’s soothing, making your eyes flutter as you become dizzy again. You let the warmth wash over you, accompanied by a peculiar array of senses: dark spicy smells; the feeling of velvet against your skin; the taste of cherry wine; a warm breath against your lips.

You shiver, head rolling back a little as it grows heavy and you grow drowsy suddenly, limbs weighted, mind fading.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know that was a dream.” Yoongi grimaces and says nothing. “Why didn’t that feel like a dream, Yoongi?”

“Sleep,” Yoongi murmurs, and his voice feels very far away. “You’ll be fine, now. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

“Thank you.”

“An easy fix.”

Yoongi removes his hand and you catch his wrist gently, eyes opening for a moment. “No,” you slur, speech heavy as the exhaustion pulls at you. “Thank you for saving me.”

You don’t know if you mean before, or when your neighbors came for you, or now. Maybe you mean all of it. Maybe you mean saving you from a life that you hated and bringing you here. You mean it nonetheless, though you’re unsure from where the bravery came to say it.

Dropping Yoongi’s wrist, you fall backward unceremoniously onto your bed. There is no fear of Nathaniel scratching at the glass anymore, your mind mostly empty, save for the smell of cinnamon and clove.

Yoongi and Taehyung gather to leave your room, and as you fade, you catch the tiniest bit of conversation from Taehyung. “... need to teach her. It’s only going to get worse… spinner.”

Sleep takes you.

Being back in the House of Dreams feels like home. Though the lingering feeling of hot flame and the look on your parents’ faces as they watch their home burn still haunts you, you feel safer than you have in the last week.

In the House of Dreams, there's no one to mutter prayers and sign wards against evil as you pass by. There’s no one glaring at you - except Taehyung, who pouts when you steal the last of the honey for your toast at breakfast. It’s just Yoongi and Taehyung, who talk more chipper than usual at breakfast.

You eye Yoongi carefully. He sits at the head of the table, dressed in a beautiful, jade-colored silk shirt. His hair is pulled back in a bun, earrings dangling as he leads forward and plucks melon from the bowl in front of him.

Yoongi lifts the fruit to his mouth. You pause chewing your toast, eyes focused on the way he bites into the fruit, lips plush around it, a bead of juice running down his chin. Suddenly you’re thinking about the night at The Desert Rose, a head between legs, a back that’s arched, skin sweaty-

Taehyung clears his throat from across the table and draws your attention. He’s staring at you with thinly veiled amusement, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. You scowl and take a large bite of your toast before swallowing what's in your mouth, feeling heat bloom in your cheeks and neck.

Yoongi is none the wiser, chewing happily on his fruit as he scratches Tiara under her chin. She chirps like a bird and purrs like a cat, letting out small curls of smoke everytime she puffs happily.

Your mouth twitches in a smile as you look at your plate, happy to be back with them.

“I want you to come to the Dream Tower with me today,” Yoongi ventures lightly. You snap your gaze up in surprise. He looks casual, as though he’s not offering you to come to the place he works, filled with magic and dreams. “I think you could help me.”

“Me?”

His mouth quirks. “Is there another human prone to trouble around here that I’m not aware of?”

“I thought you blamed yourself?”

“So I do. But yes - you.”

“How do you want me to help?”

Yoongi grins as he pops another piece of fruit into his sinful mouth. “You’ll see.”

Despite your excitement and the promise of a look inside Yoongi’s lair, even him asking for your help doesn’t earn you a break from daily reading and writing lessons. When Yoongi gestures to the assigned work on your desk, you throw him a severe look followed by a pout. As endeared as he seems, he is unwavering, patting your desk chair as he walks by.

You’re not really mad. You fall into an easy calm as you sit down and scoot up toward the desk. The fire is low and crackling in the fireplace today and the library smells faintly of cardamom as you work. Tiara flights around the second story of the room, chittering and following Yoongi - who seems to be organizing the shelves.

Taehyung vanishes to do whatever it is he does during the day. You’re not even sure if it’s day in your world. You hope he will take you to The Desert Rose again to see Jimin and to drink cider. You love the warmth of the crowd and the loud bustle.

The House of Dreams is quiet.

Time slips as you work. You lose yourself in swirling letters and short reading passages, so much so that when there is a tingling presence near your shoulder, you flinch, ripping your quill across the page and splattering ink.

Yoongi tsks and apologizes, grabbing an ink stained cloth to wipe the spilled liquid from the desk. His proximity makes your head spin, the edge of his hips grazing your shoulder as he leans over you to clean the mess you’ve made.

Mouth drying, you drop the quill and flex your hand, coughing out an apology as you try to organize your thoughts that spill like the ink on the desk at his nearness.

Being away from him almost made you forget how dizzying his presence could be. Yoongi regards your work in silence, but all you can focus on is the measured sound of his breathing, the warmth radiating from him, the curve of his mouth, the juice running down his-

“Ready?”

“What?” you ask, blinking and looking up at him owlishly. He gazes down at you, cocking a brow. It’s obvious he had asked you a question. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening?”

“What were you doing?”

“... Staring.”

“At?”

“The wall?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” he questions, his voice laced with teasing.

You scowl and shove your chair backward into his stomach, knocking him back. He lets out a loud oof and a bit of laughter as you stand and stretch, hyperaware that he’s been in a rather cheeky mood since breakfast.

Together, you begin your walk to the tower. Tiara comes along, jumping up on Yoongi’s shoulder and curling herself around him like a scarf, her tail wrapped gently around his neck. She regards you with distaste and her tongue flickers out to taste the air, a curl of smoke escaping her nose as she huffs.

Fighting the urge to stick your tongue out at a dragon, you opt to walk in comfortable silence.

As you do, your thoughts inevitably drift to the night before and the dream that didn’t feel like a dream. For the most part, you feel like you can tell when you’re dreaming. There’s always an opaque feeling to your dreams, something a little off.

Now, you’re worried that perhaps you can’t tell the difference. You think that maybe you should ask Yoongi if he can help you tell the difference between being awake and dreaming, but your desire to ask is stopped as you reach the foot of stairs you’ve never climbed before.

Yoongi looks down at you as he begins ascending, giving you a gummy smile that sends your pulse galloping after him. You curse your traitor heart, trying to remember what Taehyung said to you about the relationship between dreams and humans. It could never work. But… you’re here. In Yoongi’s home, and you don’t know how long you’re allowed to stay - if you’re ever supposed to go back again.

Both of you seem to completely ignore that you were brought back to the dream realm ahead of schedule, that maybe going back is no longer an option.

There are doors leading to rooms as you ascend the stairs. Yoongi ignores all of them in favor of climbing up, up, and up. Your calves burn by the time you make it to the top, pausing to catch your breath and sweep your eyes across the large, circular room.

It’s stunning. Glancing up, your mouth falls open in surprise when you see that there is no ceiling, but a mass of writhing cosmos and something like a night sky. The nebulous display casts a lavender and blue glow on the room below, the two-tone light shifting and moving.

There are all manner of things in the room. Tables covered in papers, rich rugs with different designs, chairs and bookshelves and curiosity cabinets and glass cases full of glowing things that you cannot identify. Tiara hops off of Yoongi’s shoulder and floats on small wings toward a pile of blankets, twigs, and leaves that looks like a nest.

What demands your attention most, though, is the massive stone dais in the room, with a stone column about waist high with something that looks like a bowl carved into the top. From where you stand, you can see there’s liquid in the bowl that moves and shimmers with its own glow. Occasionally, a sparkle or wisp of color drifts from the cool surface.

Energy vibrates in the air. You can feel it like a static on your skin and taste it like a buzz on your tongue. You’re drawn to the dais, taking a step forward and halting. It feels like a hum shivers through you. You look at Yoongi, questioning.

“The dream pool,” he answers, as though you have any idea what that is.

He walks toward it and looks back at you, hesitating before he offers a hand. Excitement shoots through you as you take his hand and he pulls you toward it. Your hand tingles where you hold his. Even when you reach the dais and he lets go, there’s pins and needles left behind.

“This is where I help create dreams for those who can’t do it on their own.”

The liquid in the basin brightens as Yoongi steps up close. You watch as a watercolor of lights splashes across his face. He looks down into the bowl lovingly, a soft smile on his face, and so much adoration in his eyes that you find yourself watching him instead of the magical water in the bowl.

“This room is full of things that help inspire dreams. I make everything myself but Taehyung likes to help - he likes to decorate and fill the room with items that inspire creativity.”

“Somehow I think dream personified doesn’t need it.”

He shoots you a grin. “You’d be surprised. Come look.”

Tentatively, you step up next to him. You’re aware of how close you stand, his sleeves brushing yours as he places a hand on the basin. It comes up to your stomach and is two feet in diameter. The water looks so much deeper than you thought. You’re unable to see the bottom, an illusion that makes you dizzy.

Like the sky above, the water shimmers and moves with its own set of stars and colors. It feels alive, like whatever power is in the dream pool recognizes you and wakes up, spinning as you look into the glittering surface.

“I can feel and hear people dream,” Yoongi explains. “It’s like a frequency that I can tap into. I can turn it on and off at a whim. Those who don’t struggle to dream are so much quieter than those who cannot dream. I listen for those who cannot, and I come here and focus on them in my mind’s eye before creating them a dream. I pour in thoughts, feelings, scents, sounds, memories and the like into this bowl. I think it, and so it appears.”

“How?”

“What you’d call magic. Really it’s just divine power. This is a part of me,” he says, tapping the rim of the basin. “Just like dreams are.”

“How can I help you do… this?” you ask, gesturing wildly to the water.

Yoongi’s smile is angelic. “You have the raw capability of a dreamer. Someone who dreams so powerfully and loudly that it can’t help but catch my attention.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your imagination and your ability to come up with things is more innate than most people. You’re an innovator, a great conjurer of stories and fantasies. It’s a rare gift in humans. Some call you Spinners - you can spin dreams up just as easily as I can, with practice, but you cannot do so without a tool like this basin.”

“A spinner.” You remember the night before, hearing the word on Taehyung’s lips. “Are there others?”

He nods. “Under fifty in the entire world. I believe you’ve met another one. He’s the one Taehyung visits.”

“Jimin?”

“Mhmm. He’s like you. You have no power though, not in your world. Just raw ability.”

“So if I were to use this… pool of dreams, I could give people dreams.”

He nods, smiling. You smile back at him, his happiness infectious. You like the way his eyes crinkle when he grins broadly at you, the way his cheeks tint pink. It is strange to think that this soft man in front of you is also the same dark, powerful god who has swept in to save you, whose voice haunts your dreams and whose phantom touch lingers in all of the places that it shouldn’t.

Licking his lips and rolling his shoulders, Yoongi takes his stance at the basin. You watch, fascinated as he sweeps a hand over the surface, not touching the water. It ripples an entire rainbow of colors, casting shadows on his face when he peers down into the water as the surface smoothes out like a mirror.

An opaque image materializes on the surface. You watch as Yoongi concentrates. Slowly, things begin appearing. A cerulean ocean, waves rolling gently against a sandy beach. Foam clings to the sand. Starfish of every color - blue, green, red - begin to dot the beach. A gull cries above, so clear it feels like you’re there. Then you smell it - the salt, the brine. The subtle scent of driftwood. A breeze blows against your face, carrying the cool ocean mist.

You let out a laugh as Yoongi smiles, his eyes never leaving the images unfolding in the basin. You watch as a dolphin crests a wave, earning a gasp from you. You’ve never seen a dolphin, only heard about them in passing from fishermen from the coast. They spray water high into the air as they break the waves, moving smoothly through glittering waters.

It feels so real and warm, the dream bright and full of hope. Happiness. Excitement. You feel what Yoongi pours into the basin, your toes curling as though you can feel hot sand beneath your feet.

“The trick,” Yoongi explains carefully, “Is imagining everything that would make it feel real. It can’t be just what you see. It has to be what you hear, what you feel, what you smell, what emotions you evoke. You have to do all of these things at once - you have to believe in them all at once. Dreams about real things are the easiest. More complex dreams can include anything you can imagine that humans believe to be fake: dragons, brownies, griffons.”

“How do you know what to give?”

“You feel it. Place your hand on the side.”

Carefully, you lift your hand to the side of the dream pool. You hesitate and look up at Yoongi, eyes wide. He gives you an encouraging nod. You place your hand on the bowl, feeling the warm stone.

A pulse of energy flows through you. You gasp, flinching a little as you feel the basin come alive under your touch. You close your eyes as sensations flood you: hopelessness, stress, exhaustion. Suddenly, Yoongi’s dream makes sense. He instills a sense of peace and serenity at the beach, of hope and wonder with the dolphins, of rest with the cool wind and warm sand.

“Amazing,” you breathe, eyes still closed. “This is wonderful.”

“I’ll do some more. Keep your hand where it is. You’ll feel what it is they feel. Try not to think too hard about anything while you’re connected - let me do the work.”

Watching Yoongi work can happen with your eyes closed, you realize. You lose yourself in time and space. No longer are you in the Dream Tower. Now, Yoongi walks you through the world.

You enter through dreams, feeling sudden sadness or loss, even heartache. Every dream you encounter, there is profound suffering at the beginning. Yoongi gently sends the pain on its way, observes what each dreamer needs, and begins spinning up images. Sounds. Feelings.

Rain falls on your face as you stand over the tops of a misty forest. It’s gentle and cool to the touch, soothing. You smell pine and damp earth, giving you energy. Your toes feel the wet grass beneath you, grounding you and making you feel more centered than you ever have.

Wheat brushes the tips of your fingers. You look out into a sea of gold, healthy crops bending with the wind. An azure sky stretches mile after mile, not a cloud in sight as the sun heats your skin. You smell fresh air and hear the grasshoppers buzz among the fresh stalks of wheat, feeling the reward of growing healthy grain.

A dog runs after a ball. The hills are the brightest shade of green you’ve ever seen, the dog dashing up the hill and barking loudly. You feel laughter bubble up your throat and unfettered joy as thick clouds float by. The dog grabs the ball and runs back, its tail wagging and coat shiny. You feel nostalgic and happy to be reunited with a friend.

Fireflies flicker to life in a forest at night. They alight on the tree branches and your arms, casting gold luminescence on your skin. You marvel at them, spinning in a circle as you look at the dark trees. You smell the maple sap and the bark, you hear the crickets.

It’s just like the woods near your house -

Your house.

A slice of fear goes through you. You remember the darkness of the woods as Nathaniel tried to drown you, the press of his fingers into your skull. The roaring of the flooding water and the burning of your lungs. The fireflies flicker out one by one and the darkness begins to grow. You’re suddenly terrified. Curiosity vanishes and is replaced with deep fear.

You taste stale water in your mouth. You smell the smoke of your burning house. You feel water rushing up to your ankles and inching higher, you hear the screams of Nathaniel’s vitriol, you feel your lungs start to fill, the air stars to leave, the roots of the trees grab at your feet-

A sharp yank pulls you out of the forest. You gasp for air, falling backward off of the dais and onto the floor. Gentle hands cradle your face and you hear a deep voice calling out to you, speaking your name through the dull roar in your ears.

Blinking, you look upward to see Yoongi inches away from your face. His eyes are round and gentle, his hands steady. Warm. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your lips as he leans over you. A strand of dark hair escapes his bun, falling across his forehead and eye. You don’t know why, but you think it looks dashing.

“Hey,” he murmurs, searching your face. “Are you with me?”

“Yeah,” you rasp, lungs heaving. “What happened?”

His thumb brushes back and forth across your cheek as he sighs, but he doesn’t let go of your face. “You thought of the night that I saved you. Your fear was powerful. Raw. As you started to remember things you grew more afraid and you took over the dream.”

You blink once. Twice. Remember the way that the fireflies suddenly flickered out and how the water started to rush in from nowhere. “I did that?”

“I didn’t expect you to be such a natural. I had a feeling but… you caught me by surprise and shoved me out.”

“I can do that?”

“When I’m caught off guard, yes. You took control of creating the dream and turned it into…”

“A nightmare.”

He nods. “It’s my fault. I didn’t think you would think that forest looked the same, but I was wrong. I keep… having oversights. I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“Being human.”

Silence suspends between you. You’re sprawled on the floor of the Dream Tower with Yoongi hovering over you. His knees are pressed against your hips and his shirt collar is hanging low as he leans, revealing more skin than you’ve ever seen from him. You don’t dare drop your eyes from his, staring at their dark depths.

The space between you is minimal and neither of you move. You hope he cannot hear the way your heart hammers in your chest or sense the way your body crackles like lightning, sparking at his proximity. The nightmare you made is long forgotten, replaced with his touch, his smell, his closeness.

Yoongi holds your face delicately, like a treasured item. You cannot imagine that he means to hold you so, but the sudden want that licks through you is powerful, your desire for him to hold you like you’re something precious surprising you in its strength.

“You make me want to get better at it.” His voice is soft, barely even a whisper.

“At what?”

A gentle laugh. “Being human. It is unfamiliar, but I wish to know more of what it's like. To have more of the instinct.”

“Why?”

He pauses. “Because I’ve lived for thousands of years, and never really had the chance to try.”

It is a similar sentiment that Taehyung had shared. The thought of Taehyung makes you smile, sitting up suddenly. Yoongi leans back on his haunches quickly, careful not to knock heads. “What?” he asks, noting your sudden excitement.

“Has Taehyung ever taken you to the Desert Rose?”

“No, I can’t say I’ve been interested. Why?”

You grab his hand. You notice the way he seems surprised, but he doesn’t pull away as you scramble to your feet. “You want to see what it’s like to be human. I know a place.”

Yoongi makes a face as he sips the beer Taehyung has thrust into his hands. You and Taehyung laugh, tossing your heads back with it. Yoongi looks unimpressed but continues to drink nonetheless, his dark eyes scanning the crowded bar.

He sticks out like a sore thumb. Eyes are immediately drawn to Yoongi wherever he goes. You think everyone must feel the divinity as he walks by them, his power a magnet for attention. Even sitting at the table with you and Taehyung, tucked near the door, people turn in their seats to get a good look at him or pause when they enter the Desert Rose.

It doesn’t help that he looks beautiful. Air had gotten stuck in your throat when he arrived at the library at the appointed time to meet you and Taehyung to come here. His hair hangs in soft waves around his face, earrings peaking between inky strands when he moves his head. His dark shirt is long-sleeved but unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a strip of pale, smooth skin and his layered necklaces. His eyes are glittering tonight, almost like constellations are held within.

Yoongi is the night. The black pants and black boots paired with the shirt make him look like a dark prince. Perhaps the son of the moon, even. You notice the way the stares turn from curious to hungry, Yoongi lighting a fire among those around him.

Jealousy sours your stomach. You hate that it does, but it’s like a second instinct, some sort of possessive monster rearing its head as you avert your gaze when a beautiful man asks Yoongi if he wants to dance. Yoongi shakes his head, giving a polite smile in return before turning away and chugging more of his drink.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was nervous.

“Thousands of years old and a room full of people scares you,” Taehyung teases, confirming your suspicions. Yoongi’s gaze is thin as a razor. “You should get out more. I’ve been telling you that.”

“Eternals don’t make a habit of walking around the human realm. Our presence disturbs the natural chemistry of the world.”

“Then why did you spend so many days in the wood-”

Yoongi kicks Taehyung under the table. He hollers in pain as Yoongi glowers, making you giggle. Though he’s no natural among the crowd, you can see that he’s trying to fit in. He watches the way people slouch in their chair and he imitates it. Drinks more of his beer, not because of the taste but because it's what people do here.

Music thrums in the room. There is a crowd of people clapping their hands and dancing, stomping their feet along to the music. You nervously look at Yoongi throughout the night, trying to see if he’s enjoying himself, wondering what he thinks of the place.

A couple near your table knocks over a pitcher of mead as the man presses the woman into the table in an arduous kiss. You can’t help but watch for a moment, entranced by the way he kisses her as though he’ll die if he doesn’t, as if her lips are the last thing he wants to remember.

Sensing Yoongi’s gaze on you, you glance at him. He stares at you, drinking you in before his eyes drift to the couple you’d been studying. Embarrassment heats your face as you bring your cup to your lips, hiding behind the tankard as you take large gulps of cider.

The cider takes the edge off. It makes you feel warm and loose, though you’re still a little nervous with Yoongi’s quiet countenance sitting beside you.

“Jimin’s here!” you announce excitedly, clapping your hands together when he appears downstairs. Taehyung’s knee bumps into the bottom of the table as he jerks to turn around. “Jimin should meet Yoongi!”

“I would love to.”

Taehyung groans. “No, please.”

“Why not?” Yoongi demands. “Should I not meet the human that brings my friend here most evenings? Should I not meet the friend of my -” Yoongi looks at you and stumbles over his words. “- my friend?”

Friend. You’re not sure if the word fits, exactly. But you don’t know what else it is that Yoongi would call you. Friend implies something beyond acquaintances, which you are sure you are. But it fits like an ill-sized dress, hanging crooked on your frame.

“I don’t want you to scare him off!” Taehyung protests.

Yoongi looks dubious. “Why would I do that?”

“Shut up,” you hiss as Jimin notices you. You lift your hand in an eager wave, beckoning him over. “Yoongi, be nice.”

“I am nice. Do you think I’m not nice?”

Instead of answering him, you get up to greet Jimin warmly with a chaste kiss on the cheek and a brief hug. When you step back, you see Yoongi’s burning gaze, a tick in his jaw as he stares Jimin down, tonguing his cheek. You hiss at Yoongi and snap your finger to signal for him to drop the severe expression.

He looks at you and his features smooth out as he rises to his feet lithely, reaching an arm around you. Yoongi startles you when he places his hand on your mid-back as he leans forward to shake Jimin’s, introducing himself.

The contact is so brief that you wonder if he had done it at all as he sits down. For a moment, you’re the only one standing, staring at Yoongi in confusion as the three men sit. They all look at you expectantly and you plop down suddenly.

“Are you alright?” Jimin asks, mirth evident in his voice.

“Yes,” you answer quickly, still recovering. It felt like a deliberate touch. Firm, but gentle. Polite, but… something. “How are you?”

To your pleasure - and Taehyung’s evident relief - Yoongi and Jimin get along fine. If Jimin is put off by Yoongi’s peculiarity, he doesn’t show it. You wonder if he’s used to being around Taehyung, who has his own strange charm and inhuman energy vibrating around him.

Yoongi says little, but seems comfortable. You watch him as he watches Taehyung, who has stars in his eyes every time he looks at Jimin. He leans closer to Jimin as they mutter about something conspiratorially, giggling behind their hands. Jimin brushes a strand of hair out of Taehyung’s face and the love that blooms in Taehyung’s expression is so evident that you wonder if Jimin knows. He has to know. And he looks like he feels the same.

When Jimin drags Taehyung up to dance, you encourage them, shooing them off toward the growing crowd of people spinning around the room. Tables are shoved out of the way, chairs scraping to make room for the revelers. You move your chair some as your table is pushed, making the beers tilt dangerously.

Yoongi grabs the leg of your chair and pulls it roughly toward him. Before you can say something, someone stumbles where your chair just was, toppling into the table next to you. You look at Yoongi with shock and he winks before returning to lounging in his seat, watching the crowd.

Now that you’re sitting much closer to him, you can smell him. Still, you try to relax, watching as Jimin teaches Taehyung the steps to the dance the crowd is doing.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Yoongi says over the loud voices. “This is nice. I see why Taehyung likes it.”

“You don’t hate it?” He makes a face and you laugh. “Yoongi, you hate it.”

“It’s a bit loud, but I don’t hate it. I like the quiet. I like… solitude. But not always. This is a good break.”

“So you never just… stroll among the people sometimes?”

“Never had a reason to.”

“But how can you make dreams if you don’t know people?”

“Dreams are inherent to me. They are an instinct. They aren’t born from people. They’re born from something rawer than that. People just happen to dream.”

You hum, not sure that you follow. Silence lulls between you as the song changes. “This place is so different from anywhere I’ve been,” you tell him. “My mother and father would have hated a place like this where people want so freely and people are so… provocative.”

“Life is provocative. So is nature, and magic. And dreams.”

“Is that why you’re a god of desire, too?” He nods once, his eyes on you. “Can you… sense what people innately desire? All the time?”

You don’t ask the real question, which is: Can you tell what I desire when I’m with you? Still, Yoongi shrugs a shoulder. “Snippets. LIke I said, I try not to pry. I don’t think that anyone here needs to be inspired by me to delve into what they want here, that’s for sure.” His eyes darken. “Though perhaps there is one.”

It is not your imagination when he says it. You know that he means you. This you are sure of. You stare at Yoongi, the rest of the room fading away. He stares right back at you, as though willing you to agree, or to deny his claim. Your heart speeds up and you feel the sweat on your neck, the slick on your palms.

“You said you’d help me indulge.” Your voice shakes when you say it. “How… do I do that?”

Yoongi’s mouth kicks up at the side. He leans forward and offers you a hand. When you just stare at it, he laughs. “Dance with me.”

“Dancing? That is indulging?”

“You might be surprised.”

Tension goes taught between you. You feel it sizzling in the air as you stare one another down. Yoongi’s hand remains outstretched, beckoning. Slowly, you put the cup of cider down and slide your hand into his. You’ve done this so many times, letting him lead you somewhere or help you up.

When Yoongi grips your hand and pulls you to your feet, it feels different than all the times before. The soft, gentle Eternal of dreams has melted away and left something sharper. Darker. Edgier. Your heart flutters butterfly-fast as he leads you to where there are people spinning in tight circles on the floor.

Yoongi yanks you toward him, pulling you into his chest. One hand loops over his shoulder, your palm cradling the back of his neck, while the other grips his. His hand goes snuggling around your waist, pulling you firmly to him as he ducks his head toward your ear, voice deep and soft as he whispers, “Follow me.”

You would follow him anywhere, you think. Anywhere at all.

Dancing is not something you ever recall doing. It wasn’t necessary where you grew up. Most of your festivals in town were a reserved affair and you’d never been to any parties or celebrations. Most weddings were stiff and formal, and not for merriment as much as respect.

Now, your world turns into a kaleidoscope of color and laughter. Yoongi spins you around the room, his feet smooth and fast. You stumble to keep up at first, but Yoongi is a confident lead, his steps instructing yours, his hands pulling and guiding you as you go.

Laughter rushes out of you. You cannot help the glee that glitters in your veins. Yoongi’s laughter is like spilled moonlight. You look up at him with a grin, seeing his gummy smile as he dips you suddenly, making you squeal. Your fingers tangle in his shirt. You know he won’t drop you but the exhilaration is in your veins as he lifts you back up, crushing you to him.

Your arms and legs burn with effort as you continue. The song changes and Yoongi lets go and spins you. You go crashing into Taehyung’s arms. He’s a far worse dancer than Yoongi, and the two of you are a mess of tripped feet, trilling laughter and elbows into ribs. He pushes you back to Yoongi’s waiting arms.

It terrifies you how much it feels like home, like a key sliding into a lock. Your arms go around him as his hands squeeze your waist. You come alive where you touch, looking up at him. He watches you, the shadow of his lashes framing delicate eyes. His mouth is red and soft.

Yoongi’s eyes dart down to your mouth. Your breath catches and he moves a little closer, pressing his head to yours, noses brushing. The entire world vanishes and it’s just Yoongi, his lips so close you can almost taste them, his fingers digging into your hips.

Your eyes flutter shut just as someone crashes into you. You scream as you’re knocked hard into Yoongi, the two of you stumbling as he catches you from falling over completely. The crowd goes wild with laughter as a man is sprawled on the ground, laughing and drunk, having lost his balance.

A breathless laugh escapes you as you and Yoongi straighten, separating a little. The moment between you is shattered, clattering away like pieces of broken glass as you catch your breath and gather your wits. You look around, searching for Taehyung only to see him alone at your table, eyes heavy and gaze lingering across the room. You turn to see Jimin leaning on the bar, smiling at something a woman is whispering in his ear.

Glancing back at Taehyung, you see him shove away from the table and storm out the door. Yoongi notices this too, but he’s slow on the uptake, his hand still on your hip. You shake off his hold on you and go after Taehyung, shouting his name.

Taehyung is just outside the Desert Rose, head tilted down and shoulders pulled up tight around his ears. When you touch the small of his back, he flinches, gazing at you with tear-stained eyes and a look so crestfallen you feel your heart crack.

He sniffs. “This is why,” he whispers. “This is why I told you we can never be. Humans and dreams - we aren’t. We don’t match.”

“Taehyung,” you whisper. You don’t know what else to say. You open your arms and he leans into you, folding in half as he sobs, breaking down into your shoulder. You hush him gently, holding him tight and squeezing him, trying to pour your love into him.

Over Taehyung’s shoulder, your gaze settles on Yoongi. He watches the two of you in silence, face impassive. And your heart breaks a little more, realizing the truth of Taehyung’s words.

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purest-expressionofgrief · 5 months

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jimin and taehyung are only two months apart but jimin sounds like hes 12 and taehyung sounds like he’s gone through puberty twice and this is why i have trust issues

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purest-expressionofgrief · 5 months

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as someone who was as obsessed with the beatles (in my preteens) as i am with bts now, this is so exciting 😭💕 looking forward to all the amazing stories that would come out of this !

(i don’t write but as an angst enjoyer and revolver enthusiast, i just want to say: please consider For No One 😆 jk)

across the btuniverse ⟡ a bts x beatles collab

welcome to across the btuniverse, a collab for which we need a little help from our friends...

the idea is simple: write a fic featuring a member of bts based on a song by the beatles. it can be any member, any pairing (including member x reader and member x member), and any song. it can be as vague or as true to the source material as you'd like, so long as the inspiration is there.

rules:

🍓 all participants must be over the age of 18, and must have their age listed somewhere visible on their blog for verification. 🍓 all participants must use the appropriate ratings, warnings, and tags. 🍓 fics should not contain any of the following: rape, non/dubcon and other sexual assault, incest, pedophilia, graphic violence including suicide or murder, abuse of any kind, yandere, extreme gore, vore, glamorized self-harm, etc. 🍓 fics can be any genre and any trope. 🍓 multiple participants can write for the same member only after all ot7 slots have been filled.

deadlines:

🍓 december 8th - deadline to join 🍓 december 15th - summaries due 🍓 december 18th - masterlist posted

since this is meant to be fun and no-stress, there is no deadline for posting your fics. inspiration can be fickle, and we know life happens!

if you're interested in joining, please contact jewel (@ugh-yoongi), lauren (@effortandmore), or jess (@the-boy-meets-evil). organization will be done through discord, so you must have an account and be willing to join our server and adhere by its rules.

interested in joining but don't want to write? we would love some dedicated beta readers or graphic artists to help out!

we look forward to working with you!

34 notes · View notes

purest-expressionofgrief · 5 months

Text

still don’t know my name | jjk (m)

➥ banner by: @archivedkookie.

➥ PAIRING: jungkook x fem!reader

➥ SUMMARY: In which your annoying neighbor—that you can’t stand—turns out to be the person behind the online account you’ve been sexting. You still don’t know his name.

➥ GENRE: smut ⋆ cybersex ⋆ enemies

➥ CATEGORY: mini three-shot

➥ WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, lotssss of sexting, cybersex, degradation kink, mentions of pornography, exchanging nude photos, nsfw twitter, masturbation (m & f), jungkook is a fucking JERK, reader is an annoying brat, bickering, neighbor beef, no like jk is rlly meannnndjdjdjd, reader is kinda dumb but thats not a warning for any time soon, awkward tension, lots of tension, gamer!jk, freelancer!jk, bam cameo <3, name calling (brat, dumb, stupid, etc.), mentions of roughhh sex (enjoyed by both parties), minors DNI

➥ WORDCOUNT: 8.3k

a/n: so happy pt. 1 is out !! 🤭🤭🤭 just building up the tension for this one … hehe 😋 hope u like it <333 feedback n reblogs are appreciated!

btw: unedited .. not my best work but i rlly wanted to get this idea out + jungkook is basically unnamed but it’s definitely abt him guys like don’t confuse anything he’s definitely the annoying neighbor but as it’s from reader’s perspective, you don’t know his name so he’s pretty much nameless

⋆ TAGLIST ⋆

⇠ TEASER ⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ NEXT ⇢

#1 — “nice panties”

@iIikebigbootybitches | 9:23PM

So what are you wearing lol

Ugh. You can’t roll your eyes hard enough at that. Do guys have no idea how to flirt with women anymore? What else would you be wearing than pyjamas if you told him you’re already in bed?

You | 9:25PM

pyjamas lol

@iIikebigbootybitches | 9:25PM

What kind

For fuck’s sake. Do men think women go to sleep in lingerie? Why did you even make that secret account if all men just bore you to death in your private messages?

You | 9:26PM

sweatpants and a tank top

@iIikebigbootybitches | 9:27PM

Isn’t it too hot for sweatpants? Haha

You | 9:30PM

i was kinda cold so i was hoping you’d get me hot and bothered but you’ve got me falling asleep tbh. goodnight aaron

@iIikebigbootybitches | 9:32PM

Damn lol. Harsh. This is why women don’t get asked out on dates anymore

Right… that’s the reason. Dumbass.

You waste no time blocking this goofball before turning over and closing your eyes, chasing the sleep you so desperately crave.

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“Dude, how the hell did you miss that?!”

The muffled voice coming from the wall to your right makes you want to scream into your pillow. With an annoyed grunt, you roll over and reach for your phone, squinting when your phone lights up and sting your eyes in the dark.

11:14PM.

A loud groan bubbles up the back of your throat as you slam your fist into the wall repeatedly, hoping your annoying neighbor gets the hint.

“I just saw you–” he pauses, “hold on a second.”

Not even 5 seconds pass before the banging is returned to your wall, as if you’re the one making all that damn noise.

He doesn’t just knock one or two times, he keeps banging like he’s got something to prove and he’s doing a great job at making your blood boil.

Then, he returns—to what you assume to be his computer—and continues talking at a volume that would allow the entire neighborhood to hear him play his stupid video games.

You angrily toss the sheets off your body when you’ve had enough, swinging your legs off the side of your bed. You angrily shove your feet into your fuzzy slippers before stomping your way to his front door, a Hello Kitty tank top draped over your torso and velvet shorts—yes, you lied to that freak—with the bedazzled word ‘JUICY’ spelled across your perky asscheeks.

You raise your hand and aggressively slam your fist down on the door, repeatedly and annoyingly like he did to your bedroom wall just a few seconds ago. It’s almost like his golden apartment number—504B—is mockingly staring at you. The urge to peel it off his door and toss it into your toilet is growing with each passing millisecond.

A loud groan reaches your ears from behind the door before keys jingling together resounds throughout the corridor.

The door swings open and there he is. Headphones around his neck, a scowl on his face, his tongue rolling against the inside of his cheek in annoyance as he slowly—and very arrogantly—drags his gaze down your body before meeting your furious eyes again.

This happens every fucking week.

Your eyes drape over his figure, committing it all to memory. His wavy black locks are pulled back in a small bun, strands—that are too short to fit into the elastic—frame his face just right and his torso is clad in a black tank top, tattoo sleeve on full display for you.

His grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, a silver chain decorates his neck, silver rings in his lip that glimmer under the hallway light of your shared corridor.

You cross your arms over your chest in defiance, proving to him that you don’t care about his scowl and he can look pissed all he wants. “Some people are trying to fucking sleep,” you snark at him.

He exaggeratedly rolls his eyes and it makes the nerves in your hands tingle with the need to smack the shit out of him. In response, he barks, “Who goes to sleep at 11PM on a fucking Friday?”

What a fucking asshole. If you could have the chance to kill one person in your life, it’d be him.

“I do. Now, stop playing your stupid games so damn loud. You sound like a fucking freak,” you huff, not waiting for a response as you start heading back to your apartment, which is literally—and unfortunately—right next to his.

“Yeah, don’t fucking count on it,” he calls out after you before loudly slamming his door shut.

Ugh, what a fucking prick! Can’t he just be considerate? You live in the same building, that means everyone living here should be considerate of others.

You’re aware that you’re the only one that has noise complaints about him, but it’s not your fault that your room is right next to his gaming setup!

You quickly snatch the pillow off your bed after you stormed back to your room with a complimentary door slam, just as loud as your annoying neighbor’s. Quiet insults about him spill out of your mouth as you throw your pillow on your couch and plop down, trying to go back to sleep in this boiling heat.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to fall asleep.

Your chest dramatically inflates as you take a deep breath before taking your phone into your hands, deciding to scroll through your social media apps for a little while. Until they put you to sleep, at least.

You open the Twitter app and switch from your personal account to your secret account.

Which is basically just an account filled with pornography.

Not pornography of you, just home-made amateur porn videos by others that you retweet onto your profile—if you like them.

You’ve gained over 4.000 followers in the past few months—which also inevitably summons a few annoying men in your private and requested messages but nothing you can’t handle.

With a loud sigh, you scroll down your timeline and see your favorite NSFW account tweeted a few hours ago.

You click on his account and decide to scroll through it because it’s been quite a while since you last checked.

‘Me and who?’

‘Need a brat to do this to’

‘This video is hot as fuck’

Those are just the few captions you see, all followed by amateur porn videos and a couple thousand likes on each post.

The video plays silently and the soft moans from the woman in the video reaches your ears. She sounds angelic. Your teeth slowly sink into your bottom lip as you watch the man in the video press her further into the mattress, slamming his hips down into her ass.

The tingle in your core doesn’t let up and you’ve lost track of time when you glance up at the time, realizing you’ve been scrolling through this account for the past 30 minutes.

Your panties uncomfortably stick to your sex, silently groaning as you turn onto your back and scroll back up to the first video, captioned ‘Me and who?’. You watch it again, eyes glued to how this girl gets absolutely ruined, legs pushed back in mating press, moans and cries escaping her.

If only you could be in her position right now.

Your fingers slowly inch towards the hem of your shorts and slip under the elastic before you sneak your fingers into your panties.

The slick that coats your fingers from barely grazing your slit is absurd; you’re disgustingly drenched. A soft sigh escapes you as you slowly begin to rub circles directly onto your clit, grunting and moaning softly to yourself as you continue to watch the video on your phone.

Fuck.

You can’t help but grind up into your own fingers, groaning at the lack of friction you really crave. Being fucked exactly like in this video.

The speed in which you chase your orgasm picks up, rubbing faster and faster. It doesn’t take long after for you to cum all over your own fingers—you haven’t touched yourself in a while so the orgasm has you chasing your breath. You really need to start investing in some toys or something.

And no, not a partner. They’re nothing but disappointments waiting to happen.

A whine leaves your lips when you realize you have to get up and wash your hands, clean them of your slick. Your legs lazily swing off the side of the couch as you sit straight up.

You go to the kitchen to wash your hands and by the time you get comfortable on your couch again, you reach for your phone. You reply to the ‘Me and who?’ tweet with;

‘me i hope lol. cause i just came so hard to this video’

Then, you like the original tweet and lock your phone for the night, turning over and immediately drifting off into a deep slumber.

You don’t hear your annoying neighbor for the rest of the night.

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The following morning, you stir and slurp up the drool that had trickled down your chin. You must’ve been exhausted. How embarrassing.

Your hand reaches up and wipes your chin clean with the back of your hand as you sit straight up, scratching the back of your head as you try to wake up.

You glance at your phone and it says 10:03AM.

Fuck!

You shoot up from your couch, cursing to yourself. You’re supposed to meet a friend today at 10:30AM.

After taking a quick shower, putting on your clothes for the day and doing your hair & makeup, you quickly exit your apartment and lock the doors behind you before heading to the elevator.

Your phone buzzes.

[10:44AM]

Jimin

Incoming call

Shit!

Your finger taps the green button to accept the call. “Jimin,” you say, apologetically.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Where are you?”

You quickly slam your fingers into the elevator button, hoping the more you tap on it, the quicker it’ll arrive.

“I’m so sorry, Jimin. I overslept. I’ll tell you the details when I get there.”

“Alright, no worries. I thought something bad happened, is all.”

Finally, the elevator arrives and opens up, making you hurry inside.

“Oh, no, nothing happened, I’m okay.”

Right as the elevator doors finally close, a hand slips right in between the gap before they fully close, forcing it open.

“Okay, good! I’ll save us a spot.”

You barely register Jimin’s words when the doors open and your eyes are met with none other than your annoying fucking neighbor.

You do your best not to groan at the sight in front of you and he doesn’t seem too happy about being in this small elevator with you for 30 seconds either, evident by the frown on his thick brows and the twitch in his lips.

“Y/N?”

Jimin’s voice drags you out of your trance, making you avert your gaze from the rude loser in front of you, watching as he walks into the elevator within your peripherals and settling right across from you.

“Oh, sorry. Yeah. I’ll see you soon.” You don’t say much else as you hang up the phone, shoving it into your purse before intently staring at the floor like it’s got something important to tell you.

He does the same, though. He’s not staring back, his chin is tilted up and you can only assume he’s glaring at the little screen above the button panel that indicates what floor you’re on.

The tension is so thick, it could snap with the single slice of a dull butterknife.

It seems to be the longest 30 seconds of your life, the occasional mechanical sounds as the elevator slides in between floors fill up your ears like it’s being blasted on a speaker at the highest volume right next to your head.

You allow your eyes to subtly travel to his hand, catching a glimpse of his tattooed knuckles and fingers that are clad in silver rings.

Fuck.

You avert your eyes before he catches you staring but you continue to just stare at the floor, bringing up your hand to scratch behind your ear in hopes you’d feel less awkward.

But it doesn’t help at all.

Fortunately, you safely make it to the ground floor and the elevator doors slowly open up. He doesn’t even have the decency to let you out first, just struts right out without another look at you and you watch as his figure disappears down the lobby.

You scoff to yourself but don’t let it get to you, ‘cause who cares? Walking out, you quickly exit the elevator too, heading out through a backdoor to get to your car.

Hmph. Jerk.

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You finally arrive at your destination, immediately spotting Jimin in the back.

With a saunter, you approach him quickly and sit down across from him.

“Hey,” he chirps as he puts his iced coffee down, nodding towards another right next to his to indicate it’s yours.

“Hi,” you breathe out as you plop down on the seat across from him, stirring your iced coffee with the paper straw.

“You’ve been oversleeping a lot, haven’t you? Is something the matter?” he inquires, tilting his head to search for your eyes.

Your hand comes up to rub your hairline, a soft sigh pushing past your lips as you stare at the cup in front of you. “My damn neighbor is getting way more fucking annoying with each passing day, Jimin. I don’t know how to deal with him.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and sighs in solidarity to your frustration. “That same guy? You two have been bickering for more than half a year, give it a rest.”

“It’s not my damn fault!” you whine, taking a sip of your iced coffee, almost moaning as the sweet goodness hits your tongue.

He shrugs his shoulders. “Anyway,” he starts, “how have you been?”

You part your lips to reply to him but get caught off guard by your phone buzzing. You intend to ignore it but then your phone buzzes again, again, and again. You wince when you see Jimin’s expression, offering him an apologetic smile as you glance down at your phone, reading the notification.

[Twitter]

@archurback4me liked your reply!

[Twitter]

@archurback4me liked your tweet!

[Twitter]

@archurback4me retweeted your tweet!

[Twitter]

@archurback4me followed you back!

Holy shit. What the fuck?

You’ve been following this NSFW account since forever! You can’t believe they just followed you back. You never expected them to notice you, much less follow and retweet one of your tweets.

“Y/N?” Jimin taps the table with his fingers right next to your drink to get your attention and he finally does.

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble and lock your phone, forcing yourself to dive back into the conversation but your mind is still clouded with being followed back by your favorite account. “Sorry. What were we talking about?”

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As soon as you say goodbye to Jimin, you get in your car, reach for your phone in your pockets and quickly open Twitter. The order of notifications can only mean one thing; they liked your reply to their tweet, clicked on your account, scrolled through your account—because the tweet of yours they liked and retweeted is from a few days ago—and then followed you. You scroll through your notifications, noticing how the tweet they RTed has been blowing up.

The tweet of yours they retweeted is an amateur porn video of a guy fucking a girl in speed-bump-position, hips rocking into her ass as soft moans spill from her lips.

You captioned it ‘me and you’ and now there are hundreds of accounts under your tweet, saying stuff like ‘Fuck yeah’, tagging other accounts, asking for the source of the video and more.

You can’t believe your favorite account followed you back, how insane is that?

Your leg bounces up as you start scrolling through their account, your tweet being right at the top of their page.

Ah! This is so exciting.

You quickly ditch your phone, tossing it into the passenger seat before driving home.

Upon your arrival at your building’s parking lot, you quickly shimmy out of your car and jog towards the front door in excitement, barely able to contain yourself when you think about all the new accounts that have followed you and interacted with you because of that one interaction with @archurback4me.

You unlock the door to your building’s lobby and hurry inside but just as quickly, you bump into what seems to be a brick wall.

Except, it isn’t a brick wall—it’s your annoying neighbor’s chest.

(Who’s also really sexy.)

“Ow,” you mumble, reaching up to rub your nose to soothe the impact of colliding face first with his body.

“Can’t you watch where you’re going?” he grumbles but doesn’t seem to have any intention to rid himself of the proximity between you two.

You shoot him a glare and part your lips to shoot a comeback but you stop yourself when you hear sniffles coming from your shoes. Your head tilts down and your eyes are met by a brown Dobermann sniffing your feet and calves.

“Stop that, Bam,” he says as he gently tugs on the leash, putting an end to the dog’s greeting to you.

You’ve seen his dog before and—unlike him—the dog is pretty sweet.

“Oh, hi, you,” you coo, reaching your hand out to Bam’s snout to let him get a sniff of you and he does, tail wagging back and forth.

You glance up at your shitty neighbor, who is just staring at you with a soft scrunch between his thick brows. You hate how good he looks. Someone with a face that pretty shouldn’t have an attitude that foul, it makes them ugly.

Your brow quirks up, your way of asking for permission to pet his dog without giving him the satisfaction of asking him verbally.

His response is a simple shrug of his shoulders, which makes you instantly turn your attention back to Bam. Your hand starts stroking over his soft head, giving him chin and tummy scratches.

The dog leans into your touch, seemingly craving more and you intend to do that. You squat down but in the instance that you do, you regret it.

Bam instantly lunges at you and it makes you lose your balance, his strength is enough to knock you over and fall flat on your ass with a soft thud on the hard tiles. You don’t even get the chance to process what’s going on when Bam climbs onto your body and licks at your face, coating it in his slimy kisses.

“Bam!” his owner shouts, hands flying towards his dog’s harness immediately to get Bam off you and he finally does.

You wipe your wet cheeks with the sleeves of your shirt before rising to your feet again, dusting off your pants.

“Sorry about that, he can get pretty excited. Did you happen to eat any chicken today?” he asks you and you have to pretend to not be shocked with the way he’s interacting with you as if he views you as an equal and not an insect, like he usually does.

You soothe the sting in your elbows from the fall by rubbing it with your hands as you frown at him. “Yeah, I did.”

He slowly nods at your words and waves a warning finger at Bam, dark eyes silently lecturing him like a parent to their child in public.

Bam doesn’t care, though, simply continues to run in circles and chase his own tail.

“He lacks manners sometimes,” he mumbles to himself as he stares at his dog—that’s cutely running in circles like an idiot.

“Hm,” you pause, “like his owner?”

Smack cam.

His head snaps at you, an agitated frown on his brows. He clearly does not like that.

With that, you turn on your heels and head to the elevator without looking back at him but in your peripherals, you notice that he’s still standing there, glaring at you.

You click on the button to summon the elevator to avoid his intense gaze, he’d bore you into the ground if you were to look at him right this moment.

Unfortunately, the silence doesn’t last long enough.

“You literally complain about every little thing like a fucking granny, give me a break.” His voice is raised with the intention that you can hear him loud and clear, after the distance you put in between you two—his tone full of venom and mockery.

“And you game loud as fuck every minute of the night like a fucking loser. How about you give me a break?” you retort, foot tapping against the tiles underneath your shoe in impatience as you wait for the elevator to arrive.

He replies, “It’s not my fault your bedroom is right next to my gaming setup.”

Right, you told him about that fact during one of your many nightly adventures that are located at his front door with balled fists and flared nostrils.

But it’s not your fault either.

The elevator dings and you can finally release that breath you were holding, chest slowly deflating. You place one foot inside before turning your head in his direction to glance at him, eyes meeting his angry gaze.

“It’s not my fault either. I guess you’re just gonna keep seeing me in front of your door every other week, asking you to be a decent fucking human and be considerate of others.” You take one step into the elevator just so the doors don’t close on you after the words coated with poison leave your lips, almost stinging your own tongue. “And you have the audacity to blame that poor dog for his lack of manners? Seems like someone can’t take responsibility.”

You fully step into the elevator without another word but that’s not necessary when you see the surprised look on his face before hopping in.

That’s what he gets, you suppose.

Once you enter your apartment, you toss your keys onto the accent table by the door and kick off your shoes, leaving them unorganized by the door. You saunter into your bathroom and quickly strip, turning the water on in your shower to heat it up.

However, right as you’re about to step in, there’s angry banging on your front door.

Ah. Whoever could that be?

You wrap a big white towel around your naked body and approach your front door, creating a small gap as you open it whilst hiding your body behind it.

Why the fuck is he here?

“I’m moving my gaming setup to my room tonight. If I hear one more goddamn complaint from you, I’m making my dog shit all over your fucking doormat,” he pauses, big black eyes glaring into yours. He leans in a bit closer and it seems like only then that you realize he’s been pushing your front door further open with his elbow. “Are we clear?”

His furious gaze almost stings you. Summoning daggers to shoot into your skin. Planting a thorned vine around your throat. Letting it sink its sharp teeth into your flesh until you bleed out. That’s the only way you can describe his suffocating glare.

His breath fans over your face, a subtle reminder that he’s standing close. Too close.

You swallow in an attempt to rid yourself of the drought in your throat he just created. “It doesn’t matter where you move it to. If I hear you, I’m going to complain. Whether that’s right next to my bedroom wall or at the end of your corridor, you fucking freak.”

And with that, you slam the door shut in his face before he can say anything else.

Who does he think he is?

Threatening you with his dog’s feces. What a freak!

You huff to yourself as you stare at the closed door for a moment longer before angrily stomping to the bathroom. You reach for your phone and notice some more notifications from Twitter, which instantly reminds you of what happened earlier today and makes you forget about the interaction with your neighbor just now.

Should you message the account? You totally want to! The owner of the account has posted occasional pictures of his body parts but never his face. No matter what he looks like physically, he’s so fucking attractive for his fantasies and the way he speaks.

You scroll a bit through the account until you see a picture of the account owner’s hand, captioned;

‘For the people who asked for a picture of my hand… Lol.’

With a picture of his veiny hand.

Wow.

Fuck.

Your eyes trail the outline of their fingers, nails, veins, wrist, knuckles. You’d love to have that pulling on your hair, spanking your asscheek, wrapped around your throat.

Should you just…?

Message them?

Let’s list the outcomes.

1.) Worst case scenario—they brutally reject you.

2.) Average case scenario—they never reply.

3.) Best case scenario—they reply and reciprocate the flirtatious energy.

You could live with any scenario, even the worst one. It’s just a stranger on the internet anyway.

But his private messages must be blowing up. With over 80,000 followers and thousands of likes and comments, you doubt he’d ever even see your message.

Fuck it.

Shoot your shot.

You tap the share button and choose to send the post of his own hand to him in a private message and then you tap the text box to add a few words.

Mind racing with all the things you could say, your thumbs anxiously hover over the keyboard as you contemplate your options.

Then, you start typing before you can even think it through and you hit send without another thought.

Fuck!

You | 6:31PM

(You shared @archurback4me’s tweet with @archurback4me.)

hi could you maybe not share pictures of my new necklace? people might want to steal it

Fuck. You really just implied his hand is a necklace to you, wanting it wrapped around your throat at all times. You crazy bitch.

You stare at your phone a little while longer but nothing changes. You deeply inhale and breathe out a long sigh that carries a pinch of disappointment before ditching your towel and getting into the shower.

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As you get out of the shower, you can’t help but immediately lunge at your phone, the events from before your hour-long shower booming in your mind when you check your Twitter.

Holy shit.

No messages. What a surprise.

You have requested messages but it’s just bots claiming to be sugar daddies, roleplay accounts or guys wanting you to rate their penis.

You’re a lost cause.

You groan immaturely as you toss your phone aside, drying your body with a pout on your lips and a slight frown decorating your brows.

Your phone keeps buzzing and your heart threatens to implode within your ribcage, yet every time you check it’s just a notification about your tweet being liked again or some loser in your private messages talking to themselves.

Stop it. You’re like a teenager waiting for a response back from the popular guy at school, grow up.

You perform your usual routine before getting dressed in a new pyjama set, loving the way the fabric feels against your freshly shaven legs.

You make yourself a late night dinner, eating it by yourself like a loser before heading into your room and dropping onto your mattress, plugging your phone into the charger and turning over.

A gentle sigh pushes past your lips as you shut your eyes tightly, enough to make stars appear on the back of your eyelids.

Your phone buzzes again but you decide to ignore it. Sleeping time is precious.

You suppose you’ll check it out in the morning.

Wait.

What if it’s @archurback4me?

You try to ignore your thoughts. You need to sleep.

But you can’t ignore it.

You turn over and immediately reach for your phone, watching as it lights up and your heartbeat stutters in its rhythm when you see it’s a Twitter notification.

You open it up, anxiously biting down on your lip. Fuck, you need to calm down.

It’s a message. Holy shit.

Your thumb hesitates but eventually opens your private messages tab.

@ilikebigbootybitches2 | 12:09AM

Why did you block me lol

For FUCK’s sake. Did that Aaron guy really create a new account to send you another message?

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to prevent yourself from screaming your head off before locking your phone and turning over again, trying to sleep for real this time.

You should just forget about it at this point.

And you finally, slowly, drift off into a deep slumber, without a single sound coming from your neighbor’s apartment.

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The sunlight peeks through your curtains, causing you to swallow down the curse that’s sitting on the tip of your tongue. You really need to get darker curtains.

You crack your eyelids open and glare at the ceiling, softly sighing as you bring your hands up and rub the sleep out of your eyes. You reach for your phone, noticing a few more notifications from messages, Instagram and Twitter. You check your messages first, replying to Jimin’s question about whether he should cut his hair or not.

Then you open Instagram, noticing the likes people have left on your story—a picture of you hanging out with Jimin.

And then, with a deep sigh, you open Twitter, scrolling through the hundreds of notifications about your tweet being liked and retweeted. You should’ve muted that damn tweet before going to sleep.

You notice you’ve gotten new private messages and you already hold your heart to not be disappointed.

@cockandballt0rture

1 message

You sigh in annoyance and open to read it.

@cockandballt0rture | 8:43AM

hey cutie

You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

@ilikebigbootybitches2

4 messages

For fuck’s sake. Doesn’t this guy know when to give up? You open the conversation nonetheless.

@ilikebigbootybitches2 | 6:01AM

I didn’t even do anything

I’m sorry if I said something wrong

Yo unblock me bitch

Goodmorning beautiful

What a fucking freak. These were all sent in the span of 2 hours. What a red flag.

Your mood is worsening the more time you spend in your private messages tab.

@archurback4me

2 messages

You’re not even in the mood to keep checking, you just…

Wait.

Holy fucking shit.

Is that…?

It is.

It’s him.

He replied.

A lump forms in your throat and it unleashes a bag of sand all over your tongue, drying out your mouth in the process. Why the hell are you so nervous? Just check the messages!

Average case scenario has been thrown out the window. It’s either brutal rejection or reciprecation.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Your thumb taps the unread messages and your eyes intently watch as his response is revealed to you.

@archurback4me | 2:12AM

Necklace, huh? Lol. Can’t lie, I like that a lot. That’s a good one.

First time talking to me and you’re already demanding and claiming me? ‘Brat galore’ for sure. Someone needs to teach you some manners, Angel.

Holy shit.

Oh, shit. What the hell?

Why is your heart pounding in your throat? You wanted this.

It’s excitement. With a mixture of anxiety, maybe. Just breathe. You’ve always got good comebacks, make use of them!

Okay, you will. You wanted him to reply and he did. Now, think about what you want to say to make sure this conversation keeps going.

You decide not to answer just yet, it’s barely 10AM. Go wash your face and brush your teeth before you even begin to think about being horny.

You rub your eyes once more and swing your legs off the bed. Damn, you slept well tonight. You actually didn’t hear a thing from next door. You won’t applaud him for it but you’re glad you’ve finally slept undisturbed a whole night.

You freshen up, make yourself breakfast, lazily watch TV. You do every and anything to get your mind off of that message. Unfortunately, you’re an impatient bitch.

You | 11:16AM

someone needs to teach me manners? i don’t think anyone has the capability to put up with me like that lol. being annoying is like my second nature

You almost want to scream at the amount of strength you use to not cringe at yourself. It’s been too fucking long since you’ve gotten laid, holy shit.

You continue to watch TV, satisfied with just having a lazy Sunday.

2 hours in, you’re chewing obnoxiously loud on some Cheetos, chugging back a can of soda as you’re deep into this murder-mystery show, pausing several times to explain your theories at the wall like a fucking loser.

Damn, you need friends.

Your phone buzzes.

You absentmindedly glance at your phone before back at the TV, shoving some more cheese balls into your mouth.

Until the notification registers in your brain.

You almost choke when you lunge at your phone and unlock it.

Twitter notification.

Fuck.

@archurback4me | 1:23PM

Are you challenging me? Lol

Oh.

Yes. Yes, you are.

Would you look desperate if you replied right away?

Man, fuck it! You’re not a high schooler. It’s a Sunday and you have nothing better to do.

Your thumbs dance across your keyboard as you type in your message and send it.

You | 1:24PM

that depends. do you like to be challenged?

You return your attention to your TV, fighting so hard not to glance at your phone.

It’s easier when you remember it takes him a while to respond anyway, so no need to—

Your phone buzzes.

You immediately lunge at your phone as if his message contains an acceptance letter from Harvard Law.

@archurback4me | 1:27PM

Who doesn’t like to prove others wrong? Especially when the others in question are brats that love to run their mouth lol

Why are you getting horny over some random text? Get yourself together!

You | 1:28PM

and how would mr. smartass know i’m a brat that loves to run her mouth?

@archurback4me | 1:28PM

Aside from you literally just proving my point by talking to me like this and your username being @bratgaIore?

Scrolled through your account a bit. Your captions tell me everything I need to know lol

Nice panties btw

Nice panties?

But you didn’t send him any photos of your…

Holy shit.

He scrolled far enough on your account to find the one indecent picture you posted months ago, a photo of you bent over in the mirror with your perky ass in the air, showcasing the small patch of slick that had leaked from your pussy, through the baby blue colored fabric.

Your face isn’t even in the picture nor are there any recognizable features but publishing photos of yourself on your porn account makes you nervous so you try to avoid it at all costs.

So, why the hell do you find yourself digging up the blue panties from the picture in your drawers right now? Stop!

What are you even doing?

You | 1:35PM

panties?

oh you mean these?

(You sent a photo.)

You can’t believe you just sent him a photo of you on your knees, camera placed behind you, angled at your ass with only the panties covering your buttcheeks and a slightly arched back. What the hell is wrong with you?

He didn’t even have to say or ask anything, you really just did that on your own accord. Are you insane? Since when do you do stuff like this?

@archurback4me | 1:37PM

Lmfao

Fuck lol yeah those

You’re fine as fuck lol

Did you take that just now? For me?

Fuck. Is it that obvious? Now you seem desperate.

You | 1:38PM

you wish

@archurback4me | 1:40PM

Lol. Barely exchanged 5 messages and you’re already driving me up the fucking wall

You | 1:41PM

i already told you no one can put up w me and i take pride in that 🫶

@archurback4me | 1:44PM

Oh, I’m not saying I can’t handle that smart mouth of yours

I’m saying I wanna fuck the shit out you lmao

Oh.

Okay.

Why are your thighs clenching and why is your pussy tingling?

You | 1:45PM

you think i’d let you?

@archurback4me | 1:47PM

You’d beg me babe

Fuck. He’s so fucking cocky. You can’t help but love everything he’s saying.

You | 1:48PM

you sound confident

@archurback4me | 1:48PM

I am. Are you chickening out after all that spewing?

You | 1:49PM

as if

He doesn’t respond for another while so you check his account. He has a new tweet.

‘I’m so fucking hard. Lol’

11 RTs. 54 likes.

Oh. Okay. That’s cool.

@archurback4me | 1:51PM

So, you agree that you’d let me?

You | 1:51PM

aren’t you being a little too cocky?

@archurback4me | 1:53PM

Lmfao

Don’t you like it?

Fuck. You do. You really do.

You | 1:54PM

maybe

but only because i’m cocky too

@archurback4me | 1:55PM

Yeah lol I can tell

And I’ll fuck it right out of you. Dumb girl

Ah, shit. He’s really getting to you.

You | 1:55PM

ur the dumb one 😒

@archurback4me | 1:57PM

Sure I am

For letting you run your mouth like this and not being able to show you the consequences

Already starting to piss me off

You | 1:58PM

good. i enjoy pissing men off. y’all don’t deserve to smile

@archurback4me | 2:00PM

LMAO

Ok you made me laugh

Only makes me wanna fuck your face more though

You | 2:02PM

but you won’t so there’s really no need to talk big game

@archurback4me | 2:03PM

Lmao

You | 2:03PM

what’s so funny i wanna laugh too

@archurback4me | 2:04PM

Nothing

I’m laughing ‘cause I don’t think anyone’s ever been able to piss me off solely through DMs before

You | 2:05PM

yeah well i’m not gonna keep repeating myself

@archurback4me | 2:07PM

Trust I’ll fuck the shit out of you one day. Dumb brat. Make you drool all over my dick like you’re fucking stupid

Damn. Damn. DAMN. You’ve never folded this easily over some sexts, what is he doing to you?

You | 2:09PM

and that day won’t be anytime soon so i’ll say whatever the hell i want in the meantime 😝

@archurback4me | 2:10PM

Lmao

Right

Are you alone right now?

You | 2:12PM

yep

why

@archurback4me | 2:12PM

No reason

Just been thinking about those panties since you showed them

You | 2:13PM

oh these?

(You sent a photo.)

You know you’re petty for sending him a picture of your middle finger but you couldn’t help it.

@archurback4me | 2:14PM

LMAOOOOO

Mannnn

I was excited too

You | 2:16PM

tell you what

i’ll give you another glimpse if you can prove your latest tweet to me

@archurback4me | 2:17PM

My latest tweet?

You | 2:17PM

yep

@archurback4me | 2:18PM

Ah. I see. Lol.

You don’t reply just yet, waiting to see if he takes you up on your offer. Or compromise, whatever you want to call it.

A few minutes of no interaction go by and you can only assume he might actually be doing it.

Then, your phone buzzes.

@archurback4me | 2:22PM

(🕷️🥀 sent a photo.)

Another lump forms in your throat as you tap the message, allowing it to show you the photo he sent you.

And holy fucking shit.

Low angle, hand gripping his massive boner through his grey sweatpants, tank top lifted to his belly button, happy trail leading down his toned abs and disappearing under the hem of his sweats.

@archurback4me | 2:22PM

Satisfied?

Fuck, you can’t even put into words how hot this is right now. You stare at the photo for a few minutes, your poor bottom lip swollen from how hard you’ve been chewing and sucking on it.

You immediately spread your legs, aiming your front camera right at your sex from a low angle—whilst making sure to keep your face out of it—and capturing the big wet patch on your pussy that proves your arousal at this moment.

You | 2:25PM

(You sent a photo.)

does this answer your question?

@archurback4me | 2:27PM

Damn you’re so

Lmao.

Lmfaooooiwannafuckyousobadooooo

You that wet from being called a dumb girl?

You | 2:27PM

LMAOOOO

but no. i’m that wet from pissing you off. dumbass

@archurback4me | 2:28PM

Yeah, you’re doing a great job at it.

But that’s okay

It’s great even. Keep running your mouth

You | 2:28PM

yeah?

@archurback4me | 2:28PM

Absolutely

Gonna be that much sweeter when I fuck you silly and you’re just gonna be a dumb cock hungry whore swearing you didn’t mean to say all that

You | 2:29PM

then you clearly don’t know me that well

@archurback4me | 2:30PM

You’re right I don’t

Tell me a bit about yourself, angel

Oh, shit. What do you tell him? How much do you say? How much do you keep private? You’ve never gotten to this stage in sexting, it’s usually just horrible questions about what you’re wearing and whether you’re wet. It’s never gotten to a personal stage before.

You | 2:32PM

hmm what do you wanna know?

@archurback4me | 2:33PM

Everything, princess. I’m a bit intrigued

I’d like to know all about you

Do you work? Study? What brings you to this side of Twitter?

Oh, that’s… surprising. You’d think he rarely gives the people in his DMs the time of day, you wonder what he finds intriguing about you. Is it really just the fact that you can get him so worked up without having to do much more than put your annoying mouth to use?

Maybe he has the same problems as you, boring fucking people in your DMs and now someone has come along that piques your interest. You’re relieved you piqued his interest as much as he did yours. Well, maybe not as much but enough to ask you about your personal life.

You | 2:35PM

i don’t really work or study. i have a degree in social work and my parents are currently in the process of building a school so i’ll be working there once it’s finished

and i came to this side of twitter because i’m horny as fuck lol

@archurback4me | 2:37PM

Ah, interesting

And yeah… I suppose that was a dumb question lol

You | 2:39PM

just now realizing that ur dumb? lol

@archurback4me | 2:39PM

Lol

Don’t piss me off

You ok w being called a slut and stuff right? I’ve seen you tweet about it before but still wanna make sure

You | 2:39PM

yeah i like it a lot when done right. thanks for making sure

@archurback4me | 2:40PM

No need to thank me for that

Is Angel your name?

You | 2:40PM

you can call me angel

@archurback4me | 2:40PM

I can but it doesn’t make sense to me

You | 2:40PM

wdym?

@archurback4me | 2:41PM

I mean that you’re a fucking brat and nowhere near angelic

You | 2:42PM

lol

well now i hope it stings you every time you call me angel

@archurback4me | 2:43PM

Lol

You’ve made me so fucking hard

I can’t stand you

You | 2:43PM

lol

ur a bit easy

@archurback4me | 2:43PM

Coming from miss idk-you-but-don’t-spread-pics-of-my-necklace-aka-your-hand

You roll your eyes and chuckle, moving your camera downwards and recording as you push your panties to the side. You drag your finger up your wet slit and slowly pull it away, showing the camera just how wet you are when the string of slick stays connected to your fingers as you pull them away from your sex.

You rewatch the video a few times, eyes glued to the way your fingers slide your panties to the side to reveal your bare pussy to the camera. With your pussy glistening under the sunlight, it looks quite mesmerizing. Your teeth pick at the inside of your cheek as you add it to your message.

You | 2:48PM

lol touché

but i never said i wasn’t easy

look where it’s got me

(You sent a video.)

The jolt of electricity traveling up your spine can only be described as your heart skipping a beat. You can’t believe you just did that. Sure, you’ve sent inappropriate photos before, but you’ve never actually sent anyone nudes. Not anyone that wasn’t your romantic partner, at least.

You watch in silence as the typing bubble pops up and then disappears. Fuck. You wonder what he wants to say.

Several minutes pass. Shit, did you overstep?

You get up from your couch to get yourself a cold drink in hopes it’ll cool you down but after chugging the entire can of soda, you realize nothing is going to help you right now.

Fuck. Why are you panicking? Calm down. He’s just–

Your phone buzzes.

@archurback4me | 2:58PM

(🕷️🥀 sent a video.)

@archurback4me reacted to your video with ‘❤️’!

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

He’s full on stroking his rock hard dick, precum oozing from the tip, shaft wet and lubed up. Fuck. It’s so fucking hot.

You can’t help yourself as you jog to your room, jumping onto your bed and ditching your panties as you do.

You start pumping your fingers into your drenched pussy while watching the video, your own touch not doing enough for you. You wish he was here, ready to pound you for hours on end.

You click the voice memo option and hit record, holding your phone near your pussy as you start deliberately fucking your fingers into your sex faster to create the loud squelching sound as you try to keep yourself from moaning in the background but to no avail, you’re pretty sure a few faint moans can be heard in the voice memo but you don’t care. You’re so fucking turned on and it’s his fault.

Your thumb trembles as it hovers over your keyboard but just as quickly, your thumb slams down on the send button and you toss your phone to the side.

Ugh, what an odd feeling. This is weird.

Your teeth anxiously go on a rampage by tearing the loose flesh around your nails clean off your fingers as you await his response. He probably has multiple people in his DMs sending him these types of things, why would yours stand out?

But just like clockwork, your phone buzzes.

@archurback4me | 3:09PM

Are you trying to fucking kill me

What the fuck

You | 3:10PM

just now realizing that?

ur not very bright are you

@archurback4me | 3:10PM

Lmao

You’re gonna regret talking this much shit

You | 3:11PM

threatening me with a good time?

surely you can do better than that

@archurback4me | 3:11PM

Lmfaoooo

I’m looking forward to fucking all that brattiness out of you

Corrupt you and use you as I please

Dumb fucking girl

You | 3:11PM

me too

but unfortunately ur all talk no action

@archurback4me | 3:12PM

LMAOOO you’re actually pissing me off

Gonna be thinking about you whenever I’m fucking someone now

And it’s all your fault

You | 3:12PM

LOLLLL

good

you should be thinking about me

@archurback4me | 3:12PM

Lol

Of course you would say that

Brat

You | 3:12PM

sorry

can’t help it if you make me feel special

@archurback4me | 3:13PM

How am I making you feel special

You | 3:13PM

telling me no one has ever pissed you off like this and we’ve just started talking

i told you i take pride in that

@archurback4me | 3:14PM

For fucks sake

You’re so annoying

Kinda reminds me of someone I know

You | 3:15PM

lol hope they’re sexy like me

yes i quite literally told you that all the way at the start

@archurback4me | 3:15PM

Lol

But people say it often

But they don’t turn out to be annoying like they claim

Just loud and boring

You actually being annoying makes me wanna literally fuck it out of you lol

You | 3:15PM

now you’ve got me giggling

@archurback4me | 3:15PM

You like the idea of being fucked to the point of breaking, right?

Apologizing for running your mouth while you’re sobbing and drooling all over me and your pillows

Like a proper stupid girl

You | 3:16PM

sounds like a dream come true

but it won’t happen so

@archurback4me | 3:17PM

I’m a freelancer so I’m usually free but my schedule is always full around this time of year

We can meet in a few weeks if you’re up for it. I’ll fly out to wherever you want me to

You | 3:16PM

interesting

what do you do for work?

if ur ok w sharing

@archurback4me | 3:16PM

Photographer

You | 3:16PM

ouuuu

gonna take pics of me when you’ve ruined me properly?

@archurback4me | 3:17PM

If you allow me

You | 3:17PM

hmm

okay

deal

@archurback4me | 3:18PM

Finally not a smartass answer

You | 3:18PM

ur right 🤔

lemme change that real quick

shut up freak

Suddenly, he types and then stops. It makes you wonder whether you said something wrong. You keep rereading your last few messages. Did you?

@archurback4me | 3:22PM

Infuriating little brat

Pissing me off

Anyway

I’m gonna go walk my dog but thanks to you I have to go fuck my hand first

Don’t miss me too much

I’ll talk to you later. x

You | 3:22PM

okay

send me a vid of you fucking my necklace

aka a vid of you masturbating

lol jkjk

i’ll try not to miss you

@archurback4me | 3:23PM

Lmaooo

Oh? 2 non-smartass answers back to back

You’re already breaking for me and I haven’t done anything

You | 3:24PM

piss off loser

go walk your dog

@archurback4me | 3:25PM

Watch your mouth Angel

I will

Talk to you later

You | 3:26PM

sorry sir

baiii

You put your phone down and can’t help but smile widely, lips twitching at its corners as you try to stop yourself from getting…too excited.

Because then it dawns on you.

You still don’t know his name.

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purest-expressionofgrief · 5 months

Text

Best Served Cold | MYG | 4

pairing: Yoongi x afab!reader

au: mafia!au, arranged marriage!au, Yoongi is at the bottom of the organization just trying to stay alive when the story starts.

tags: SLOW BURN, eventual violence, eventual hurt/comfort, eventual smut, reformed bad boy Yoongi, he is lethal in this fic - literally, and he has neck tattoos. Reader is self conscious about her looks, so that gets mentioned occasionally, but is not a focus of the fic. (She works through it by the end.) (Part IV tags: light dom/sub, penetrative m/f sex, oral sex (m receiving and f receiving) mc gets off on yoongi being violent to someone who threatens her)

Words: 7k

a/n: @vyduan you are the best for betareading this! Thank you! @caelesjjk the banner is amazing, and it looks like I didn't credit you when I made the other posts. I'm sorry! This was stupid dumb of me. I will go back and edit them.

I hope you all like the final chapter! Thanks for all your patience this year with this story.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV

___

Yoongi’s hands shake, and he can’t quiet them. You’re safe at home, but he’s still fearful, still wants to look over his shoulder. He lifts his hand to your face and gently wipes the blood from your split lip. In the harsh overhead light of the kitchen, the dark circles under your eyes look demonic. Your eyes are open, but unseeing. Even at your worst, even in the face of your asshole father, he’s never seen you this blank, this disassociated from the present. Your injuries exist where he can’t reach them. If your arm was broken, he could call a doctor. If someone needed killing, he could take them out as easy as breathing. This, though, is worse. He isn’t sure he can care for you. What does he know of care?

“Is it over?” you ask in a voice so frightened Yoongi’s throat closes before he can answer.

“It’s over.”

You grip his wrist, fingers digging into his skin. “Jungkook? Hoseok?”

“Everyone’s safe.” Jimin had taken a bullet to the shoulder, but he doesn’t need to go into that now. He can’t give you any reason not to believe in him.

Without warning, your shoulders shake. He thinks you’re crying again until he realizes you’re laughing.

“I spit on one of them.”

“Of course, you did.”

“Of course, I did?” Finally, you meet his eyes.

“I would never underestimate you.” He did at the beginning, but he won’t again.

There would never be anyone else for him, even if you decide to leave like he knows you should. But he’s selfish. He wants you to stay.

Your heaving shoulders turn from laughter to sobs. You bring your hands to cover your face. Scars on wrist confront Yoongi with his failure.

“I was so scared,” you say. “I knew you would come for me, but I was so scared.”

You repeat the words over and over again. There is nothing he could do to stop them, and he doesn’t try. Amid your pain, the words ‘I knew you would come for me’ are the only thing that keep him from falling apart. He wants to beg your forgiveness, but it's selfish to want absolution when he doesn’t deserve it. You sway on your feet, eyes shutting.

What the fuck is he doing? He helps you to his bedroom. He doesn’t think you’ve been in here during the duration of your marriage, but he’s not letting you alone tonight.

You sink to the bed, your eyes closing before he can think of what to say, what to do. He covers you with the blanket at the foot of the bed. You frantically reach for his hand.

“Don’t leave.”

“I’m not,” he stammers. “I won’t.”

He goes to the other side of the bed and lays down. He moves as close to you as he dares. Part of him wants to hold you in his arms. The other part of him isn’t sure you would want that from him, especially after everything you’ve been through. He stays awake long after you fall asleep. The nightmares will come eventually.

&&&

When you wake, even though Yoongi is gone from the bed, his warmth lingers. He hasn’t been gone long. You don’t know how you could know such a thing, but you know him as well as breathing.

The door opens slowly. Yoongi enters carrying a tray. He’s still wearing his blood-stained suit, and you wonder if he slept. He places a steaming bowl of soup on the table next to you. You can’t help the small smile on your face. The most feared man in the city is carrying trays and making you soup.

“Do you…?” He runs a hand through his hair. “Uh, do you want to change? I’ve set out some clothes.”

Your most comfortable lounge pants and top are tossed on a chair nearby.

You nod.

“Eat.” He pauses, as if he wants to say something more. “Get some more rest.”

Before you can tell him the same, he leaves you alone.

Gingerly, you remove your dress. You want to burn it. Taking everything off, you take a hot shower and slip on the clothes he brought you. You aren’t injured, but your body is sore from the night spent shivering in the shipping container. Shuddering, you force the memories from your mind and focus on the present. You eat, and sleep overtakes you, even as you want to see him, hear him, before you close your eyes.

This time, when you wake, you feel better. The covers are warm. The food he brought was comforting. He must’ve taken care of you while you slept, because your wrists are bandages. You open your eyes, realizing you aren’t alone.

Yoongi sits in the chair across from you. He’s wearing a thin, white t-shirt and faded jeans, bare feet. His head rests in his hands, and it almost sounds like he’s crying.

“What happened?”

“Huh?” He looks up at you.

“Why do you look like that?”

His eyes are red, and it’s heartbreaking to see him so distraught.

“They took you.”

You’re relieved to know that nothing worse has happened.

“I knew you would come for me. I never doubted you.” You get up from the bed, wrapping the blanket around yourself. You settle on your knees in front of him. “I’m fine.”

He huffs a breath. “I bandaged your wounds. You aren’t fine.”

“I will be. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He shakes his head as if words are too much.

You scoot closer, willing him to understand. “In a few years, we'll be so powerful, Namjoon and Seokjin will beg you to stay in their organization. You’re so loyal, I know you will. I'll make sure we have enough money that no one can touch us.”

“You will?” he asks, looking at you in a daze. “But you want out?”

“I want you.”

It’s very simple, really. His eyes search your face, and he reaches down, pushing your hair back. Before you lose your courage, you let the blankets fall and stand in front of him. He rises from the chair.

His hand cups your cheek. “Are you sure you want this? Want me?”

He asks, as if you don’t know your own mind. There’s only one thing to do.

The kiss catches him off-guard, but not for long. He responds by wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He pulls you toward him until you’re pressed up against his broad chest, kissing you back like he needs you to breathe. You feel the way he seems to want to possess you with his touch. It’s all you want, too. There’s nothing between you, and you feel more than hear the moan he doesn’t hold back. The sensations of lips on yours, his tongue teasing and tasting are enough to make your legs weak.

When he pulls back, before you can think or speak or do anything, he kisses your neck and mumbles the most delicious words you’ve ever heard. You drink them in like wine, and soon you're drunk on his voice.

“You’re mine, yeah?” His hands tangle through your hair, pulling just a little too hard, just to make you understand. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good you never leave.”

He’s an idiot if he thinks you’re ever leaving now, but that can wait. He just keeps going, humming against your skin. You’re dizzy from his mouth on your neck, his hands on your body.

“All this belongs to me,” he says, as he moves his hand from your waist to squeeze your ass. You moan at the sensation.

You aren’t sure how long he kisses you, your lips are swollen and you’re panting for breath when he pauses. He pushes up your top, lifting it over your head to lean down and take a sensitive nipple between his lips, playing with you and enjoying the sounds you make.

On and on, he takes his time creating a reaction in you that you didn’t think possible. He is drawing out your desire, and it’s his patience, his dedication to making you feel good that steals your breath from you. Your prior experience was limited and disappointing. Partners took as much interest in your pleasure as they would a blow-up doll. You’re going to come from just the thought of him going on like this, like you matter, like what you feel is more important than anything.

Yoongi pushes down your lounge pants, and he hums when he sees you have nothing on underneath. Soon you’re standing in front of him, exposed. You stare at the floor and make a move to cross your arms in front of your chest, but he won’t let you.

“Never cover yourself from me. You’re beautiful, and you’re mine.”

Slowly, your raise your eyes to his. It takes courage for you to be this vulnerable. One thing about your husband, though, he doesn’t lie. You whisper his name, and he smiles. It’s full of promise, and you wonder if you’re going to survive. But, really, if you don’t, it’s worth it.

His hand trails down, caressing your skin of your stomach and you try not the laugh–it tickles. He reaches the apex of your thighs, fingers gently stroking your mound. He still won’t let you look away, and you hold his gaze, even as he pushes a finger inside your slick cunt.

“Oh, fuck, this for me?”

The question doesn’t really need an answer. You resist rolling your eyes even in your delirium of lust, but your thoughts must register on your face, because he chuckles. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make you feel good.”

He kisses you again, not hesitating in his need to make sure you understand how he feels.

Slowly, he pushes you backwards to the bed. You lift his shirt, but he makes it easy by fisting it in one hand and pulling it over his head. He pushes down his jeans. You fall back to the bed, and Yoongi is naked in front of you. It’s glorious, really.

“Come here,” he says, pulling your legs down the bed so he has better access to what he needs. He kneels in front of you, starting with small kisses on the skin of your legs, your thighs. His shoulders nudge your legs apart, and before you can even be worried about being exposed in front of him, you can feel his hot breath against you. He’s greedy for you, and you’re about to beg when Yoongi licks a long stripe over your spread sex, and you buck on the bed. You grab the sheets in your hands. He chuckles as his hands press your thighs to the bed and the feeling of being under his control makes it that much better. You don’t think there is anything better than the thought of the bruises on your body marking you as his.

Yoongi’s tongue curls around your clit, slow and deliberate. You cry out at the sensation, unable to hold anything back. This spurs him on. Not to get you off, of course, but to continue his delicious torture as you hang there on the edge of coming, stars exploding behind your eyes. He’s so restrained, like he could do this all fucking day. He continues his exploration of the swollen bud. You want to grip his hair, push your pussy in his face and grind against him, but you grip the sheets tighter instead.

“So impatient,” he murmurs against your skin, stroking two fingers over and around your swollen sex.

You want to scream that you’ve waiting more than long enough, but before you can think he’s pushing a finger inside of you doing absolutely nothing to cure the problem he’s created, only making it worse by make you more turned on than you’ve been in your life. He places his tongue on the firm underside of your clit, and he curls his figures just enough to get right up against that bundle of nerves inside you, and the two things combined are fucking insane. You’re reaching heights you didn’t know existed.

“Yoongi,” you say, barely able to form the word.

“Who does this sweet cunt belong to, baby?”

“You,” you breathe.

“Good girl.”

Only then does his incessant teasing turn to focused attention on your clit.

You hear your mumbling gasps. I’m coming, you’re saying over and over, trying to gain some kind of purchase on reality, but you’re lost. You come to the sounds of Yoongi’s humming satisfaction. It’s a fizzing, bright and surging pleasure. It just won’t stop, and the pleasure is strung out like the last note of a song you don’t want to end. You realize it doesn’t have to, not really. He’s yours now.

Yoongi stands, running his thumb over his lip, not like he needs to get rid of the taste of you, but that he’s satisfied with a job well done. Eleven out of ten, you think.

He’s stroking himself, and you take in the sight of him. His hard cock in his hand, standing above you, possessive and demanding. He pauses, and he looks like he’s going to start some conversation. But you don’t need a gentleman right now.

“What do you want, Yoongi?”

“That should be pretty fucking obvious.”

“Then why are you standing there?”

“Oh, that’s how it is?” he says, as the bed dips under his weight and you scoot back up, giving him room.

You shrug, trying to look innocent, but it’s hard with your legs spread, pussy slick and body flushed from the best orgasm you’ve had in your life. He laughs, and you will never get over that sound of his happiness.

It arouses you to get lost in something like this, in someone. There’s no worrying or thinking.

“You sure you can handle this?” He asks, as he lowers to kiss your lips, covering your body with his, finally the full weight of him rests on you.

“If you’ll promise to teach me if I can’t.”

“Jesus, fucking, Christ—”

But you arch up to kiss him before he can be exasperated with you. His hard cock presses against your lower belly and Jesus fucking Christ is right. You need him to fuck you.

Before you can beg, he finally lifts up to hold his dick, rubbing against your wet sex.

“Gonna make sure you feel every inch.”

Before you can complain to get the fuck on with it, he pushes into you, stretching your sex. You gasp at the pleasure mixed with the subtle pain of his thick cock.

“You okay, baby?” He’s straining under the control of holding himself back.

There’s nothing more beautiful than this man making sure you’re okay before he rearranges your guts.

You nod.

“That’s right. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” He leans down to kiss you. You’re completely lost in the sensation, and he whispers in your ear. “Take my cock so well. Made for me.”

Soon, you’re lost in the rhythm of him fucking you, working up to deep and hard strokes. Sweat drips from his body, and you want to lick it from his skin. As your pussy clenches around him, and you’re about to come, he pulls out and chuckles when you whine.

He flips your body over, pulling at your waist until your ass is in the air and your face is pushed down to the bed.

There’s a litany of filth coming out of his mouth, and it’s unclear what’s going to make you come first, his dick or his words. “This is my cunt, yeah? Who do you belong to?” All that he says is leaving you delirious. His hands grip your waist. Again, you think of the marks on your skin. The way this first time is just the beginning.

He’s pounding into you, and your head lazily bumps against the pillow at the head of the bed, and you love just being his plaything, being whatever he needs in that moment. You give yourself over to sensation and the feeling of the way he is fucking you, like he might not get another chance. He pulls out again, and this time when he flips you back on your back, he raises your leg, pushing back against your body. Oh fuck, this is something. He’s even deeper, hitting that spot that you thought was unreachable.

Your breath hitches, and the pleasure that was previously unobtainable is yours now.

You’re panting his name now, and you can’t stop yourself. He’s so close now.

“Come inside me,” you say. “Let me feel you.”

He exhales, and this time when he pounds into you, he comes painting your walls white with his cum. Your orgasm doesn’t slow, you just keep coming as he fills you up.

When he stills, he drops your leg, and you let it fall to the bed as he crawls above you, kissing any skin he can reach. Until he’s kissing your mouth, his body covering yours, and the only thing in the world is the feeling of the weight of him.

Gradually, his breath slows, and he rolls to his side, but not without pulling you so you’re laying on the bed, side by side, facing each other. For a few minutes, there is no sound but your panting breaths as he pushes your hair out of your face.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly, like he knows it’s hard for you to talk about.

Self-doubt isn’t sexy, but it’s coming in waves as your breathing slows, as you take in what just happened. “I just… I wanna be what you want.”

“The fuck you talking about? You are what I want.”

“I’m not…” Not sure how to explain, I’m not experienced, you think. I’m plain.

“Baby, going to prove it to you every day of our lives, if you’ll have me.” He puts his hands to your face. “You might belong to me, but I’m your servant, understand?”

You nod, afraid that if you try to speak, you might cry. He pulls you to him like he understands, like words aren’t necessary. You stay there, clinging to him until your tears stop falling.

&&&

Yoongi glances at the man guarding Kim Namjoon’s private suite. The guy is a huge, muscle toned bruiser. As the two of you approach the door, he makes a move to pat you down.

“No one touches her.”

You glance back, and he recognizes the look on your face–a mix of pride with blush rising to your cheeks, as if you still can’t believe that he would care for you in such a way.

Yoongi decides to make is feelings clear. “You should know that I’m carrying, and this meeting is off if you ask me to leave the weapon out here.”

The guard doesn’t respond. He’s probably heard worse in his line of work.

“It’s alright,” someone says. “This meeting is important enough.”

Kim Seokjin opens the door and ushers you both inside. He’s got a sardonic smile on his face, but Yoongi doesn’t mind. Seokjin and Namjoon need you more than you need them at this point.

The bruiser makes a move to follow. “That’s alright,” Seokjin insists. “I’m sure we can handle Min Yoongi and an accountant.”

He doesn’t like the way he says accountant as if it isn’t your skills that are keeping the operation running smoothly, but he could give a fuck. He’s going to be in that meeting, regardless.

Seokjin gestures to a chair and you sit, crossing your legs, folding your hands like this is any other business meeting. Yoongi enjoys seeing the ring he bought you on your finger. His grandmother’s ring is worn on a gold chain around your neck. Nothing would convince you to give it up. The ring he bought you makes a statement, though, and he wants it made. The dress he bought you looks good, too. He’s looking forward to stripping it off you later. Yoongi stands behind your chair, waving off Namjoon when he offers him a drink. You refuse as well. This is not a social call.

“Well, let’s get down to business.” Namjoon says, sitting on the couch opposite.

An hour later and you’re shaking hands with Namjoon, asking Seokjin about his bride, as if you didn’t just drive a bargain to launder their proceeds for them and your take is better than you dreamed. You’re eternally underestimated. He did at one time, but he’ll never make that mistake again.

Your natural kindness can’t help but come out, and he realizes the two of you will be invited to dinner soon. You’re important enough to the organization to keep close, to make sure you and Yoongi are happy.

He appraises the two men in front of him. They aren’t a bad sort. Kim Seokjin is as smart as he is handsome, but Kim Namjoon needs to learn how to take a day off now and again. He’s so eager for recognition he’s going to burn out. The four of you exchange pleasantries, saying goodbye and leaving without a word from the bruiser.

Yoongi’s so fucking proud of you. It isn’t until you’re in the car, doors locked, that you allow yourself to lean your head back.

“Fuck,” you exhale.

“I told you. Did I not fucking tell you?”

“You fucking told me.”

“I told you to ask for double what you expected.”

“It’s so much money.”

“It’s yours, now.”

“It’s ours.”

You smile at him, the smile he loves.

“But let’s get back to the important thing,” he says. “I was right.”

“You were right.”

He starts the engine and puts a hand on your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. After he’s ruthlessly uses your mouth, he slides a hand down to your thigh, pushing up your skirt as he pulls out of the private drive.

“Here? Now?” You ask, but he can tell you’re excited from the breathy note in your voice. Your legs slide open just a little more.

“I always collect on a bet, sweetheart.”

&&&

You shut the car door behind you, looking up at the apartment cut into the side of the mountain. The complex was far from the district where you and Yoongi had just bought a new penthouse. It was far from the three clubs he now owns. Hoseok and Jungkook now each managed one, with Yoongi taking the newest. They kept their operation small for now. Yoongi didn’t trust anyone else yet, and you trust Yoongi. You had the simple part as far as you could tell. It was just spreadsheets and numbers. Yoongi, though, remained fascinated.

“How do you do it?” he had said earlier that week. He kissed you senseless in his office, bending you over the desk. The door was locked. He might fuck you in his office, but he was going to make sure you weren’t interrupted.

“Yoongi, no one gets excited about this stuff,” you said, but then you said nothing else for a while because words escaped you.

Now, standing outside your car, you look up at the small apartment, forlorn and grey from the windy weather where it sits on the exposed cliff. You straighten your skirt, clutch your purse, and cross the street. Best to get this over with.

There is a long pause after your knock, and you hear the chain unlatch. Your sister stares at you.

“What do you want?”

“I just want to have a conversation.”

She turns around and you follow. Your stiletto heels dig into the cheap carpet.

“You’re up early. I’m surprised Yoongi let you out of the house.”

Yoongi’s possessiveness since you were taken was not what you expected, but you couldn’t say that it bothered you. You don’t respond to your sister, though. It’s none of her fucking business. In fact, you had left Yoongi asleep in bed this morning, and you need to get back there before you’re gone too long.

“I’m not going to stay long.”

“I’m sure you’ve got too much money to spend. What did he buy you this week?”

“A gown for Kim Seokjin’s wedding.”

Your sister scoffs. “Must be nice.”

Your father’s resources have dwindled recently. He had already betrayed anyone who might help him, so he was left with nothing. Your sister had less. You and Yoongi had turned down your family’s requests for money. She had this lonely apartment and a dwindling stash of designer handbags. She’s about to have less.

You pull a wad of cash from your purse. Funnily enough, you pulled it from the vents this morning. You really needed to find a new hiding place.

Your sister stares at the money. She tries to feign disinterest, but you know her too well.

She looks up at you. “What do you want? I’m not going to work for you.”

“I wouldn’t hire you.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you to leave this city and never come back.”

“Not a fucking chance.” She laughs. “You need to pay me a lot more than that–everyone says you and Yoongi are rolling in it.”

You were, but again, none of her fucking business.

“I know you tipped off Lee to my location.”

She pushes her hair back from her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It took me some time to figure it out. I was talking to you when I was taken. Yoongi and I used burners. No one knew where I was.” Your voice almost breaks, but you keep it together. “I know it was you.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“How much did they pay you?”

She stares at you. The shock and hurt on her face quickly transform to annoyance.

“It wasn’t enough.”

“I knew it was you.”

“All I did was give them your location. They said they were just going to talk to you.”

“You believed them.”

“It wasn’t my fucking fault his men got out of hand.”

“They were going to leave me there to die.”

“Stop being so dramatic. I knew Yoongi would find you.”

You think of the number of nights he’s woken in a cold sweat, the number of times he checks on you, even in the office at the club. He will never be the same, and it’s your sister’s fault.

“He blames himself.”

“It isn’t my fucking fault you married some low—"

Your sister doesn’t expect the slap. “Speak about him like that again, and I will end you.”

“I’m not leaving unless you pay me a hell of a lot more money.”

“You will take the money and you will leave.”

“Not a chance in hell. I want a lot more, and I know you’ve got it.”

“That’s none of your fucking business.” You stand. There is no reason to continue this. “Yoongi will kill you when he figures it out. Take my offer. He won’t give you one.”

“I can convince your husband of anything.”

You laugh in her face. “I didn’t believe that lie when you first tried to tell me, and there is no way in hell I would believe it now.”

Your sister trembles now. She attempts to regain her composure. “Lee’s family will protect me.”

“Anyone left in that family doesn’t give a shit about you. I don’t give a shit about you. Take the money and leave, or stay until Yoongi figures out what you did. He’ll make it quick out of respect for me.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are to talk to me this way?”

You turn and walk down the hallway. “Like I said. Make your choice.”

“I was supposed to get married first.” She calls out. “I was the one who was supposed to get the money and the cars and the designer clothes. Me,” she shouts.

You shut the door behind you, get in the [car] and drive away.

Yoongi is finishing a phone call when you arrive. He’s in bed, and you join him.

“Where you’ve been?” he asks, throwing down the phone.

“Just running errands,” you answer, kicking off your shoes.

“Leave those on,” he says, but he says nothing else. He’s too busy kissing you.

&&&

You enter the club, nodding to Jungkook behind the bar. It’s still early, so the place isn’t crowded. The tables are mostly empty. You look up to see Yoongi gesture for you to join him. He’s got someone, clearly an idiot, in a vice grip. Yoongi’s hand clenches the man’s shoulder. The weaker man winces from the pain. You raise an eyebrow at Yoongi, but he doesn’t give you any clue what’s going on.

“Hi, baby,” he says, kissing your cheek and not letting up his grip.

“This gentleman had a few things to say about you.”

“So, not very smart, then.”

Yoongi shook his head in mock sadness. “Not at all. I’m sorry to say he called you a bitch.”

You laugh. This is something you’ve heard before and you will again. But Yoongi takes defending you seriously, and you let him.

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Well, the problem is, baby, then he called you my secretary.”

“The hell?” You cross your arms across your chest and stare the man down. You felt sorry for him for a moment ago, but not anymore.

Yoongi laughs. “What do you want me to do with him?”

Yoongi rarely lets you decide. It’s heady, and it feels sort of wonderful to know that Yoongi will take whatever action you want to make sure this guy understands insults aren’t taken lightly.

You smile and the guy relaxes, thinking this means he’s safe.

He’s apologizing when you interrupt, turning to Yoongi.

“Give me your jacket first. I like that suit, and I don’t want you to get blood on it.”

Yoongi smiles, and he removes his jacket. Then he rolls up his sleeves. He won’t do anything too terrible. Just enough to teach this man a lesson.

“Don’t take long,” you say. “We have business to discuss.”

You weave through the room to your office.

A short time later, you look up from the laptop you are barely focusing on to see Yoongi enter the room. His shirt has blood on it, and his knuckles look injured.

“He hurt you?” you ask, rising from the chair and rushing to meet him.

Yoongi shakes his head. “It wasn’t much. Just made sure he won’t talk about you again.”

You stare down at the blood on his shirt, the way sweat clings to his neck from the beating he gave the other man, and the way his knuckles are red and raw. There is something seriously wrong with you because it only makes you want him more.

You put a hand to his cheek. “Yoongi?”

“Yeah,” he says absently, trying to pour a drink.

“What would you have done if I said something else?”

“Look, I would’ve let him go as much as I don’t like showing leniency in these situations—”

“No, what would you have done if I wanted something more?”

He takes a moment to figure out what you’re asking, and when he does, he doesn’t hesitate.

“I’ll do anything you ask, baby. You know that.” He shrugs.

But you can’t believe it, you can’t believe this man who has the city shaking with fear will put himself in your hands.

You kiss him, and you pour everything into the kiss that you can’t quite say yet, can’t admit to yourself.

“You like that?” he teases. He kisses you, nipping at your lips. Your husband even has the gall to pull back, take a sip of whiskey like he has all the time in the fucking world for this conversation. When he kisses you again, the alcohol on his tongue makes you feel drunk. One hand comes up to hold your neck. He knows what he’s doing when he sips again, rubbing his thumb over your cheek. “Oh, you really like that.”

You moan and pull him back to his chair where you push him into it.

“All you have to do is ask,” he says.

He’s a fucking menace.

The sight of someone else’s blood on his shirt is doing things go you. All he had to do to see how wet you’d gotten was lift your skirt. You could feel it soaking through your pantie.

He settles himself into the chair, holding his glass and taking a drink, watching you while you kneel before him.

You reach up to unbuckle his belt and he sets his glass on the desk. Yoongi doesn’t exactly, uh, he’s not exactly a passive participant. It’s taken you a while, but he’s taught you well what he likes. He’s hard from the kissing, seeing you in this position, and probably from you admitting how much you like it when he takes matters into his own hands.

His grip from his cock slips as you take over, replacing his hand with yours, wrapping your hand around his thick girth. You are so greedy for a taste of him. You wonder if he’ll deny you the opportunity. He has in the past, just to prove a point, just to make sure by the time you get your mouth on him you’re desperate and sloppy for him. You ghost your lips over the slick head of his cock. When you lick long and wet over the slit at the top, he doesn’t hide his moan. It spurs you on to hear him, to know he wants you and no one else. You lap all around the swollen head until he bucks into your mouth. This isn’t a time for teasing. You suck as much as you can into your mouth, so greedy and frantic that you barely feel the strain on your jaw. You push yourself to take more, and you choke a little. He groans, putting a hand on your hair. He definitely likes it when you push yourself. You’ve always been a dedicated student. With his hand in your hair, he regulates the speed of your mouth on him. Slow on the downslide, quick on the up, getting steadily faster. He gives you a reprieve, letting you breathe, before pushing in again. He holds you there, and you can feel the tears welling in your eyes. You think about the way your throat will be sore, the way your knees will look red and bruised when this is over. The thought makes you moan. You look up at Yoongi as he watches you on his dick, a dark look in his eye.

Your pussy is wet and it’s slick between your thighs. You feel so filthy on this floor, his cock in your mouth, willing to do whatever he asks. A tear slides down your cheek, and he groans, “Fuck, what you do to me.”

You continue to work yourself over his cock, sloppy and greedy, spit running down your chin, the salty taste of him spurring you on. “I’m close,” he says. His words make you want to give in immediately. Give him exactly what he wants, but a new wicked part of you wants to tease, wants to hear him beg in the lust choked voice. His grip on your hair tightens. So that’s not happening tonight. The hand you have on the thick base of him tightens and tugs, rather than a stroke. He lifts his hips, forcing you to take him deeper, and he floods your mouth with spurt after spurt of cum, hot and thick. He whispers your name as he comes down from his high until he looks as flushed and fucked out as you feel.

His breath comes in short pants and licks his lips, just looking at the state you’re in. You rub your legs together, wishing that you could give yourself some kind of release. It would take so little for you to come. He can’t leave you like this, can he?

“Come here,” he says.

You rise, trying to gather yourself, unable to think about anything other than getting off.

“You’re so sweet, you know that?” He stands from the chair, and you lean against the desk for support. One hand grips your throat, so perfectly your breath hitches.

He smiles. “I know what you like. No one else.”

“No one else.”

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”

“Yoongi, please I wanna, I need …”

He rudely pushes a hand up your thigh and reaches for your panties. He just rubs the slick material, feeling your stiff clit, just aching for his touch or for his mouth.

But he’s as slow as he was fast forcing you down his cock, and it’s a pleasant torture to be strung out like this. Existing only to be played by him.

Finally, when you think you might scream in frustration. He gives you the attention you need.

“That’s it, baby, come for me.”

When you do your pleasure bursts so bright it almost hurts. The release is intense. You slump over and he catches you, pulling you into the chair with him.

You curl around him, catching your breath as he puts his arms around you.

Biting your lip, you look up at him. “You think... maybe, there’s something wrong with me that I’m so…”

“Ready to suck my dick because I just made sure a man who insulted you is on the ground in a bloody heap,” he finishes.

“Well, yeah.”

“Nah, you were made for me. That’s all.”

He doesn’t think twice. There is no weighing the sides, no thoughtful discussion of what it all means, the world you two inhabit, the violence that is an inherent part of it. He’ll die before anyone hurts you again. This is all that really matters, you realize. The world comprises the two of you. Anyone else is on the outside. Maybe in another life you would’ve met, been something different to each other, but it doesn't matter. This is what you got, a man who loves you and will do anything he can to protect you. You will deal with judgment if it comes for you both, but before then, you’ll make sure he knows exactly what you’ll do for him.

“I told you, we’re perfect together. You don’t have to worry about anything now.”

You believe him. It’s a long time before you move from the way he holds you. The way he makes sure you have what you need. He doesn’t lie, and you don’t hide yourself from him. That’s the deal.

a/n Thanks for reading! I'm working on some new stories, but as usual, don't know when I will post. Today is Thanksgiving in the US, and if you are with family this week, and you need some positive energy - remember that they don't define you, and you will find a path of your own, even if it takes more time and work than you hoped.

Tag list.

@raplinenoona, @september-husband, @purest-expressionofgrief

@katieraven @titty-ambulance @bangtannie7 @lunaria88 @savgogh @scuzmunkie

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purest-expressionofgrief · 6 months

Text

Shiner

You've grown to love your emotionally unavailable husband, but part of you wonders if he feels the same about you. The final part of the Vows series, read the rest here.

Pairing: Yoongi x f! reader

Genre: Arranged marriage AU

Warnings: Sex, swearing, Yoongi gets a black eye

Rating: 18+

Word count: 6k

You blink yourself awake and stare blankly at the ceiling, trying to orientate yourself.

Yoongi’s bed. You can tell by the smoothness of the white ceiling, and if you widen your senses, by the feel of the soft, crisp sheets under you.

His smell on the pillow under your head.

You gradually become aware of an ache in your jaw, like you’ve been grinding your teeth.

You turn your head to look at the other side of the bed.

The throbbing headache hits you like a sledgehammer to the temples. You moan a little and close your eyes again, but it doesn’t stop the room from swirling wavily around you.

Oh shit.

You’re going to be sick.

You leap up, stagger to the bathroom, curl your arm around the cool porcelain of the toilet and hurl.

The contents of your stomach splatter into the water, and you groan again, retching until there’s nothing left inside you but bile.

You look up frantically when you hear footsteps.

Yoongi?

He’s meant to be on a business trip.

You fumble for the flush and jump up to wash your face.

Your husband’s seen you in all forms of unattractive but he doesn’t need to see you with vomit on your face.

You splash water on your face, look around hurriedly for your toothbrush.

Just in time.

Yoongi appears around the corner of the bathroom door, nose wrinkled.

‘It smells like sick in here,’ he observes.

‘I’m sorry,’ you apologise. ‘I’ll get it cleaned up.’

Yoongi approaches you.

‘I’m not surprised you were sick, considering how drunk you were last night.’

You freeze with your toothbrush in your mouth and goggle at him.

Questions run through your head.

Why is Yoongi back early from his business trip?

How does he know you were out last night?

And finally, why the fuck does your husband have a black eye?

You rinse and spit, open your mouth to ask, but all that comes out is a whimper.

Yoongi looks at you unsympathetically as you press your fingers over your eyeballs.

‘Come on brat, Mrs Gye made us breakfast.’

***

You reach for the toast in the middle of the table and frown, confused, at your bruised knuckles.

The skin’s split over your index, and the rest of your hand is bruised.

Yoongi says, taking a sip of coffee, ‘you throw a mean left hook, wife.’

You gape at Yoongi.

‘I punched you?’

Yoongi looks at you thoughtfully. ‘Don’t you remember?’

You dredge through the haziness of the night before, trying to remember.

‘Why did I punch you, Yoongi?’

Yoongi gives you a level look.

‘Think hard, wife.’

You realise Yoongi’s skipped all the endearments he usually uses for you.

In fact, he’s been distant with you all morning.

‘I’m sorry, Yoongi, I can’t remember,’ you plead. ‘Can you tell me?’

Yoongi finishes his coffee, gets up.

‘I have an important meeting in a couple hours,’ he says. ‘I need to get ready.’

As he leaves the room you can’t help but feel you’ve done something terribly wrong.

***

A week earlier

You know Yoongi doesn’t like it when you fuss over him when he leaves for business trips, but you can’t help it this time, when he’ll be gone on the day of your wedding anniversary.

It’s not your first wedding anniversary, you’ve been married for years, but it’s the first one since you proposed to him.

Yoongi had laughed when you pointed it out.

‘You and your romantic heart, jagiya,’ he’d said, affectionately.

You’d laughed at his expression, but you’d felt a pang of disappointment in your chest just the same.

You’d changed the subject quickly, and he hadn’t brought it up again.

Now you’re standing on the front steps of your house in your pyjamas to say goodbye.

‘I might come see you in Bruges,’ you say hopefully, as Yoongi leans in to give you a hug.

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Yoongi says, practical as always. ‘I’ll be working flat out.’

He studies your expression, and his face softens.

‘I’ll be back soon enough,’ he promises you.

He lowers his lips to yours, wraps you in his arms.

‘Eat well when I’m gone, ok? Look after yourself.’

‘I will,’ you reply. You reach out for him again, but he’s already stepping away, getting into the car.

You wave him goodbye with your best smile.

***

Your phone lights up in your peripheral vision as you’re getting ready for bed.

You grab it so quickly it flips out of your hands onto the floor.

You swipe quickly.

Your husband’s beautiful face fills the screen. He’s got one hand loosening his tie as he sits back.

‘Hey,’ you say, teasing. ‘Do I know you?’

Yoongi smiles at you. ‘Forgotten me already? Don’t worry, I left you something to remember me by.’

You tilt your head at him quizzically.

‘Check the bedside drawer, jagiya.’

‘How’d you know where —-‘

‘You always sleep in our room when I go away,’ Yoongi replies briskly.

‘You don’t know me,’ you mutter, out of habit.

Yoongi just laughs. ‘Go on, check.’

You reach over and pull it open, pick up the gift box and card inside.

‘Open it,’ urges Yoongi.

You tear open the card.

It’s plain ivory cardstock, with a message in your husband’s familiar, barely legible scrawl.

Happy wedding anniversary. I’m sorry I can’t be there.

The rush of emotion you feel takes you by surprise.

You flip your screen so he can’t see you blinking away tears.

Yoongi’s voice sounds through your phone.

‘I can hear you sniffling,’ he says, dryly.

‘Allergies,’ you reply.

‘Are you allergic to me being a perfect husband?’ asks Yoongi, sounding completely serious.

You furrow your brow.

‘If the card makes you this emotional, wait until you see the present,’ Yoongi says.

‘I’m opening it now,’ you tell him as you unravel the silver bow and lift the lid.

You’re grateful Yoongi can’t see your face as you stare at the delicate bracelet in the box.

It’s beautiful, expensive, tasteful.

You have no idea why it makes you feel so flat.

You muster up as much enthusiasm as you can as you say, ‘It’s beautiful! Thank you, Yoongi.’

You flip the screen so he can see you.

He looks worried.

‘If it’s not to your taste, jagiya —-‘

‘It’s very beautiful, Yoongi,’ you assure him. You fiddle with the clasp, wrap it around your wrist. ‘I like it a lot.’

You lift your wrist to the camera so he can see.

‘I haven’t got you anything yet,’ you say, worriedly. ‘I was hoping to see you on our anniversary —-‘

Yoongi says, quietly, ‘I’d love to see you, but I can’t promise you much time.’

‘I don’t care if there’s not much time,’ you say. ‘I can take care of myself, Yoongi, I’d love to see you too.’

‘Let’s think about it, ok?’ Yoongi says. ‘We can decide tomorrow.’

Now he sounds tired too.

You feel guilty for pressing when you know he has a lot on his plate.

‘Sure,’ you say, trying to turn the mood of the conversation around.

You smile brightly. ‘Thank you for my gift, Yoongi.’

‘I’m glad you like it, jagi.’

‘I should let you get some sleep.’

He doesn’t protest.

‘Good night, Yoongi.’

‘Good night.’

***

You and Yoongi never actually agreed that you would fly in to see him, and you feel a twinge of nervousness as you step out of the airport in Ostend.

This close to Christmas, the weather’s chilly, and although it’s early evening, it’s already dark. You wrap your scarf around you as you wait for your car.

At the hotel, you realise you don’t know Yoongi’s suite number.

You bite your lip nervously as you wait for Yoongi to answer your call.

The dial tone rings out.

You’re trying to decide what to do next when he walks into the hotel.

Your beautiful, polished husband, skin glowing and flushed with cold, his dark hair and eyes in striking contrast, his perfectly fitted navy coat unbuttoned over his perfectly fitted suit, walks in with his media director Park Gyuri.

His stunning ex-model ex-girlfriend Park Gyuri.

Your stomach drops, and it’s at that exact moment that he looks over and sees you.

He blinks at you, open-mouthed, then he’s changed direction and is walking over to you.

‘Jagiya,’ he says, as soon as he’s close enough.

He wraps you in a hug, and you hold him tightly to give yourself time to gather your composure.

You’d known that Gyuri was going to be on his business trip, she and Yoongi travel together often, she’s a core part of his team.

It was one thing knowing it, and another to see them walk in together.

Belatedly you realise the rest of Yoongi’s team have arrived too.

Yoongi pulls back to plant a kiss on your lips, and you hope he can’t feel the hammering of your heart.

‘It’s so good to see you,’ Yoongi says.

You meet his gaze.

Your husband is stunning, of course, but he also looks tired.

‘I hope it’s ok that I came,’ you say.

You sound formal even to yourself, and Yoongi frowns a little.

‘Of course it’s ok, I’m happy you made it,’ Yoongi tells you.

‘I’m free this evening, we can have dinner together. I’ll get Sungho to make a reservation, ok?’

Yoongi glances around, looking for your bag. ‘Did you bring any luggage, jagiya?’

‘I have to leave tomorrow,’ you tell him. ‘I didn’t bring any pyjamas, is that ok?’

There’s a spark in your husband’s eye. ‘It’s ok, I’ll keep you warm.’

‘That’s what I hoped,’ you say.

Yoongi laughs, grips your hand firmly. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he says, dropping a kiss on your head, and the tightness in your chest finally starts to ease.

***

By the time you step out of the shower, Yoongi’s sprawled out on the huge sofa, so quiet and still you know he’s asleep.

You sit yourself next to him. Like this, his face is at ease, the frown line between his brows that you’ve seen more often lately smoothed out.

You rarely acknowledge to yourself how much you love him. You’re scared it might be too much.

You run a hand down his chest, and he grunts softly, shifts so he’s flat on his back.

Your hand catches on his belt.

You undo it deftly, because it must be uncomfortable sleeping with a belt on, right?

You don’t really have an excuse for why you undo his suit trousers, apart from that you know your husband wouldn’t mind.

The scritch of his zipper unzipping makes him crack an eye open.

‘Jagiya,’ he says, voice so deep it makes you shiver, ‘what are you up to?’

You look up at him through your lashes.

‘I’m taking care of you Yoongi,’ you tell him.

You press a kiss to his tummy, right above the waistband of his boxer briefs. ‘Can I?’

Yoongi’s looking at you, eyes darkening as you tug down his waistband, expose him.

‘I had plans for us,’ he says, as you curl your hand around his semi-hard cock.

You smile at him. ‘Me too.’

Yoongi lets out a long breath as you nudge your nose along his cock, breathing in deep.

You take him in your mouth, tongue against the underside of him, sucking a little, enjoying the way he swells up for you.

Yoongi’s got his head back against the back of the sofa, throat working as he reaches full erection. He moves his hips under you, grasps your shoulder.

You reach out to his hand, splayed on the sofa, and knit your fingers through it.

If you were looking at his face, you’d see Yoongi’s expression change, the tenderness in his expression as he squeezes your fingers gently.

You’re not, you’re looking at his cock, all your attention set on giving him as much pleasure as you can.

He’s hard, and you can feel the way he jerks as you undo the tie on your robe to reveal that you’re bare underneath it.

You tug your hand away from his so he can touch you, well you try to, but Yoongi holds on to you.

He murmurs ‘jagi’ on a sigh, his voice beautiful like this, deep, mellow, rich.

You glance up at him, and he’s watching you, his dark eyes so intense you don’t want to look away.

You pull away, and his hips rise, as if to follow.

‘Make me messy, oppa,’ you say.

Yoongi smiles, wolfish, a flash of teeth. ‘Come sit on me.’

He unbuttons his shirt because he knows you like it when he’s bare-chested, reaches to steady your hips as you climb on top of him, like you’ve done so many times before.

He tugs your robe off your shoulders, slides his hand under, his hand warm against your skin.

He hisses through his teeth as you start to move.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he tells you as he runs his hand over your front, making your nipples peak, pinching, kneading your flesh.

‘Yeah?’ you say.

There’s an unwanted flash in your mind, the image of him and Park Gyuri walking into the hotel.

You push it away.

‘I always miss you,’ Yoongi says.

‘Don’t be romantic, Yoongi, it’s not your style,’ you say, teasing.

If there’s a tug at your heart when you say it, you hope it doesn’t show on your face.

Yoongi says, quietly, ‘I’ll be as romantic as you want me to be, jagiya.’

You can’t look at him, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s been rubbing his thumb over your clit, doing something with his hips that’s pulling you out of your feelings and into a tide of pleasure.

You moan, deep, and Yoongi grunts, lifts his head to suck the tip of your breast into his mouth.

You come with a cry of his name, and Yoongi groans. ‘That’s my girl, fuck.’

He utters your name, stretched out, over stuttering breaths, and you realise he’s coming too.

When your breathing slows and your heartrate settles you realise that he’s still holding your hand.

***

You wake, with a start, to your alarm alerting you to the fact that you’ll miss your flight home if you don’t haul ass.

Yoongi, beside you, is turned away, his back to you.

The regularity of his breathing tells you he’s still asleep.

You get dressed, and sit on the edge of his side of the bed to say goodbye.

He’s always been beautiful, your husband, but he also looks so tired you haven’t the heart to wake him. He hasn’t stirred the entire time you’ve been getting ready.

You press a kiss to his cheek and make your way out of the hotel room.

***

Your best friend Nara’s always been on your side, supporting you in the best ways. When you and Yoongi were estranged in the early years of your marriage, she helped you plot some of your more elaborate stunts.

It’s always worked both ways, of course, you were the first to support her design house, wearing her creations to all the most high-profile society events, backing her financially when her family threatened to cut her off for not going into the family business.

Nara’s always been the practical one, the shrewd business mind to your impulsive nature, providing balance. You’re an effective combination, and before your reconciliation, Yoongi had borne the brunt of your antics.

You’ve always marvelled at the way he’s never tried to reciprocate.

Nara eyes you over your cocktail.

‘What did Yoongi do now?’ she asks. ‘I thought he’d be thrilled to see you in Bruges.’

‘He was happy to see me,’ you tell her. This much you know, that he had been pleased to see you. You wish you’d been able to spend more time with him, but he’d said from the beginning that he’d been busy.

‘Gyuri was with him.’

Nara blinks. ‘She’s part of his team.’

Her statement is blunt, factual, but there’s sympathy in her eyes.

You down the rest of your cocktail.

‘You can never trust chaebol sons,’ says Nara, gently, ‘we grew up with enough assholes that we know that.’

You signal the waiter for a refill.

‘But Yoongi is less of an asshole than the rest,’ Nara concedes. ‘Not like that fucking Kim Seokjin.’

You choke on the water you’ve just taken a sip of.

‘You never did say what happened after you and Seokjin went to see Lee Sangcheol,’ Nara says, raising an eyebrow.

‘We’re gonna need more drinks,’ you sigh.

Five cocktails in, you’re watching with drunken amusement as Nara takes apart a hapless would-be suitor with her razor sharp wit.

Unlike you, Nara’s tolerance for alcohol is legendary.

You?

The room’s dim and wavy around the edges, and you’re feeling maudlin about your trip to visit Yoongi.

You look up, blinking curiously, as a man approaches you.

He looks vaguely familiar, in fact he looks like your husband, but you’ve been seeing shades of Yoongi in almost everyone in this bar tonight.

God, you miss him so much.

***

Yoongi can tell by the way you’re holding yourself rigidly upright that you’re drunk.

You look up at him, no recognition in your eyes.

Yoongi nods to Nara and turns back to you.

‘Would you like some water?’ he offers, signalling to the waiter.

‘No thank you,’ you reply. ‘I’d like another cocktail.’

Yoongi orders you both a refill and some water.

Your wedding ring sparkles as you lift the glass to your lips.

Yoongi’s vaguely amused to see that you chose to drink water first.

‘Are you having a nice time?’ he asks.

You consider his question carefully.

‘Yes, my friend and I are having a great night,’ you reply, finally. ‘And yourself?’

‘I’m not usually out at this time,’ Yoongi replies, honestly. ‘This is a rarity for me.’

‘Ah,’ you say, looking at him with interest. ‘What’s the occasion?’

You still haven’t acknowledged him with anything other than politeness, and Yoongi realises, with a flash of clarity, that you’re so intoxicated you don’t recognise him.

‘I wanted to support a friend,’ he answers. He guesses it’s true, at least this way Nara won’t be responsible for getting you home tonight.

You glance fondly at Nara. ‘Friendship is important.’

You smile at him for the first time. ‘Where’s your friend?’

‘Ah, they’re busy.’

You’re steadily sipping your way through the rest of your cocktail.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ Yoongi says, neutral.

‘Thank you,’ you reply. ‘You’re very good looking yourself. I’m sure if you’re looking for company, you won’t be short of offers.’

Yoongi swallows a laugh at your encouragement.

‘Can you keep me company?’ he asks.

‘Ah sorry, it’s girl’s night,’ you say, still polite. ‘Also I’m married.’

‘He’s a lucky man,’ Yoongi says.

You smile. ‘I’m not sure he’d agree,’ you say, lightly. There’s a note of melancholy in your voice that makes Yoongi look at you carefully.

‘Oh, I just mean I’m a terrible wife,’ you clarify. ‘I’ve done some awful things to him.’

Yoongi pours you more water.

‘Whatever you’ve done, it can’t be that bad,’ he offers.

You scoff, and he bites back a smile as you look at him scornfully.

‘I’m capable of extremely terrible things,’ you insist.

Helplessly endeared by your solemn, drunken expression, Yoongi touches your face.

‘Do you really not recognise me, jagiya?’ he asks.

You jerk away from his hand, nearly lose your balance.

Yoongi pulls you into his arms to stop you from falling.

He hears your gasp of outrage, and a moment later, the crack of skin against skin.

Even through the flare of pain, Yoongi’s stunned at the realisation that you’ve just punched him in the face.

***

Present day

By the end of the day, Yoongi realises he hasn’t heard anything from you all afternoon.

He heads to your rooms, knocks on the door tentatively.

When there’s no response, he pushes the door open anyway.

You’re sitting curled up on the floor, leaning against your bed, facing the patio doors.

As he approaches you, you grimace. ‘Stay away, I’m probably contagious.’

Yoongi takes in the clamminess of your skin, the way your hair’s stuck to your forehead.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling ill? Have you been like this all day?’

He’s concerned, but he can see the way you flinch a little at the harshness of his voice.

‘I’m fine, Yoongi, I drank too much and my head hurts.’

‘Seems like more than a hangover,’ Yoongi says. He brushes your hair back from your face. ‘Have you taken any meds?’

You gesture sadly towards the dressing table, barely six feet away.

‘Everytime I move, the room spins,’ you tell him.

Yoongi frowns. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling so bad? Come on, get into bed.’

‘I can’t,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll be sick if I move.’

‘You can’t stay like this,’ Yoongi says, exasperated.

‘Stop scolding me,’ you mumble, closing your eyes. ‘Go away.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Yoongi says. He takes a breath. ‘You shouldn’t drink so much.’

‘It was you,’ you say, suddenly. ‘It was you who groped me at the bar last night.’

Yoongi’s outraged. ‘I didn’t grope you, I tried to stop you from falling!’

‘You touched my face!’ you complain. ‘I thought you were a stranger.’

‘At least I don’t have to worry about you looking after yourself,’ Yoongi muses. ‘You can beat up anyone who comes on to you.’

‘Damn right,’ you agree.

Yoongi sighs. ‘I’m going to get you some water and meds and then I’m going to put you to bed, ok? Can I do that, or are you going to punch me again?’

‘Just don’t grope me,’ you warn.

‘You recognise me now don’t you? You never complained about me groping you before,’ Yoongi points out.

‘Stop scolding me!’

‘I’m not —’

Yoongi huffs out a breath. ‘I promise I won’t grope you if you promise not to punch me.’

‘My hand hurts,’ you whine.

‘You want sympathy?’ asks Yoongi, unsympathetically.

He sighs. ‘Wait here. Let me get you a drink.’

‘Gin and tonic,’ you mutter.

Yoongi ignores you.

***

Yoongi’s trying to finish reading the specs his product development team has sent him, but it’s difficult to concentrate.

There’s something weighing on his mind.

It’s you, which isn’t unusual, but what is unusual is the way he feels.

Uneasy, like he’s missing something.

There’s a knock on his study door.

‘Dinner in fifteen?’ you ask, peering around the heavy oak.

You look very pretty today, Yoongi notes to himself.

You’re already closing the door when he calls, ‘Hey.’

You look at him enquiringly.

‘You look pretty.’

You smooth your hand over your hip self-consciously. ‘I feel better.’

‘I was worried about you,’ Yoongi tells you.

You gesture vaguely to his face. ‘Your eye looks better.’

‘Come kiss it,’ Yoongi says.

It always amuses him, the way you get a little flustered when he asks for affection.

Yoongi pushes away from his desk as you approach him.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say, softly, as you cup his face and press a gentle kiss to his brow.

‘I deserved it,’ Yoongi replies. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t around for our wedding anniversary. I know that it mattered to you.’

‘It was silly,’ you say, but he can tell by the way you drop your gaze that he’s touched a nerve.

‘It’s not silly, of course you want to celebrate being married to me,’ Yoongi says.

You scoff. ‘You want two black eyes instead of one?’

Yoongi reaches for your hand, presses a kiss to your still-bruised knuckles.

‘Don’t break your hand on my hard skull,’ he says, very gently.

‘I have a company dinner next week,’ you say, in an obvious attempt to hide how flustered you are.

Yoongi says, ‘Are you asking me to accompany you?’

You blink at him. ‘Would you like to?’

‘I’d love to,’ Yoongi tells you.

***

You fiddle with the clasp of the stunning bracelet Yoongi gave you for your anniversary.

Objectively, it’s perfect, the diamonds sparkling like stars even in the flattering low lighting of the ballroom at this wedding Yoongi and you have been invited to.

You’re trying not to think too much about why it leaves you feeling so empty.

He’d clearly spared no expense, you’ve seen this exact bracelet in the pages of a glossy magazine, and the workmanship is incomparable.

Yoongi’s voice makes you look up.

‘They’re cutting the cake,’ he murmurs to you. ‘We should head back to our table.’

‘I’ll meet you there,’ you tell him. ‘Save me some.’

You head for the ladies room to compose yourself and touch up your makeup.

You’re retouching your lipstick when one of the doors opens, and Park Gyuri walks out.

She smiles when she sees you, nods a greeting. She takes the sink next to yours, and as she unclasps her purse a fiery sparkle draws your attention.

On her left wrist, a bracelet identical to yours.

It’s beautiful, you think it suits her better than it does you.

Now you know why the bracelet’s been bothering you as much as it has.

It represents everything about the chaebol life both you and Yoongi were born into, but though your husband seems perfectly at home in this microcosm, you’ve never truly felt like you belonged.

It makes you feel like Yoongi sees you as someone you’re not, and by extrapolation, that he doesn’t know you as well as he should, despite all you’ve been through.

As well as you want him to.

You force a smile at Gyuri, make yourself walk on legs that feel oddly stiff to exit the bathroom.

Back at your table, Yoongi rises to pull your chair out as you approach. Something in your expression makes him lean closer, voice low and worried.

‘Jagi, are you feeling ok?’

You nod, the smile on your face so frozen it feels like a rictus, a caricature of happiness.

You can feel Yoongi’s eyes on you, but you don’t think you can give him anything else right now, stricken as you are.

His hand finds yours under the table, and you draw comfort from his touch until the hurt and anger recedes and the tears retreat from behind your eyelids.

***

You’re not sure what’s changed, but Yoongi’s been so attentive lately it’s starting to make you feel uneasy.

You’re trying to zip up the back of your cocktail dress, and before you can even look in his direction, he’s behind you, hands warm on your bare back as he helps you with the zip.

You turn around, look him in the face.

‘What’s up, husband?’

Yoongi raises an eyebrow at you. ‘You seemed like you couldn’t reach.’

‘Not the zip,’ you say, testy. ‘Why are you so —’

Yoongi waits, like he genuinely doesn’t know why you’re so tetchy.

‘Why are you paying me so much attention? I swear, I’m not plotting anything.’

Yoongi looks like he’s trying not to smile.

‘I don’t think you’re plotting anything.’

‘Then why?’

‘Why can’t I pay you attention?’ Yoongi asks. ‘We’re married.’

‘You never paid me this much attention before,’ you point out.

Yoongi’s brow furrows. ‘Do you want me to ignore you?’

‘Yeah.’ You wave a hand. ‘Go back to ignoring me.’

‘Do you really want that?’ Yoongi asks. He glances in the mirror, straightens his tie.

‘I like asshole Yoongi,’ you tell him.

Your eyes meet in the mirror.

‘I can be an asshole,’ Yoongi says, finally. ‘But I don’t want you to be unhappy because of me.’

‘Since when do you care?’ you say, teasing.

Yoongi sighs. ‘I’ve always cared. I don’t like it when you’re sick and you don’t tell me, and I sure as hell don’t like it when you’re unhappy and don’t tell me why.’

‘You make me happy,’ you tell him. There’s a fluttering in your chest at his words, your taciturn, coolly detached husband isn’t normally this expressive.

‘I’m glad, because you make me happy too.’

Yoongi glances at the bracelet he got you, that you’ve got ready to put on.

‘Don’t wear that,’ he says. ‘You won’t tell me why, but I know you hate it.’

You stare at him.

‘Don’t deny it,’ Yoongi says. He gives you a look, a challenge in his eyes.

‘You don’t know me,’ you mutter, out of habit.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. ‘I do know you, wife, and that’s the problem. You’re a brat.’

You scowl at him. Yoongi looks supremely unmoved by your pique.

‘Come on, I don’t want us to be late for your company dinner.’

He takes the liberty of slapping his palm against your ass as he ushers you out of the door, and you don’t even have it in you to pretend to be mad about it.

***

Yoongi’s by the bar, waiting to be served, watching idly as you converse with your social media team.

He’s never been to one of your company events before, it’s rare that you invite him, and he likes seeing you with your colleagues.

You’re well-liked, everyone seems to want to talk to you.

He’s trying to suppress the urge to pull you into a corner and kiss you silly, because you look so pretty when you’re smiling and confident like this, when a conversation catches his ear.

‘I’m pretty surprised that Min Yoongi’s here – I thought they were estranged,’ says a woman by the bar.

‘Everyone knows he’s fucking Park Gyuri,’ says the man next to her, with a casual cruelty that makes Yoongi’s hand itch to slap him.

Yoongi steps out in front of them, levels them with a look.

‘I’m not fucking anyone apart from my wife,’ he says, mildly. ‘Although I fail to see how that’s anyone’s business but ours.’

There’s a stir, but Yoongi’s lost interest. He turns away from the bar, heads straight for where you are in the middle of the room.

The smile on your face when you see him does a lot to curb his irritation.

‘Yoongi,’ you say, hand on his arm. ‘They’re about to serve food.’

Your touch eases his annoyance, soothes him the way it always has.

‘Let’s get you something to eat, jagiya,’ Yoongi says.

He holds out his arm, feeling the familiar sense of connection thrumming through him as you slip your hand in the crook of it.

It’s everything.

***

Yoongi pulls out of the hotel, signals to turn towards home.

‘Did you have a nice time, Yoongi?’ you ask.

You’re leaning back against the seat, face tilted to his, half-shadowed in the darkness of the car.

‘I liked it,’ Yoongi replies. ‘You should invite me to more of these things.’

‘You’re welcome to come anytime,’ you say.

‘I will,’ Yoongi says.

‘I heard that you stood up for us at the bar,’ you begin, a little hesitant.

Yoongi glances at you in the rearview mirror.

‘You know about that?’ he asks, quietly.

‘People talk a lot of shit,’ you say. Yoongi doesn’t know if you’re consciously doing it, but your shoulders are squared, and there’s a stubborn tilt to your chin now.

He’s never loved you more.

‘They do,’ agrees Yoongi.

You’re both quiet as he drives.

It’s only when he parks up, at your home, that you speak again.

‘Thank you for coming with me,’ you say.

There’s a beat, two of searing eye contact.

Then Yoongi reaches out, cups the back of your head, and takes the kiss he’s wanted all night.

You melt into his arms like you’ve been waiting for exactly this.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ Yoongi murmurs, lips against your skin.

***

Yoongi’s different tonight, holding you with an urgency you haven’t felt from him before. He’s focused completely on you, and as much as you love it, love him, you can’t help but wonder if there’s something behind it.

You cup his face as he leans over you.

‘Hey,’ you say. ‘You know we have all night?’

Yoongi’s hand stills on your side.

‘Am I rushing?’

‘I’m just saying I’m here, Yoongi, I’m not going anywhere.’

Yoongi closes his eyes, leans into your hand, shudders out a breath.

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask. ‘Is there a game on you don’t want to miss?’

Yoongi doesn’t even crack a smile.

‘Do you love me?’

You blink at his question. ‘What?’

Yoongi waits.

‘I don’t hate you,’ you say, trying to inject some levity into the situation because his seriousness is scaring you.

Yoongi drops his head, groans into your neck.

‘I love you,’ you assure him. You roll your hips under his. ‘I don’t put out for just any chaebol asshole.’

Yoongi lifts his head, searches your face. ‘I don’t deserve you,’ he says.

‘That’s true,’ you say airily as he kisses his way down your neck.

His mouth skims over the skin of your sternum, lips soft, reverent.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I love you?’ he asks, lips poised over the round of your breast.

His question pulls you out of your pleasured haze.

Again, the image of Yoongi and Park Gyuri flashes into your head.

The truth is, you’re too scared to ask. You know, in your heart, that you would love Yoongi no matter what, and you’re not ready to face that truth right now.

So you smile at your husband and say, ‘Just show me.’

He does.

***

You’re passing by Yoongi’s study when you notice the door is ajar.

Yoongi raises a brow at you. ‘Come in, I have something for you.’

You frown at him suspiciously. ‘Is it your dick?’

Yoongi says, ‘Always, but I have something else too.’

You take a seat next to him on the sofa you always sit together on when you visit him.

Yoongi reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, hands you a jewelry box.

You meet his gaze apprehensively.

‘Is it a matching necklace?’

Yoongi just shakes his head. ‘Open it.’

You lift the lid on the box, and stop.

It’s another bracelet, except this one is exquisitely carved jade, delicate and so perfect you’re afraid to touch it.

Yoongi says, quietly, ‘I got this and the other bracelet at the same time. I chose the other one to give to you, but this one’s always reminded me more of you.’

You blink up at him. ‘Yoongi, it’s perfect.’

‘I know you like jade,’ Yoongi says. He picks up the bracelet, and you hold out your wrist as he clasps the bracelet around it.

‘It reminds me of my mother,’ you say.

Yoongi’s hands are gentle on your wrist.

You catch sight of a sheet of note card under the silken lining of the box.

It’s a list, in your husband’s handwriting.

‘What’s this?’ you ask, skimming through it, curious.

‘Didn’t you make one like this, a couple years ago?’ Yoongi asks. He’s not looking at you now. ‘It’s all the things I have to make up to you.’

Your heart stops.

Thoughts race through your head, you can barely see the words on the card even though his handwriting is neat, beautiful.

You’ve never asked him the question in your heart, and your husband’s answered it anyway.

He knows you better than you ever thought he did.

You press your lips together, trying to hold back the tears.

‘I didn’t write them down,’ you say, finally. ‘I just worked off the top of my head.’

‘Yeah?’ Yoongi asks. He’s leaning close now, so close that if you turned your face your lips would meet.

‘Yeah.’

Yoongi says, ‘I’m not sure what order to do them in. Can you help?’

You turn into his kiss, and it’s as lovely as it ever was.

God, you love him.

‘Yeah, I can help you with that,’ you tell him.

You can feel the curve of his lips against yours, the rumble of amusement in his chest.

‘Great. We should get started,’ he murmurs against your skin. ‘I need to win your heart, because I really don’t think any of this is worth it, without you.’

‘Goddamn it, Yoongi, looks like you’re a romantic after all,’ you tease.

Yoongi reaches out, thumbs the tears off your cheeks.

‘Looks like you’ve made me into one,’ he agrees.

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purest-expressionofgrief · 6 months

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gonna be another banger 😭 i’m so exciteddd

good day miss jimjiminieerings 🫡 i hope i’m not being a bother for asking this but may we 😍 with deepest humility and pleasantries 🥹 have a tiny tiny sneak peek of your brothers bff single dad au 😍👉👈 😍? again if it’s not a bother miss jimjiminieerings!!! feel free to ignore this ask if u are unable to post– im just excited 😍🙏😅🥹

fail-safe (sneak peek)

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: growing up, your brother's best friend always berated you for not having a passion in life outside of loving him from afar. when yoongi leaves everything he's ever known for everything he's ever wanted, trying to move on from him becomes your biggest aspiration.

alternatively, yoongi left when you needed him the most, and comes back home at a time when you love him the least.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, eventual fluff, brother's best friend AND single dad au, So Much Yearning, unrequited love (initial), jealousy, self-deprecation, a lot of talk abt passion in an empty n hurtful way that most impassioned youngest children feel (it's a specific feeling idk!!!), eventual redemption in the next parts ]

sneak peek 01

You don’t mind getting hand-me-downs.

As a matter of fact, you love receiving them. The wear and tear of the things that came before you is only proof that it’s been loved enough to be passed on to you.

You adore your mother’s dainty vintage watch that she wore throughout college, the hardware and sentiment behind it being pretty enough that you don’t mind constantly getting the battery replaced. You like Namjoon’s shirts that he’s outgrown, even through the numerous phases he’s had wherein only denim and tie-dye filled his closet.

You don’t mind the history behind the numerous things you have in your home, unbothered that you’re probably the only house in the block with the oldest possible rice cooker. The chips in the staircase aren’t covered up with marker ink and neither are the loose stitches in the couch quilt snipped off. It’s home to your mother and Namjoon — if it’s good enough for them, then it’s already the best for you.

Even on top of everything, you don’t mind your family almost always getting you shirts and shoes that have an allowance in them. Your mom would go to Seoul and pick out the exact pair of sneakers you wanted that are atleast three sizes bigger than your actual feet, and you’d barely bat an eye.

You don’t mind the coziness of things that are brought to you, because even if they weren’t offered, you’d seek them yourself.

So when Yoongi mentioned that he’s decluttering his room and needed someone (read: you) to vacuum it up for him, you jump at the chance. You take a grocery bag with you, wear the nearest pair of slippers within your vicinity, and book it to his house as soon as he finished talking.

“Go crazy, kid. Almost everything in that pile is garbage so you can take anything.”

“I feel like I should be more offended than how I feel right now,” you hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the pile in front of you. It’s a mound of Yoongi, or atleast everything he’s ever wanted up until he decided to do a general cleaning of his bedroom.

Yoongi chuckles, going through his pile of clean laundry for him to fold on the side while you scavenge for his things. “It’s either I have you take them or I get ripped off at the thrift store, then I see somebody’s uncle wearing my shirt as an added insult.”

You huff, rummaging through his heap of belongings while conveniently trying to ignore that you may look like somebody’s uncle the moment you wear his clothes. Everything is him; every distressed cap, every unfinished embroidered shirt, and every item of old significance with his initials branded on it.

The thick gray hoodie you’ve been eyeing (along with its owner) for the better part of the last few years surfaces into your field of vision, your gasp audible enough to make him jolt because he thought you’d gotten hurt.

“No way, this too? But this is your favorite,” you half-complain and half-rejoice, turning the hoodie inside-out eagerly in the fear that there’s a catch to it belonging in the pile.

“Eh. I know it looked good on me but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Besides, I’ve bulked up! Wanna feel?” Yoongi grins, his segue eerily similar to your brother’s at every given chance. A neighbor from down the block recently opened a small-time gym, and the both of them have not been able to shut their mouths about it since. From their gossiping alone, Yoongi and Namjoon have generated enough advertising already.

“You and Namjoon really have to stop asking random people to feel your biceps.”

There’s random knick-knacks throughout the clump in the middle of his bed, some being too good and actually useful that you snag them. Yoongi lets you do what you want anyways (most of the time), not having to turn his head to berate you on what you’re only allowed to grab from his stuff.

You’re not greedy — you already have his hoodie and that should be enough on its own. But there’s that handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it, then that Rubik’s cube he swore his relative got for him from New York, and even the little butterfly knife he got from a souvenir shop when his family when to the beach.

There were those and there is this, looking up at you in all of its glory.

“Yoongi.”

“What now?” he sighs at your dramatic gasp, looking up from his folded laundry to see what you were going on about. It takes a second for him to fully realize why exactly were you so pumped.

“Are you serious? Your helmet?” you squeal, already hugging the shiny red mass close to you. “Does this mean you’re passing your motorcycle to me?!”

“Are you crazy? Fuck no,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, snatching his helmet back from you. He doesn’t miss the bratty frown that fills up your entire face; he’s not exactly the biggest fan whenever you were upset or angry; maybe even both. “Obviously I forgot I even put my helmet there when I made that pile.”

You whine, stomping your feet in exasperation. You would dramatically plop down on his bed if only it wasn’t full of his shit. “Come on! You told me you were teaching me as soon as you finish teaching Joon.”

“Teaching you how to ride my scooter is not the same as giving you it. Why would I just hand you what I bought with my hard-earned money?” Yoongi scrunches his nose, tone sharper than what he intended.

“But you still haven’t taught me,” you murmur to placate yourself and dissuade yourself from the delusion that Yoongi would even exert such an effort for you because of course — why would he do that for you?

You have an inkling that you’re being irrational for all the wrong reasons, perhaps even projecting your need to be looked after… by him.

Yoongi notices your mood that turned sour quickly, the silence between you becoming loaded. He didn’t mean to be that blunt. “I don’t think you’re even old enough to have your driving permit,” he adds in consolation, voice considerably softer.

You snicker lowly, still looking at your feet with your arms crossed. “But I’m old enough to backpack whenever you need me to carry shit that can’t fit in your carrier.”

He immediately groans at your comeback, his furrowed eyebrows mirroring yours. “You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you retort, knowing for a fact he’s known how to drive even before he was eligible for permits and licenses and whatnot.

Yoongi takes one, two seconds to himself to regain his composure, clearing his head in the process. You’re still not looking at him and you’re pouting and you don’t even notice the latter, making him crack a small smile.

“I will teach you next week.”

“Oh my-…”

He cuts you off, raising his hand in emphasis. “Provided that you listen to everything I say and wear full gear at all times. You clearly don’t have a job yet-…”

“Ouch.”

“And I don’t have the extra money to buy full gear for myself, so what you’ll do is bundle up with your padded coat and the thickest jeans you have,” Yoongi enunciates every word, eyes keenly on you. They’re too wide and alert, you actually feel like listening to him.

“You go on rides wearing your pajamas.”

“Just say ‘thank you, Yoongi’.”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you trail off, head tilting in confusion.

You’ve had a million conversations like this with Yoongi before but of different fonts; worn, familiar, and warm.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he mouths, nodding at you to do the same. He won’t stop until you utter them back to him, and you know you won’t go home either without giving him your gratitude as you always do.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you relent, the grin that breaks through your lips being infectious enough that he laughs lowly to himself.

He exhales all the worries he has and could possibly ever have seeing you ride the motorcycle (or for you yearning to do everything that he does), grasping at whatever sanity he has left from looking after you.

sneak peek 02

“I’m not immature, you asshole!”

“Good,” Yoongi clipped, turning his back on you for the last time. “Good for me.”

You’re unsure if you have to thank him for that, the uncertainty being on par with the insecurity you had felt when he left you with his truth.

You’re not hysterical in the same way you stood before him when you even considered ripping up his plane ticket, but on the other hand, Yoongi’s inconsolable in the way he flounders before you.

“I’m only visiting,” you answer, the curt smile on your face that Yoongi recognizes to be the one you’d give to strangers making his blood run cold. “I don’t plan on staying.”

ruh-roh new series alert :O wanna read the entire first chapter of fail-safe now + gain early access to succeeding chapters + read other exclusive content?? subscribe to my patreon :D

also to get ahead of the questions: yes, this is a general fic aka it WILL be posted on tumblr too!!! i'll release it here mid-november :)

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purest-expressionofgrief · 6 months

Text

i'm on tumblr to read women's diaries

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purest-expressionofgrief · 6 months

Text

apothecary diaries

vinsmoke sanji (opla) x fem!reader

♡—you need peppermint for a salve you're making, but sanji bought all of it, and that's seriously not fair.

word count♡— 3.7k

genre♡— fluff

content notes♡— opla sanji, afab!reader runs an apothecary and likes to make things, inaccurate chemistry for the sake of the story, mentions of flames in bottles, please do not do that, no use of y/n, not fully proofread

also on♡— ao3

author's note♡— I love sanji sm he makes me cry. might be first in a series, but we'll see. please enjoy. xoxo, belle.

The third time a pirate entered your shop, you genuinely considered closing up early today.

You level him with a stare despite the man being twice your size. You cut him off before he can get a word out.

“No, I don't have anything that works against people made of rubber.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you gesture to the rest of your wares. “Now, are you going to get anything else? Or should you be on your way?”

He leaves, disgruntled, but without a fight.

A huff escapes your lips. The nerve of these people.

Ever since that outrageous bounty for that new pirate came along, suddenly every pirate and pirate hunter in the East Blue was gearing up to chase after him. All the poisons that were gathering dust in your storage were cleared out within days of those posters showing up.

It was good berry at first, but they got more aggressive, and started demanding more of everything. More doses than you were comfortable handing out. More dangerous poisons that could kill everyone in the room if the seal loosens by even a crack.

You took up this apothecary business because you wanted to help people. It wasn't exactly your dream to become a poison dealer.

The shop bell rings again. Thankfully, this time it's one of your elderly neighbors and not a pirate seeking poison.

The old lady smiles at you, the sides of her eyes crinkling. “You seem to be quite busy these days, dear.”

“If only they were paying customers like you, Ma'am.” You pick up a box of loose tea from the shelf, already knowing her usual order.

She gasps in concern. “Oh my, did they steal from you?”

“Only my time.” You grimace slightly, remembering how many pirates barged in last week.

“Would you like some honey with this? We have fresh jars from today's shipment.” You offer as you tally her order.

The lady hums in agreement. “Yes, I think some honey would be lovely.”

During slow days like these, you like to tinker with new recipes to sell. On a desk at the very back of the shop, obscured by thick curtains, is your beloved workstation.

You review your notes from the previous day. You'll need to get some peppermint for the healing salve you're developing. Taking a small jar of the experimental paste, you test a small amount on your hand.

Indeed, it needs more peppermint. Maybe you should use extract instead of crushed leaves next time, so that the texture is smoother.

The problem arises when your go-to herb supplier says he's run out of peppermint.

“Please tell me you're kidding.” You groan, looking down at your sadly empty whicker basket.

“M’sorry, lass.” The vendor shrugs, not looking very sorry at all. “You just missed the guy who bought everything. I promise I'll get you your peppermint next week, though.”

Resigned, you sigh, reading through the rest of your shopping list. The salve, at least, can wait a week as it's still a work in progress. The rest of your list, however, are crucial ingredients for your usual bestsellers.

“Fancy looking lad. He asked about spices. Told him to go to the shops down by the river.”

Your stomach drops. Everything else you need are sold by those shops.

Mentally cursing that vendor, you run as fast as your feet can take you. You're not letting some tourist get the better of you when it comes to ingredients.

You reach the river in record time. You'd feel proud if you didn't feel winded. Even so, you scan the road for anyone matching the tourist's description.

There doesn't seem to be anyone remotely fancy around. Triumphant, you go on with your shopping.

You begin to feel better as you cross more things off your list. You've almost forgotten about the peppermint incident, if only you didn't suddenly smell so much of it pass by.

A tall blond man walks by, clearly doing a lot of shopping based on the boxes of supplies he's carrying. The scent of peppermint hits you again. In a paper bag, at the very top of the boxes, you spot bunches of those leaves you've been so desperate for.

You can only clench your jaw in frustration and frown at the back of his head. He purchases a large amount of meat and fish in the next stall, and you gather that he must be some sort of chef. No normal person buys so much meat that the shopkeep offers to deliver everything. But that's what happens to this fancy looking lad. He must not be normal then.

“Yes, my ship's in the docks. You can't miss it, thank you so much for your help.” He smiles. His blue eyes wander the stall, then travel to the next stall over, where you are.

There's a moment of surprise when he finds you already looking at him, but his expression changes instantly into a suave one. It almost makes you want to back away, but you stand your ground when he approaches.

“Aren’t you stunning? I was feeling tired, but your pretty face woke me right up.”

You turn away, pointedly ignoring him. He can't flirt with you while smelling like peppermint. It's just not fair.

“Sorry for the hold up, lass. What's it you need?” The shopkeep you were waiting for shows up just in time. You continue to not pay the blond beside you any attention.

“Cinnamon and salt, please.” You respond. “Pink, if you have any.”

“I'll have the same, good sir.” Fancy pants says. “Though, my salt doesn't need to be pink.”

As the shopkeep rummages through his supplies, the blond continues to speak to you. Why does he keep speaking to you?

“Pink salt is lovely to look at, same as you,” He begins, “But other than the color, there really isn't a difference to normal salt, isn't there?”

He shrugs, his broad shoulder shifting his suit jacket slightly. “You're paying extra for the same result. It's all the same when you cook it.”

“I'm not using it for cooking.” Is your only response.

The shopkeep returns before the stranger can reply. “Here's the salt for you's.” He hands you a bag of pink rock salt, and the stranger a bag of regular salt.

The dread from the peppermint vendor returns when you realize the shopkeep is holding only one bag of cinnamon. He pats it and says, “I could split it so you both get half.”

“I was here first.” You insist desperately. “Sell it to me.”

“...My hands are tied here, lad.” The shopkeep sells you the cinnamon, and it's quickly tucked into your basket when you get your hands on it. The stranger doesn't barter for it. Good.

And with that, you cross out cinnamon and salt from your shopping list. You were able to get everything except the peppermint, which stays neat and legible at the very top of the list.

You crumple the paper and toss it into a nearby bin before making your way back to your shop.

“Are you on your way to get some peppermint?” How did the stranger catch up with you so quickly?

“No.” No matter how much you wish you were.

You try to walk faster, but his pace is steady even with a large box under one arm and several others tied up with twine held in his other hand.

“But it was on your list.” He seems to be very interested in your dealings. Is he always this dedicated when he flirts?

You cross the bridge that arches over the river together. The townsfolk who recognize you and not the man next to you begin to whisper amongst themselves.

It takes everything in you to resist rolling your eyes. After a week of pirates, you suspect your shop will be full of gossiping neighbors soon.

“A certain someone bought all the best peppermint today.” Of course the scent of it wafts over you again as you say so.

“Ah.” Understanding dawns on his face. “I see, I'm sorry if that inconvenienced you.”

It was your turn to shrug. You were about to say that it was okay, but then remember that you wouldn't be able to complete your salve until next week.

You pout before you can help it. “Did you really have to buy all of it?”

He breathes out a laugh. “I normally wouldn't, but my friends tend to have endless appetites. It always pays to have plenty of supplies.”

Even in the middle of the bustling street, a certain group of strangers stand out. They're gathered outside the tavern. You don't know any of them, but you recognize one of them as that infamous new pirate with the exorbitant bounty on his head.

“Speaking of my friends...” The blond trails off, nodding towards that particular group.

You just about stop in your tracks. He's with them? He's a pirate?

Okay. A rich, flirtatious tourist you could deal with. A random pirate crew? You would probably still be fine.

But the crew with the highest bounty in all the East Blue? That's just asking for trouble to happen.

While the stranger is distracted by his friends, you slip into an inconspicuous alleyway. You'd have to go a little further around to reach your shop, but that's alright as long as you avoid those Straw Hat pirates.

Luck seems to not be on your side, though. Because fancy pants shows up to your shop later that evening.

He grins. “You didn't tell me crossing that bridge together meant something. I would have talked about something more romantic than peppermint if I knew.”

Of course, word travels fast in a small town. You should have known someone would tell him. And that he would be able to find you easily if he wanted.

“How does the legend go, again?” He asks teasingly. “If two people cross the bridge together on the day they meet... Theirs souls are bound.”

“It's a myth.” You dismiss his charming grin and try to ignore him.

He leans his elbows on the counter that separates you. He's hunched down, but still towers over you somehow.

“It's romantic. And I'm glad it happened to us.” He smiles. “May I at least know the name of the person my soul is now bound to? Mine's Sanji.”

“Well, Sanji. Are you going to buy something?” You ask and avoid giving him your name.

Sanji, surprisingly, nods. He grabs two cans of your special handmade tea and a large jar of honey.

“I'll buy these,” He places the items on the counter. “And give you this.” He holds out several sprigs of peppermint. You blink at him in surprise.

“...Thank you.” You gingerly take it, and carefully set it to the side.

You're silent while you ring up his order. It's when you're taking out a paper bag for him that you finally cave and reveal your name.

The smile that blooms on Sanji's face isn't how you expected it would be. You expected him to look arrogant, to look proud that he was able to sway you like he did other women before.

But he looks at you sweetly, dimples showing and eyes sparkling. You wordlessly hand over the paper bag.

“A pleasure, darling.”

You would have thought that would be the last time you saw Sanji. But, be it luckily or unfortunately, he finds you the next day with the rest of the Straw Hats tagging along.

Only this time, they seem to be on the run.

You hold open the door for the Straw Hats and, one after another, they flood into your shop. Sanji smiles and says something about your hair, but you can't process the words with his friends scattering to hide.

“Sanji, what the fuck?”

“I know, I know, love. I'm sorry we had to reunite like this. We just need to lay low for a bit.” He reassures you, caressing your shoulders as he does.

“I'll make it up to you! I'll cook you a romantic, candlelit dinner.”

You frown at him, unimpressed.

Sanji kisses his teeth and sighs. “I'll give you the rest of the peppermint.”

You perk up instantly. “Deal. You can all hide in my workstation.”

“Hi, I'm Luffy!” Their captain greets you jovially. “That's Zoro,” Luffy points to the swordsman. “Nami,” The woman. “And Usopp.” The one hiding under your counter.

“Of course, you know Sanji already, being soulmates and all.”

You trip on nothing, and Sanji grabs your hand to steady you. You glare. He just smiles.

“Your shop is really cool!” Luffy exclaims, looking at all the trinkets on the shelf.

“Thanks.” You say dryly, pushing the curtain partition aside. You lead them to the back of the shop.

“Make yourselves at home.” You wave a hand towards the couch and some chairs around your desk. They should be fine here as long as they don't need to stay the night.

Through the gaps in the window blinds, flashlights and shadows stream into the room. There seems to be an active search party out for these guys. You suddenly can't believe you agreed to this for peppermint.

Zoro, whose three earrings glint in the light, shifts to scratch at his chest. You spot bandages from the gap in his shirt.

You grab the small jar of salve from your desk and toss it to him. He catches it, but looks from the jar to you and back, confused.

“It's a healing salve I made. It should help soothe your skin.” You explain.

The swordsman still looks unsure, but opens the jar anyway. Zoro sniffs its contents, and tries putting a small amount on his chest.

You beam at him, unable to help feeling proud at how his shoulders visibly relax after using it.

“Thanks.” Zoro says simply.

“No problem.” You nod back, still smiling.

Luffy looks at the jar as if it's a miraculous cure-for-all. “That's amazing.”

“It smells really good, too.” Usopp says, sniffing at the air around Zoro.

“Do you sell that here?” Nami asks.

“I will, once I make more.” You answer. You never realized how uplifting it was to share your work with new people.

Subconsciously, you turn to Sanji. But, why is he frowning? You follow your gaze to find he's looking at the jar in Zoro's hand.

Before you can ask him if anything is wrong, Luffy bursts out excitedly, "You're a doctor! You should join our crew!"

You wince. “No, I'm a chemist.”

“Cool!” Luffy's enthusiasm does not wane. “So you can heal, right?”

You're about to correct him before they assume things out of your pay grade when Usopp claps his hands in realization.

“She's even better than a doctor!” Usopp insists. “She makes the medicine that the doctors give out!”

Just as you were about to interfere with how much they were overestimating your skills, the shop bell rings. You turn to the clock. Shit, you should have locked up twenty minutes ago.

You meet everyone's eyes and they all nod, understanding that they need to be quiet. You switch off the lights in the back room for good measure.

The customer is a pirate you've never seen before. He looks angry, glaring at every possible hiding spot in your shop. Particularly the room you just came from.

You're careful to completely shut the curtain behind you.

“How can I help you, sir?” You put on your best customer service smile. “I was just about to close the shop, but if it's urgent, I'll help you find what you need.”

The pirate grunts. He's not buying what you're selling at all.

“Perhaps some calming tea? You look like a refined gentleman who would enjoy this.” You hold up a can of tea as if that will help you seem less suspicious.

“What's behind the curtain?” He points behind you accusingly.

“My work area, where I make all the fine products you see before you.”

Stomping forward, he seems to have had enough of your stalling. Fine.

Just as he's about to bash his fist down onto your counter, you grab a suspicious looking dark jar. You hold it up threateningly.

“The hell is that?!” The pirate snarls.

“Haven't you heard? I'm the go-to poison dealer in all the East Blue.” You bluff. “A whiff of this, and you'll sink like a rock, my friend.”

He freezes, but glares at you more fiercely. You pretend to twist the lid.

“Y-you'll kill yourself too, then!” He barks back. “Let's see your bullshit poison then.”

“Oh, but that's what makes me so brilliant.” You grin, laying the act on thick. “I'm immune to all the poisons I make.”

Your hand settles ominously on the lid. “Shall we test who survives?”

The pirate scrambles to leave. He's out before you can blink. Without missing a beat, you lock the front door and draw all window blinds down.

You rest your back against the door. Letting out a loud exhale, you almost let yourself slide down to the floor. How long do you have to deal with pirates like that?

Thoughts of yesterday with Sanji at the market fill your thoughts. If only all days could be like that, where the worst of your problems had been a peppermint shortage.

“You guys can come out, now.” You call out to the Straw Hats.

“Uh... Is that really poison?” Usopp asks, staying very far away from the jar.

You laugh, though it comes out airy due to your tiredness. “No, those are just some herbs I left to ferment.”

“How brilliant of you, love.” Sanji is beside you in a few strides. Him and those long legs.

“Was he the one you guys were hiding from?” You ask. The crew members shake their heads.

“No, actually.” Nami says. “We were hiding from a bunch of—”

Your shop explodes.

Sanji is quick to pull you into his arms and shield you from the debris with his own body. For a minute that feels like eternity, you can't hear anything. Your ears are ringing, and dust clouds over all your years of hard work. You sob into Sanji's arms.

“No!” You cry out.

Marines step into the shop, wood planks cracking and glass panels shattering under their feet. There are so many of them. You don't understand. Even if you hid the Straw Hats here, they shouldn't be allowed to destroy private property, right? Right?

“We got a report of illegal poisons in the area.” The leading officer states, his face stoic. “Just our luck that we run into pirates as well.”

You look to the Straw Hats, all of them are positioned to fight, save for Sanji. He's still cradling you protectively.

Taking a shaky deep breath, you lift your hand to rest it on Sanji's arm. He instantly looks down at you, silently asking if you're alright.

You're not yet, and if you're being honest, you'd rather stay in his arms until everything is over. But you nod anyway. Sanji gently lets you go and gets ready to face your new enemies.

“Get them all.”

Chaos breaks, and you run to duck behind a shelf that toppled over. The Straw Hats put up a good fight, but there are just too many Marines. Your eyes find round bottles of herbs scattered around you, and you come up with an idea.

“Guys!” You yell. “Buy me some time!”

“Anything for you, darling.” Sanji winks at you before sending a Marine flying. You gape at his audacity. The rest of them don't even react, but you notice they rotate slightly, surrounding you to keep you from being interrupted.

Grabbing as many of the bottles as you can, you stuff them with shards of wood and more dried leaves. You take rocks from the debris and strike them together.

With a few sparks, the herbs and leaves catch fire. You act fast, throwing the bottles at the Marines.

The bottles shatter, bursting into flames once they hit their mark. The Marines panic and become disoriented, giving the Straw Hats an advantage despite being outnumbered.

Eventually, the Marines run and scatter, leaving only the few bravest of them to fight. The Straw Hats make quick work of them.

When the battle is over, you watch the dust settle over the ruins of your apothecary. It's going to take years to earn enough berry to restore how everything once was. You can't help but feel heartbroken.

Sanji sits down in the rubble next to you, wrapping you in another embrace. You let yourself fall into him.

“We'll help you get everything back. I promise.” He swears, voice slightly muffled into your hair.

“Or, you could come with us! Join our crew!” Nami hits Luffy on the shoulder.

“What? It's true!” Luffy insists. “We need someone like her!”

You pull back from Sanji's embrace to look at him. He doesn't say anything, but something tells you he wishes for you to come with them. The others look at you expectantly as well.

No one speaks to persuade you further. But when you compare this rag-tag team to your ruined apothecary, your answer suddenly feels very clear. If you're to slave away to earn the berry for rebuilding your home, why not spend that time with them?

The back of the shop is less affected, even if the sight is still dreadfully sad. Your notes are thankfully intact, and you're able to find a bag and shove some extra clothes into it. It saddens you that you're so quick to pack up your life, but you'll come back. Someday.

When you return to the others, they're all smiling. Sanji more so, but you should have expected that.

He holds out his hand, and you reach out to take it.

“I change my mind,” You jest. “I'll take that romantic candlelit dinner now.”

Sanji laughs loudly while he guides you to walk over the rubble safely. You catch some of the others laughing too, but they walk a ways ahead you and Sanji.

“Like I said,” He says with his signature grin, “Anything for you, my dear.”

Your mind must be playing tricks on you, because he still smells like peppermint. Now, that's really not fair.

934 notes · View notes

purest-expressionofgrief · 6 months

Text

𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 as much as you wanted to stay by his side, you couldn't bear the thought of watching him fall in love with other women while you're stuck at the kitchen washing dishes and measuring ingredients. so you dreamt of leaving, of traveling to different islands to share your lovely songs and tunes; but the more your desire to leave grows, the more sanji finds himself drowning in your warmth.

or,

you and sanji over the years, wherein five times you tried to leave him and the one time you finally did, despite his refusal to let you go.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 musician reader, 5 + 1 things, pining, unrequited love, not actually unrequited love, heavy (kind of) angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 HERE IT IS! the response to the sneak peek was crazy, and so i rushed to get this done. i only watched the live action so beware of minor mistakes if you ever saw one. english is also not my first language and you are welcome to correct me anytime for any grammatical errors. title is a lyric from the last time by taylor swift ft. gary lightbody. this fic is also posted in ao3 with its full summary and WITH A BONUS CHAPTER. enjoy reading!

𝐰𝐜 11.3k

"There you are."

Your soapy, wet hands almost dropped the ceramic plate you were currently washing in the dirty kitchen sink as soon as you heard a familiar smooth and honeyed voice. Abruptly turning off the sink so that the sound of his approaching footsteps were clear to your ears, you wiped the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand before turning your body towards him.

He was carrying a stack of plates, a fresh batch to add to the pile you had to wash, with an obnoxious yet handsome smile plastered on his lips. You took a deep breath to calm the growing irritation at the bottom of your stomach, reminding yourself that this was your job and you only had a couple of hours to endure until you're free to lock yourself up in your bedroom. You were particularly looking forward to writing today, and the thought of finishing the lyrics to your new song tonight slightly eased your mood. Accepting your fate, you pointed to the remaining space beside the sink.

"Place it there." You told him, albeit begrudgingly as you turn on the sink again and pour more soap on the battered sponge.

You took a mental note to ask Zeff later about buying new sponges, and if you were lucky to catch him in a good mood, you'll put in a request to get the sink fixed and cleaned. Your eyes scanned over the grime and rust around the area. If you were going to spend the rest of your life washing dishes, then you might as well get a proper kitchen sink to do so.

An amused laugh fell out of the golden haired man you grew up with, surprised at your compliance to do the job you hated. The sound nearly sent your poor heart into a dizzying whirlwind of little nuisances called emotions. "What a hardworking woman."

"I could say the same to you. It seems like you have a new record today." You said while you splashed dirtied bowls with soap water, smiling at him teasingly, "Thought you would've been kicked out of the line by now."

"The old man just can't help but to accept the fact that I am a greater cook than him." He smirked, wiping a knife with a dish cloth. Trying not to roll your eyes, you shook your head at his usual display of arrogance, yet you can't help but to grin as you began to hear scratching sounds against the floors.

"Then you better get those chopped carrots ready." You replied, and when you got to finish your sentence, the doors to the kitchen swung open, revealing the head chef.

Zeff's cold and steely eyes immediately landed on the blond. He walked towards him with a fast pace despite only having one leg, his braided mustache bouncing in each step.

"Aye, aye, aye. Why haven't you started on the carrots yet, little eggplant? Can you get any slower?" He scolded, loud enough for the whole staff to hear, but none of them even flinched. You returned back to your plates and glasses, smiling softly. This was part of your routine everyday: to listen in their silly arguments.

However, before the younger chef can reply, you butted in, "Sanji fetched some of the plates for me. Since there's a lunch rush, I couldn't leave the kitchen."

Zeff let out a low hum. You couldn't even see Sanji's face, but you knew him well enough to know that he was smiling triumphantly, knowing that he won this time. After a few minutes of contemplating, the head chef clicked his tongue. "Don't defend him, little lass. But I'll let it slip this time. What are you waiting for, then? Start cutting them!"

"Yes, chef." Sanji answered in a jovial manner, placing the carrots on a chopping board.

Twisting the faucet lever so that the water flow from the sink is gentle and quiet, you then paid attention to their little banters every now and then. You brought up a wine glass and positioned it by your side to try to get a glimpse of the two most important men in your life. Through their reflection on the glass, you can see Zeff hunching over Sanji's knifework, nodding every time the vegetables were correctly sliced.

On the other hand, Sanji was unbothered by the head chef's observations and continued to cut the ingredients calmly. Some of the strands in his hair fell down on one side of his face, covering an eye, and most people would think that it was an unusual way of styling hair; yet it was one thing out of many that you loved the most about him.

You accepted it years ago.

You accepted the fact that you somehow fell in love with Sanji Vinsmoke along your weird journey of working in a sea restaurant full of former pirates and making music while at it. How the pesky feelings grew and wrapped themselves around your aching heart, you didn't know. Maybe it was when he learned to cook your favorite food and gave it to you afterwards, or the way his crystal blue eyes reminded you of snowflakes every winter.

Or maybe it was when he pulled your hair out of jealousy the moment he learned that Zeff would be taking in another child in his care, but brushed it and even braided it after the latter cleared the misunderstanding. Maybe it was when he supported you in your dreams and told you they weren't silly, maybe it was when he fought off drunk men that were trying to hit on you. Or maybe it was the way his voice would drop an octave lower whenever he asks you for a favor. The list could go on and on and you still wouldn't know the reason why. It doesn't matter anyway. You tripped, you fell, and now you're pining.

Drying off the last of the plates, you washed your own hands after and patted them dry on your skirt. You were the last one to leave the kitchen, the other staff already back in their quarters after a long, exhausting day of cooking. You fixed the signature blue bandana tied in your hair then went on your way towards the upper deck.

You weren't blessed with a talent in cooking, so you offered to do chores instead. Washing the dishes, cleaning the restaurant, and doing the laundry were few of the things you do in the Baratie. You can't say that you enjoy it, but you were beyond grateful that Zeff gave you a chance despite his opposition to let a woman work inside his restaurant.

As you were about to go to the newly laundered clothes you hung on a thin wire earlier that morning, you heard two voices speaking. You also smelled cigarette smoke wafting through the air, and you only knew one person who could be smoking at this hour. Your breath hitched in anticipation.

"You bringing a woman to your bed again, Sanji?" The other person asked playfully, but there was a hint of disbelief in his voice. You carefully took a peek so you won't accidentally reveal yourself and be accused of eavesdropping. Two people came into view with their backs facing you.

"Now, what are you talking about, Patty? I am a gentleman. I only had a nice chat with the lovely lady and escorted her back to her ship." Sanji interjected, a cigarette hanging on his lips.

Patty huffed. "I didn't know that chatting included kiss marks on jawlines."

This caused Sanji to laugh and say, "Not my fault she was charmed by my food."

"The boss man ain't gonna like it when he finds out about this."

"He's not gonna find out." Sanji assured him, wiping off the said kiss mark on his jaw. You stared at him as he did so, and you pitied the woman who planted that kiss, knowing she was just one of the many beautiful ladies Sanji had flirted with before. However, a tinge of pain in your chest said otherwise, taunting you that it was not pity you're feeling, but foul jealousy.

"Why don't you look for more decent women, eh? How about 'little lass' for a change?" Patty suddenly suggested.

It was like someone had hit your stomach with one of the metal pans in the kitchen with the way it lurched in surprise and nervousness. Your heartbeat started to quicken the longer you waited for his response, making your grip on your skirt tighter. In moments like these, you allowed yourself to hope, to wish that he saw something in you and that he finds you beautiful and lovely enough to be the person standing by his side.

But his answer made all that hope crumble down into nothing but dust.

"I don't see her that way." Sanji said after a long stretch of silence, taking a long drag from the cigarette then releasing the smoke in a single breath.

Ah.

You blinked repeatedly, trying to keep the tears from forming. It's always been like this, so why can't you get used to it? Taking a deep breath, you gulped away the knot forming in your throat and decided to leave. You can grab the clothes later.

"You're too kind for him." Someone behind you spoke, making you jump and tense up. Turning around, you saw Zeff looking at you with an unreadable emotion in his eyes and his hands on his hips, almost like he knew your secret. Of course he does. He always sees everything.

You stumbled on your words. "Sir?"

"That boy is always up to something." He began, switching his attention to Sanji. "One minute he's stubbornly immature in the kitchen, and the next he'll be a thirsty man staring at women like they're liquid booze."

Clearing your throat, you forced a smile.

"Well, he can be a lot sometimes." You agreed, remembering the days when the two of you would fight over irrelevant matters. Then you chuckled and continued, "But he's kind. He's gentle, and lovely, like a freshly made poem you keep repeating in your head. But then he's also confusing, hot-headed, and reckless. He's like the sea, isn't he? Calm yet wrapped with mystery, dangerous yet beautiful..."

You trailed off, an unbearable heat rising up your cheeks and neck once you slowly began to realize that you just ranted out your feelings to the head chef. You glanced at him with wide eyes, preparing to see a disgusted look on his face; however, Zeff didn't appear to be repulsed by your little speech. In fact, the corners of his lips were slightly quirked up.

"But I cannot swim. If I were to drown, he wouldn't save me." You quickly added, hoping to shut down the topic.

He sighed. "You will meet someone who deserves you as much as you deserve them, little lass." He simply said. He then laid his hand out, and on his palm was a little box poorly tied with a ribbon. "Here, for you."

Altnough you were a bit confused at the random gift, you accepted it and cradled the box to your chest. "I'll be okay, Zeff." You insisted, grinning cheekily. "When I become famous, I'll sing my songs here in Baratie, and people would flood the restaurant to hear my singing. And to eat your food too, of course."

The head chef nodded, relief flooding his expression. "I look forward to that." He said while awkwardly returning your smile.

That night, when you were sure that everyone in the Baratie was asleep, you opened the loose floorboard on the floors of your bedroom and grabbed the wooden box you kept hidden for a long time now. You opened the lid and began counting the Berry you saved for the past few months.

Tomorrow was the perfect day to leave.

You just can't stay here. Yes, you had a roof over your head, delicious food to eat everyday, and clean clothes to wear but you were so miserable. This wasn't the life you wanted. You wish to go out there, sing your heart out, and fall in love with someone who actually loves you back.

A knock on your door made you freeze. You held your breath as the person on the other side continued to knock a few more times. "You awake?"

Pain surged through your veins, your chest twisting in agony. Sanji.

"You didn't come down for dinner. I guess you're too tired, hmm?" He said, his muffled voice gentle, and the sound almost prompted you to stand up and open the door for him. But you dug your fingernails in your palms and resisted, because you can't just let this opportunity pass by.

You heard a brief clinking sound before Sanji spoke again, "Sweet dreams, ange."

Once his footsteps faded away, you cautiously moved towards your door and opened it as quietly as you can. There, on the floor, was a small plate with a slice of your favorite desert: angel's food cake, topped with fresh cream and strawberries.

You bent down and saw a note beside the plate. And when you got to read the contents of the note, you burst into tears and sobs that wracked down your entire body.

Happy Birthday

— S.

You ate the cake with tears silently falling down your cheeks, and that was the first time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.

⸻ • ⸻

Today was the day, and you won't allow anyone to ruin it for you.

You had saved enough Berries to travel around the world and sustain yourself for the upcoming months. Your notebook containing the lyrics of the songs you wrote laid open on top of your bed as you spent all night revising them while planning out an itinerary. Then you'll find a place to settle in, a stable job that required doing what you loved the most, and overall just be peaceful and free from pirates and chefs and pirate chefs. It was perfect.

Folded clothes surrounded you everywhere, ready to be packed in your bags. Once you finished stuffing them all in, you grabbed your treasured instrument, the one thing you couldn't live without: your guitar, which has been with you since you were a little child. It was given by your mother and you've been attached to it ever since.

It has scratches all over its wooden surface, and the strings needed some fixing occassionally, but you wouldn't trade it for the greatest treasures in the world. You ran your fingers over it, suddenly feeling like it was lacking something. Seeing the paint chipping off at the corners, you figured that it needed a little color. You'll need lacquer, and paint if you managed to find some.

You set the guitar aside and left your bedroom to head downstairs to the kitchen. As you were about to push the doors open, a loud, angry shout made you stop in your tracks.

"I won't ever become a pathetic waiter for you!" Sanji's thunderous yells can be heard from outside. Your shoulders tensed up. It was a good thing that brunch was over and all the customers had left.

Zeff's own furious voice followed, "Leave then, for all I care! You can do anything you want, but don't you ever serve one of your shit dishes in my kitchen!"

A frown settled on your face. Their fights were a normal occurrence to you, but this one sounded more grave than usual. Crossing your arms, you stepped in closer to the entrance and hesitated whether you should go in or not. Before you could make a decision, Zeff beat you to it by pushing the doors open, rage emanating from his figure as he ignored and walked past you.

Without hesitation this time, you entered the kitchen, greeted by the sight of Sanji bowing over the counter, breathing heavily, his face covered with his hair. He didn't move an inch even as you approached him, the clacking of the heels in your boots echoing throughout the room.

Both of you were silent as you rummaged through cabinets, trying to find lacquer to cover your guitar with, while he tried his best to calm himself down after his outburst. Many cupboards later, you finally found a small can of used up lacquer, but as you started to reach for it, your hand completely stopped mid-air.

You looked over your shoulder, and found Sanji already recovered from the argument seeing that he was on the move again, preparing a cut of beef tenderloin and other ingredients he needed for tonight's dinner.

Slowly, you closed the cupboard and went closer to him. He still refused to look at you. And so you watched him place a bag of flour on the countertop, slices of cold butter, and a variety of spice bottles to season the meat with.

Sanji began to wrap twine around the beef tenderloin. You sighed, and before you could stop yourself, you grabbed a bowl and decided to help him. Your guitar can wait.

It was rare for you to cook inside the kitchen, having so little knowledge about food and how they were prepared, but you knew this recipe well. You poured two cups of flour through the sifter, followed by placing heaps of the cold butter in the mixture.

The moment you started to mix the dough for the puff pastry, Sanji quickly pointed out in a monotone voice, "You're adding too much butter."

You raised your head and glanced at him, his attention now on the meat he was searing on a skillet. You smiled, glad that he was speaking again.

"You're beginning to sound like the old man himself." You joked lightly.

His jaw clenched. "Don't compare me to that shitty geezer."

In a softer voice, you asked, "What happened?"

"The usual." He replied curtly. "Didn't approve of my dishes."

You perked up upon hearing about a dish he made himself. Sanji was talented when it comes to creating his own recipes, and sometimes, you would be the person he chooses to test them out. Every time he lets you taste them, your chest would feel warm and you wouldn't be able to sleep for days because you'll keep replaying it in your head. "What did you make this time?"

"It doesn't matter. He'll never agree to any of them."

"Maybe I can—"

"Drop it. Don't poke your nose in things you're not involved." Sanji cut you off, his hardened gaze meeting your concerned stare. You only blinked at him, straightening up.

"I see." You muttered, eyes landing on the bag of flour. You looked at him, then at the flour, then back at him. A smile began to form on your lips as a devious plan formulated itself in your brain. Sticking your hand inside the bag of flour, you took a fistful of the pillowy powder and threw it straight into his face.

Sanji jumped back, flinching and closing his eyes when some of the flour's particles managed to enter them. His jaw dropped open in surprise, hands quickly removing themselves from the skillet's handle to dust off the flour that rested on his now white hair. You tried to stifle a laugh as you watched him struggle getting the flour out.

Once he managed to clean himself, he stared straight at you and said in the calmest way possible, even if you knew deep inside that he was fuming, "What was that for?"

A high-pitched snort left your mouth. You covered it to prevent yourself from laughing.

You cleared your throat and smiled at him innocently. "Am I involved now?"

His piercing blue eyes then started to sparkle with mirth, amusement replacing the vexation previously swimming in them. He also looked to be trying to push down a smile, and that made your heart skip a beat. "You're insufferable."

He reached for the bag of flour. You squeaked and took off running, trying to escape from his attack, but he still managed to throw a small amount on you. Giggling, you ran the opposite direction to confuse him, and yet he caught up with you, throwing another round of flour. This time, it hit your cheeks, making you laugh loudly. He laughed along, pointing a finger at you because you probably looked crazy at the moment.

You tried to take the bag of flour away from him, but he just took it an as opportunity to catch your arm and grip it firmly. He pulled you into his chest, caging you completely.

With your cheeks warm and your breaths short, you tilted your head up and looked at him, noticing the way that you were both covered in flour; and not only that, you also noticed the short distance between your bodies and how your noses were almost touching. His pupils were dilated, black dominating the alluring blue shade that kept haunting your dreams. You drank in the attention he was giving you, the breathing coming out from his soft lips, and the comfortable silence that wrapped around the both of you like a safe little bubble.

"Caught you." Sanji muttered, voice deeper and huskier, making you let out a quiet sigh. His arms snaked around your waist as he leaned in closer. A million questions started to run inside your head, begging to know what this situation was and how you got into it. "Nowhere to run now, darling."

A slamming of doors shattered the secret moment you shared, and you immediately pulled away from each other. You pushed down your disappointment and hid it in the secret crevice in your heart as the two of you faced your intruder.

Zeff observed your flour-laden figures, his thick eyebrows scrunched together in irritation. He then demanded, voice seething and dripping with anger, "What in the hell are you two little brats doing?"

Sanji blurted out in defense, "Zeff, we—she was the one who started it!"

"And you went along with it!" You accused incredulously, grinning from ear-to-ear. Sanji grinned back, shaking his head and biting his lower lip.

"Oh, shut up before I stitch your mouths! Just by looking at you two, I already know that you snot-nosed shits are both at fault!" Zeff shouted, clicking his tongue at the sight of the half emptied flour. "Wasted them good flour for your childish fights. You're even worse than fatwits. Get out and clean the toilets!"

"Not the shitty toilets!" Sanji groaned, and you couldn't blame him for it. The bathroom area smelled revolting and the floors were always wet for some reason.

"I don't wanna hear complaints from you when you've dirtied my kitchen! Off you go!" Zeff dismissed, and you can't help but to laugh again when you saw Sanji pout like a little kid.

The head chef watched the two of you leave the kitchen together while giggling and exchanging fond looks. Patty, who also saw the whole situation unfold, suddenly appeared beside him, snickering, "I can already hear the wedding bells ringing."

Zeff took a deep, tired breath.

"Oh, they're ringing alright."

You cleaned and scrubbed the toilets the entire afternoon with the man you're in love with, flushing your plans down the drain and forgetting all about them, and that was the second time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.

⸻ • ⸻

You didn't know how you ended up in a ship full of pirates.

Well, maybe you knew. A little. But it wasn't supposed to be like this.

Your knuckles were beginning to turn white with how tight you were clenching them. A mix of emotions swirled around in your chest, namely confusion, impatience, and hesitation, pondering about whether you should be irritated at yourself or at Sanji.

The opportunity was there, handed to you like a steak on a golden platter, or a miracle that suddenly fell from the sky. The day you met Luffy and his strange pirate crew was the day you immediately realized that he was the key to your exit from the Baratie. He was friendly; a good pirate, according to his own words, so you figured he would allow you to tag along for a while until you find an island to get off to. You just had to ask for his permission and wait for his reply.

Luffy agreed. And you were ecstatic. You were finally going to leave Sanji Vinsmoke and your pathetic, unrequited feelings behind.

Or so you thought.

You watched in horror as he followed you when you boarded the Going Merry, also carrying a bag of his own. He said something along the lines of Luffy needing a cook for the journey to the Grand Line but you couldn't care less. You got here first. Why was he here?

So here you were, sitting in a corner, lonelier than ever and regretting your life decisions. You watched Luffy and his friends celebrate after defeating the pirate Arlong and saving Coco Village from his inhuman hold over its people, but Sanji and the beautiful orange haired Nami were nowhere in sight.

The thought of them being gone together at the same time left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue.

Nami. The first time you laid eyes on her, ethereal was the word that came up to your mind. With soft deep saffron locks that framed her small face and a wide blue eyed gaze, she would have the cruelest of men begging for mercy and affection at her feet.

Unfortunately, Sanji was one of those men.

Fuck, you cursed mentally, rubbing your face with your hands to try and forget about the times he flirted with her and the moments he wouldn't stop talking about her or kept asking about her favorite food or dessert or if she's into blonds. Your already battered heart doesn't need the usual reminder that he'll never see you that way, that you weren't going to experience his sweet words and his loving gazes.

You took a sharp breath. It's okay, you tell yourself over and over again until they were buried in your heart. They'll make a great pair, Sanji the cook and Nami the thief. A strong man with an equally strong woman. Yes. That makes sense.

You'll leave soon anyway, and you'll no longer have to worry about seeing them or how they were going to end up together.

And yet you can't help but to think about the things that could've been if you were the one he was in love with instead.

You were crossing your arms and hugging yourself as the crisp afternoon air was getting chilly when a hand gripping a shot glass filled with amber liquid appeared in front of you. Looking up, you saw Luffy smiling widely at you, waving the glass encouragingly.

"Come on, just one drink! Usopp poured this for you!" The captain exclaimed heartily, obviously trying to uplift your spirits and to make you feel welcomed in his crew, even though you did nothing but to guard the Going Merry while they were fighting for their lives.

You shook your head and smiled politely. "No, I don't drink. Sorry."

Luffy's smile faltered, but he recovered quickly. He nodded, setting the glass down on top of a barrel. "Well, okay." He said, then turned to Usopp, who was currently downing a whole bottle of whiskey. "Hey, where's Nami?"

"Oh, she's with the cook," Usopp replied cheekily, wiping his mouth after drinking. There was a teasing tone in his voice as he continued, "Someone's getting a boyfriend tonight!"

With that said, you reached for the shot glass that Luffy was offering you earlier, grabbed it swiftly, and poured the whole thing down your throat. The whiskey tasted unfamiliar, and it burned and made you dizzy at first taste, but it doesn't matter; as long as it can make you forget just for a little while, you were willing to drink more of the horrible beverage.

Zoro, the green haired swordsman and the captain's first mate, stared at you as if you had lost your mind, but a tinge of concern was visibly written on his face. "Woah, slow down." He warned sternly.

"I thought you didn't drink." Was all Luffy said, blinking in confusion. You chuckled tiredly.

"Now I do."

Drink after drink, glass after glass. You lost count on how many times Usopp poured whiskey for you, or how many times Zoro shook his head in disbelief. Luffy was the same old happy-go-lucky captain throughout the disaster that was starting to brew inside you, turning your brain into mush. You can barely lift your head or your fingers as you asked for another shot in an incoherent voice. Luckily, Usopp was still able to understand you, tipping the whiskey bottle yet again towards your glass.

You started to raise the glass to your lips, eager to just get severely drunk and be over with it already. However, you suddenly felt strong fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from drinking; and when you caught sight of a familiar silver ring with Baratie's jolly roger inlaid upon it, you didn't need to look up to know who it was.

Sanji's voice was unnervingly calm as he questioned the crew, but the slight shake in his words lets you know otherwise. "Which one of you allowed her to drink?"

"No one. She took the glass and made the decision herself." Zoro drawled, challenging the chef, "The last time I checked, waiter, you were supposed to be the one responsible for her."

Sanji ignored him and turned his attention to you. He stole the shot glass away from you, then kneeled and held your hands comfortingly, smiling. "Come on, ange. It's time for you to rest now." He said quietly, yet loud enough for only you to hear.

You stubbornly shook your head repeatedly and whined loudly. "No! Don't touch me!" You cried, prying your hands away from his, "I don't like you...!"

Zoro huffed in amusement at your declaration. Sanji glared at him for a short second before looking at you again. This time, he stood and gently placed his arms under your shoulders to raise you up. Once you were standing on your feet, he swept you up and carried you bridal style with ease. Another whine escaped your lips.

"Put me down! I want another drink, please, just one more!" You pleaded while throwing weak punches on his chest. Sanji only smiled and began to lead you towards the sleeping quarters. You continued to thrash in his arms as he walked slowly and in small steps so he wouldn't drop you.

Sanji carefully set you down on your hammock. "No drinks for you until you actually learn how to take them." He told you, tucking a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. His thumb caressed the soft skin of your cheek and rubbed it in circles, noting how fast you were heating up due to the alcohol. You pouted.

"Pretty please, Sanji...please..."

He chuckled, staring at you intensely. "Maybe some other time, ange."

You went quiet, staring back at him with half-lidded eyes. Then, you crossed your arms like a child and asked, "Why do you keep calling me that?"

Sanji raised a brow. "Call you what? Ange?"

You nodded. "I don't like it."

He began to smile, the dimples on his cheeks appearing. You briefly wondered if he'd allow you to poke and feel them. "Why?"

"I don't know what it means. Is it an insult?" You wondered aloud, your eyes widening in curiosity.

A hearty and warm laugh came out from Sanji, his eyes forming half-moons as he cackled at your words like they were the biggest joke he heard in his entire life, "Oh, my dear girl, how could I possibly insult you?" He managed to speak between laughs, "It means angel. You're an angel, to me at least. My angel."

Oh.

Your lips parted in surprise. Blinking, you simply said, "You're not Sanji."

He's not Sanji. He wouldn't call you angel; you're not even sure if he found you beautiful or attractive. You wear the same old tattered dresses that Zeff bought for you a long time ago, and you didn't even bother to style your hair or put on face powder like all the other beautiful ladies do. You look nowhere near to an angel.

But Sanji only grinned. "I assure you, I am very much Sanji. The little brat who pulled your hair when we were barely eleven years old."

Your breath hitched at the thought of him remembering one of your fond memories in your childhood. "You remembered."

"Of course I remembered." He whispered, cupping your cheek one last time before he got ready to leave. He turned on his heel and was about to walk away when you spoke.

"Are you going to see her again?" You asked, and he quickly noticed how broken your voice sounded. Sanji faced you in concern and was taken aback with how deep you were frowning. He figured that you were just drunk and women tend to be different when they were intoxicated. You were no exception to that, it seemed.

"Hm?" He hummed, prompting you to elaborate further.

Tears began to form in the corners of your eyes. You shakily mumbled, "Nami...you're going to Nami, aren't you?"

Sanji froze, an icy cold rush filling up his body. A knot formed in his throat, and it continued to tighten the longer he stared at your face. You looked so hurt—like he just destroyed your beloved guitar into pieces. Your lower lips were trembling, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a moment, he couldn't find the courage to answer you, feeling like he could die at any second now if he answers your question.

But the answer was simple.

"Yes." He breathed out, a sharp pain stabbing through his heart.

And it only became worse when a teardrop finally rolled down your cheek. "Why?" You rasped, and Sanji didn't know that a single word can hurt this much.

He tried to give you a reassuring smile but awfully failed to do so. He started to explain, "We were just discussing something—"

"Why not me?"

Those three words coming out of your mouth felt like a final blow to his heart. He can feel himself bleed, drained of life and soul because of you and your words alone, and he let you. He let you kill him, he let you make him swim in his own guilt and he doesn't why, why, why.

More tears fell out of your angelic eyes, staining your cheeks with wet trails, and he tried to hold himself back from wiping them off. You choked out, "Why not me, Sanji? I have been asking myself that question for the past decade, and it eats my brain every night like some kind of plague, but I let it anyway. Because why? Why can't you just recognize me and appreciate me and see me? Why can't you go to me if you want to talk about your dreams, or what dish you're planning to create? Why do you have to seek solace in other women when you have me standing by your side everyday, me who is willing to listen to you and whatever you have to say?"

Angry, red rimmed eyes glared at him. Your hair strands stuck to your skin and framed your face as sweat began to form on your forehead. Teardrops clung to your wet eyelashes and your face was drenched like you just took a swim in the ocean. You were burning with fury and rage and want, struggling to breathe properly after your little rant, and Sanji thought you couldn't be more beautiful. You were so beautiful.

"Oh but I couldn't blame you for that. She's just so beautiful, so perfect, and so strong. She could give you anything you wanted and she could be anything that I never was." You hiccuped, smiling forcibly, "But in the end...I will still love you. I will always love you. I think."

You scooted closer to him, leaning in until your faces only had a few inches apart between them. You didn't notice how his lips were slightly parted in shock, nor his eyes that were starting to glisten with his own tears. "No matter where I flee to, or where I lay my heart on, or which skies I look at—it's always you, Sanji. It's always been you."

"I had been so selfless all these years, Sanji. So please, can you pretend to like me too, just for today, before I leave?" You whispered meekly, cupping his cheeks with both of your hands. Numb and completely speechless, Sanji simply gave you a single nod as a response.

You gingerly pressed your lips against his, and he immediately tasted the saltiness of your tears. But your lips were soft, as he expected from an angel like you. And so he couldn't help himself; he closed his eyes and delicately kissed you back, repeating your name in his mind like a sacred prayer and wishing to the stars above to not let the moment end.

However, you broke the kiss by losing consciousness and falling down on your hammock, knocked out and peacefully snoring.

Sanji spaced out, not moving from his position. No. It's not that he didn't want to move—he couldn't move. He couldn't feel anything except for the drumming of his heart, knocking on his chest desperately. His lips were still tingling and his ears and neck were warming up.

He gulped, loosening the collar of his shirt to cool himself down. He needed a cigarette. And a drink.

Scrambling to get up even with his trembling legs, Sanji managed to stand properly. He avoided your sleeping figure and decided to get out of the room as soon as possible. However, when he took a step forward, his foot touched a notebook lying on the floor.

Sanji bent down and took the notebook. He flipped it open, and after reading only the first page, he finally came into a conclusion.

Heartbroken, drunk, and unaware, you dozed off the rest of the afternoon. When nightfall settled on the azure horizon and dusk fell on the rough surface of the sea, you missed the chance to walk away from the crew yet again; and that was the third time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.

⸻ • ⸻

The next morning, you woke up feeling much better with only the memory of you drinking and crying yourself to sleep and nothing else. Everything was normal, and the crew began to make plans for their next adventure during breakfast.

Everything was normal, except for Sanji, who was quiet throughout the whole discussion. And of course, just like always, you were the only one who noticed his strange behavior. You tried to catch his eyes, but he looked at everywhere except you.

When he finally met your gaze, you gave him a soft smile, hoping he would smile back and everything was fine and you were just overthinking it.

He doesn't.

⸻ • ⸻

"Are you really going to leave?"

Taking your gaze away from the heart shaped cloud you spotted on the clear blue sky, you faced the person who asked the question you were dreading for some time now. Luffy was staring curiously at you, awaiting your answer. You can't help but to smile softly at the captain, whose kindness you have yet to repay.

"I believe we already talked about this, captain." You said, recalling your short conversation last night. He kept asking you if you were really sure about your decision while his eyes darted to a certain blond haired chef every time he shoots you the question. It was strange, and you felt even more suspicious when Sanji pretended not to hear your answer and even refused to glance your way.

Luffy put his hands on his hips. "You know, you're welcome to stay and be a part of my crew."

You crossed your arms, smile growing wide. "And what, pray tell, is my role? Sing battle songs and chant your names while you swing your gummy arms at pirates?" You joked playfully.

The young captain stroked his chin in deep thought, almost like he was considering your suggestion. "That's not a bad idea."

You bursted out laughing, shaking your head in disbelief, "I'll leave first thing in the morning. I told Nami to dock at a nearby island."

"What about Sanji?" He suddenly questioned, leaving you flabbergasted for a split second. You weren't prepared to hear Sanji's name after days of not talking to him properly.

Him not speaking with you wasn't a strange occurence at all; back when you were still in the Baratie, there would be days when Sanji wouldn't bother to acknowledge your presence and would completely ignore you. This would happen whenever he was extremely busy with his cooking or he had a disagreement with Zeff.

And it seemed like this was one of those days, seeing that he had been ignoring you for about a week now. Yes, you have been keeping count. Although he doesn't appear to be angry with you, the short-lived exchanges and the abrupt cut-offs before you could say anything deeply concerned you more than it should have.

You tried to rack your brains for reasons on why he was acting like this. Maybe Nami had rejected him for the hundredth time, or Zoro kept throwing insults in his direction—or maybe his cigarette packet had ran out. Maybe his kitchen knives weren't sharp anymore and he was struggling in the kitchen.

Should you ask him? Should you go to him and demand him to tell you what's wrong?

You pressed your lips together. It sounded like the worst idea you've thought of so far. You convinced yourself that Sanji was fine and he'd be back to normal in no time; there would no need to talk to him.

"What about him?" You faltered, chuckling to ease the tension in your body.

"You care for each other." Luffy explained bluntly and matter-of-factly, "What does he think about you leaving?"

A shaky sigh made its way out of your lips. How will you tell the captain that his cook has been avoiding you like you were some kind of rotten fish these days?

"I..." You stammered, gathering the courage to lie to Luffy even if you thought it would be the gravest sin you could commit, "He...agrees. Yeah. No need to worry."

Luffy grinned, but it didn't look normal at all. You winced in embarrassment. He knew that you were lying and was totally unconvinced.

Luckily, he didn't voice it out. He only nodded and said, "Great! Oh, I have an idea! Why don't you sing for us before we part ways? Think of it as a farewell party for the crew."

Hearing the pure and genuine excitement dripping from his voice, you couldn't turn him down. It was a good idea too, and now that you thought about it, you haven't performed for them yet. "Sure." You agreed, shrugging.

He raised his fist up in the air and cheered. You smiled, watching as he shouted for his crewmates' names to come down and listen to you sing. You prepared yourself for an impromptu performance, making sure that your guitar was properly tuned and your voice was clear enough to give you the best version of your singing. Sitting on top of a barrel, you faced your audience of four, all their eager eyes watching your every move.

As you struck the first chord to your song, you tried hard not to think that Sanji wasn't there to watch you sing the song you secretly dedicate to him.

In the kitchen, Sanji busied himself by plating the food that he'll serve to his fellow crew mates for dinner. He grabbed a large plate and placed the chicken drumsticks that his captain favored, but Luffy wasn't the one in his mind when he cooked those. Looking at the food, he wondered if you would love them too.

He shook his thoughts off and took the plate with him outside. Approaching the crew, his steps slowed down when he heard a familiar singing voice and a melodic tune of a guitar.

Sanji almost dropped the plate.

It was you. Of course it was you, you were the only one he knew who had a voice like that. It was you, and you were singing with a lovely smile painted on your sweet lips, the very same lips that touched his a few days ago, resulting in him not getting a wink of sleep every night. The beam of the sunset right behind you colored your hair in the different shades of the sky as the dulcet-filled notes you made echoed throughout the vast sea. For a moment, he was worried that you were going to attract ferocious sea beasts with your angelic voice and steal you away from him.

He could hear his blood pound in his ears the longer he observed you from afar. You looked happy. Happier than you were when you stayed with him and Zeff. His chest tightened, knowing that you leaving and go on adventures on your own was probably the best decision you could make, even if that means leaving him too.

You were finishing up your song by the time you saw Sanji standing behind Usopp, silently listening. He met your gaze, and for the first time ever, you couldn't read his mind. His expression was blank as you stared at each other, and as you opened your mouth to say something, he cut you off.

"Dinner's ready." Sanji announced shortly, setting down the plate in front of Luffy and then walked away without saying another word.

That was your final straw. You immediately put down your guitar and followed him into the kitchen. You didn't care about how you felt Nami's watchful eyes on you as you went after him, nor how Luffy was scarfing down the dinner and was definitely going to finish it all before you could take a bite; you just chased the blond with determination oozing out of you.

You roughly pushed the door open and found Sanji washing the pans he used for cooking. He glanced at you briefly then quickly looked away after. This irritated you even more as you demanded, "Is there something bothering you?"

"You should eat before the food gets cold." He said with an empty voice.

"Sanji!"

He stiffened. You rarely raised your voice at anyone. Sighing in defeat, he dried off his hands and fully faced you.

Your eyes were sharper than his knives, cutting straight into his soul. "I've known you for a long time now, do you think I don't notice whenever you have a problem?" You glowered, taking a step closer to him, "You have a problem. What is it?"

It happened fast. His hand landed on the small of your back and pulled you to his chest, and the other was placed on top of your cheek, and in a single motion, Sanji captured your lips with his. You gasped in the kiss, your heart dropping to the soles of your feet when he tilted his face to deepen it. Your fingers tightly grasped the sleeves of his shirt for support as he passionately moved his lips against yours. A pleasant heat ran down your spine, your whole body tingling and warming up. You were simply drowning. There was no other way to describe it, and it was only caused by his fervent kisses.

Sanji pulled away, resting your forehead on top of yours, and you took it as an opportunity to breathe in air that you lost. "You are the problem." He murmured lowly, eyes darting down to your swollen lips. Confused and lightheaded, you didn't get the chance to retort.

"Ever since that night, ange, you occupy my thoughts. You gave me a taste of your lips and you didn't even remember the next day. Do you know how that feels, hm?" He said, pecking your lips once again. You made a noise in the back of your throat, turning your head sideways so he couldn't kiss you anymore, but he took your chin and hungrily connected both of your lips.

He spoke between kisses, "You torture me. Ever since I read those songs you wrote about me in that little notebook of yours, you torture me with your presence."

That was when you snapped out of your daze. With all the force you could muster, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed him away. Sanji stepped back, surprised at your reaction.

Without giving him a chance to ask you anything, you ran off and left the kitchen, slamming the door loudly so you wouldn't hear him calling your name and be tempted to go back in his arms again.

You arrived in the sleeping quarters, locking the door behind you. You were sure that the others would understand you needing your alone time. Once you made sure you were on your own, your body collapsed altogether, your back sliding down against the door as you panted heavily.

He knows, was all you could think about. He knows about the songs. He knows about your feelings.

Well, you finally got your answer to your previous question, but a more complicated one replaced it. With trembling hands, your fingers raised themselves to your lips, touching its surface. You hated the way that you still felt his warmth on top of them.

A lone tear slid down the side of your nose. He was cruel. Sanji was cruel.

You didn't come out of that room for days, refusing to talk to anyone as you gathered your scrambled throughts and pulled yourself back together, and that was the fourth time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.

⸻ • ⸻

A stack of books, most of them being a collection of maps compiled in one, rested beside you while you flipped through the pages of the one you chose among them.

Nami has been lending you her books ever since you shut yourself out from the crew. You ignored all of them and only let Nami in, hoping that she'll be able to understand you; and she did. She was a good listener. Although you weren't particularly close with each other, you trusted her and told her everything: your dreams, your problems, your feelings, and Sanji. In return, she confided in you too.

"Here. So you can finally decide on where you will go to," You recall her saying while she handed you her collection of world map books, "and to distract yourself, of course."

"You're too kind, Nami." You said in admiration. Maybe this is why Sanji was enamored with her. She was a beauty inside and out.

Nami shrugged, yet she was smiling. "Just helping a fellow woman out."

The books did take your mind off the stubborn blond haired man that was still resting inside your heart, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. You tried to search for islands that will be suitable for you to start your career, narrowing some of them down into choices, but your eyes wil always lead back to where the Baratie was stationed.

You leaned back against your chair, letting your head hit the wall with a soft thud as you released a sigh of frustration. Not only will you need to prepare yourself for a journey all alone, but you also have to talk to Sanji sooner or later, whether you like it or not. The kiss distracted you more than the books Nami gave you. You think of it in the morning and dream of it at night, and it only got worse every time you remembered that he kissed you like he loved you.

Relaxing in your seat, you closed the book and listened to the silence.

The Going Merry docked for a quick trip to a market to gather fresh ingredients for food. Sanji will be gone for the meantime and you were free to roam around the ship without his heated stare boring holes in your skin.

But the peace was ruined by rushed footsteps and Usopp breaking into the room, almost destroying the door with his brute force. You frowned, standing up on alert when you saw how nervous he looked.

"Sanji's injured!" He exclaimed, which got your brow raising, knowing that he had a long history of lying to people. However, he forcibly pulled Sanji inside, and you were greeted by the sight of a bruised man, whose lips were bleeding and cheeks were starting to yellow.

You immediately sprang into action. You took the first aid kit you packed in your bag and grabbed his arm, making him sit down on your chair.

"How did you get into a fight in just a span of ten minutes?" You asked in irritation, wetting a cloth with saltwater to wipe off the blood on his lips.

Sanji grunted, tensing up when you took a hold of his face and dabbed on his lip using the cloth. "Some petty vendor was selling overpriced onions, and they weren't even the best of quality."

You stopped for a minute, glaring at him. "So you decided to punch them instead of talking it over?"

He only huffed in reply. Pursing your lips in annoyance, you continued to treat his wounds in silence, noticing him flinching and wincing in pain whenever you compress the bruised area with ice. "Who's being petty now?" You scolded impatiently, "Stay still."

The only sound that filled the room was you hastily rummaging your kit trying to find an ointment and an awkward silence that made you want to jump into the sea and never swim back to the surface. You unscrewed the lid of the jar of ointment and scooped some with your finger, looking at Sanji as you did so. He looked back at you quietly, and you tried hard not to think about the fact that you have to touch his lips in order for you to apply it.

It seemed like he realized that too, glancing down at the dollop of ointment on top of your finger, then back to you. You just gave him a small, uneasy smile, showing him that you weren't uncomfortable even though you were, and shyly took a step forward.

As gently as you could, you spread the ointment on the wounded area on his lips, reminding yourself to not be distracted on how soft they looked.

"A busted lip because of overpriced ingredients...it almost feels like you're doing this on purpose so I wouldn't get the chance to leave you." You half-heartedly joked to lighten up the atmosphere. However, you were greeted by nothing, not even a smart comeback or a funny joke from the blond. You hesitantly observed his reaction, and saw that he was grim and serious, guilt swimming in his beryl blue eyes.

The realization began to sink in.

Oh.

You should've known from the start. Sanji was a great fighter; he wouldn't be injured in the first place. "Sanji..."

Sanji took your wrist and held on it tightly. Your breath hitched, only then realizing how much you missed his touch, his warm, gentle, and loving touch.

"Let me go." You weakly said, even though deep down, you didn't want him to.

"Tell me you're not in love with me." He said, sounding utterly desperate that it almost made you fall down to your knees, "Tell me, and I'll let you go."

When you didn't answer, he stood up and cupped your cheeks with both of his hands. He pleaded, "Look at me. Look into my eyes and tell me you don't love me."

"Please don't do this." You whispered in pain as you tearfully shook your head.

"Stay. Please, stay." Sanji begged, pressing his forehead against yours, "What can I do to make you stay? Tell me. I'll do anything. Do I need to kneel? To beg for your forgiveness? Tell me what you want. I'll do anything in my power to make you the happiest woman in all of East Blue. Just please, don't leave."

"I can't." You answered, closing your eyes, a few tears streaming down your cheeks. You hate the way he was making this so hard for you.

He only continued, "Hate me, curse me, shout at me, if you must. Anything but you leaving me. Or do you want to make me yours? Then I am letting you. Whatever you want, mon ange—my heart, my soul, my attention, they're all yours. I'm all yours."

"No..."

"The crew will be incomplete without you." Sanji insisted in anguish.

"I have dreams, Sanji. Just like you and the rest of the crew." You explained softly, placing your own hands on top of his in attempt to comfort him and relieve him from his confusion.

However, he was persistent, "You can achieve your dreams without leaving. You can stay, and I will support you in everything you do. You're better off staying with me—with us."

You said firmly, "I will not spend the rest of my life doing what I don't want."

"Even with me by your side?"

A few second pass before you finally reply, "I'd be miserable."

Pain flashed on his face, making you want to take back your own words, yet you remained strong and unyielding. Sanji took a deep breath and stepped away from you, saying, "I'd rather have you miserable here than go out there and encounter ruthless pirates."

The statement quickly irritated you, frowning at him deeply. "You think I'll have problems with pirates when I've been serving them for years?"

"Oh, darling, you wouldn't be able to say that once you've encountered worse ones, with bounties higher than you could ever imagine." He snapped, voice raising with each word.

"I can manage on my own!" You bit back frustratingly, your tears evaporating into anger.

Sanji scowled at you, impatiently running his fingers through his hair. "You can't fight!" He shouted, voice breaking in the process, and with it, your heart too. It shattered like glass and the shards landed and pierced through your lungs, rendering you breathless. Your eyes widened, mouth dropping open in shock.

Seeing your expression, he immediately snapped back to reality, regret writing itself on his face. You shook your head in disbelief and let out a humorless laugh, "Are you telling me that I'm weak?"

"I didn't say that." Sanji quickly said in a hushed manner.

"But you're implying it!" You choked, still can't believe that he doesn't trust you. He doesn't trust you enough to accomplish your dreams on your own, and that he was not confident that you'll succeed without him by your side.

You wanted to ask him about the passionate kiss you two shared, about his loving gestures that confused the hell out of you, about his fresh bruises that he received on purpose so that he can get you to stay, and why he did all of that. You needed confirmation. But the question that left you was, "What am I to you?"

Sanji stayed quiet, and your heart broke again once more. Deciding that this was the last time he breaks it, you walked away and left him alone to tend to his own injuries.

He lit up a cigarette as he listened to your fading footsteps. A single teardrop fell down from his eye the moment he placed the cigarette between his lips, and all he could think about was that you hurt more than the bruises on his cheeks.

You packed your bags and spoke with Nami, telling her that you were ready, and that was the fifth time you tried to leave Sanji Vinsmoke—and tomorrow, you'll finally succeed.

⸻ • ⸻

The sun had just risen, and the early morning breeze smelled of the ocean, the calming sound of waves filling your ears. It was one of those days when the sky was clear and the sunlight wasn't harsh but pleasantly warm on your skin, making it the perfect day to start working on a new song and strum on your guitar for the melody.

But today was different. You were standing on the first step of the ship's staircase that leads to a docking station and a wooden walkway towards an unfamiliar island that was soon to be your new home. Your fingers clenched on the strap of your bag, finding this moment to be surreal. You have tried many times to leave, and here it was, right on the palms of your hands.

"So. This is it, huh?" Your trance broke as Nami commented beside you. She was the only one to bid you farewell and watch you leave, since the others were still asleep. You thought of Sanji and how he looked like when he was sleeping, staring at his handsome features so you can memorize them and implant it in your mind. He was your first love; you didn't want to forget him.

You smiled. "Thank you, Nami." You said earnestly, "I would've liked to spend more time with you. It's tiring to speak to men sometimes, don't you think?"

She laughed. "Yeah." Then, she caged you in her arms and hugged you tightly, surprising you for a second before you laughed too and returned the hug. "Stay safe out there."

"I will."

"So you planned to leave? Without saying goodbye?" A new voice interrupted, breaking the hug you and Nami both shared. You swiveled to look behind you, and there stood Sanji, appearing to have just woken up, with the strands of his blond hair sticking up in different directions. You observed his dejected expression, the downward tilt of the corners of his lips, and the glistening of his tired eyes. You stared at his crumpled suit and his crooked necktie. Despite how messy he looked, he will always be perfect to you.

You walked forward and looked at him fondly, with your eyes full of so much love reserved for him and him only. "Thought it would hurt less." You said, raising your hands to touch his hair and brush it down, "And I was right. How can I leave now when you're standing in front of me?"

He sighed shakily as he felt your soft fingers threading through his hair. "Then don't." He whispered. You only smiled at him. He didn't smile back, but that didn't stop you from taking both of his hands and caressing his knuckles using your thumb.

"Every night, I'll look at the moon and think of you. I'll tell my stories, sing my songs, and whisper my secrets to it. Just like what you and me would do when we were little." You told him softly and endearingly, "Would you be so kind as to look at the moon too and think of me?"

Sanji's eyebrows were scrunched together in agony, muttering, "I can't make you stay, can I?"

When you didn't answer, he just nodded his head, understanding what you wanted to stay. He forced a smile and tightly squeezed your hands. "I'm sorry."

"I'm yours." You answered, placing a soft kiss on the back of his hands. After letting your lips linger on his skin for a while, you slowly let go, and with one last glance at his face, you stepped back and made your way downstairs to the docking area, leaving before you could change your mind.

Sanji watched you go. While you walked away from the Going Merry, from the crew, and from him, not once did you look back. He just watched as you went farther away and became smaller in the distance, until you blended in with the crowd and you were just another person in a sea of people. And then you were gone.

It was the sixth time you tried to leave Sanji Vinsmoke, and this time, you finally did.

⸻ • ⸻

The red velvet curtains began to draw in front of you, gently falling back down on the stage as you said your final good-byes to your audience for tonight, a bouquet of roses cradled in your arms while you blew delicate kisses towards them. You can still hear their loud cheering and clapping even as you retreated to your personal room backstage.

A middle-aged woman greeted you inside when you stepped in the room and closed the door behind you, whistling. "There she is, our talented rising star!"

You only laughed at the silly nickname, setting the bouquet of roses that one of the people gave you in tonight's show on top of your vanity table. "You exaggerate, Madam. I have only performed two shows in your beautiful theater."

The madam, who was the owner of the theater you were currently working in, shook her head in disagreement. "And those two shows are sold out!" She informed you proudly, placing her hands on your shoulders, "Let me know if you want to add more, you are welcome to perform here anytime."

"I'll think about it." You replied, smiling. The madam patted your shoulder twice before she left you alone, humming happily to herself. You huffed in amusement, fully aware that she doesn't appreciate your talents at all, but only cared for the money.

Regardless of that, you were happy. It has been a couple of years since you left the Strawhat Pirates and pursued your dreams all on your own, and you've been traveling to different islands across the seas to perform. You never had a permanent home; being a musician meant going to many places from time to time to share and spread out your music.

Yet you can't help but miss life on the sea.

You missed washing dishes on the Baratie and the late night conversations you had with Zeff. You missed Luffy and his weird antics, Usopp and his jokes, Zoro and his blunt comments, and Nami and her kindness.

You missed Sanji and everything that he was.

You stared at your reflection in the vanity mirror on your desk. Your hair was pinned neatly, you had make-up on and you were dressed fancily for your performance. Years ago, you wouldn't look like this. It was hard to believe how much you've grown and changed, but these days, you felt like you wanted your old self back. Slowly, you took the itchy pins off your hair, and cleaned your face with warm water and a cloth. You replaced your dress in a more comfortable one and went outside.

Looking up at the night sky, you saw a bright full moon with no stars in sight. It was just the moon and its beauty, illuminating the pitch black sky with its glow. You silently watched it, a smile growing on your lips as you felt a tug on your heart.

"I wonder what you're up to, Sanji." You thought aloud, cheeks heating up at the memory of your first love and his golden hair and his contagious smiles. Then, to your surprise, a voice spoke unexpectedly.

"Well, I am fortuitous to have met such a beautiful angel."

You froze. No one referred to you as angel except for one.

Sanji.

As you turned around, he was already walking towards you. And there you both were, bathing under the moonlight, with him grinning at you mischievously and you looking at him lovingly. You didn't know how he found you, but what mattered was that he searched for you and now he was here, and he was still making your heart beat fast in your chest just like all those years ago.

How the pesky feelings stayed and wrapped themselves around your aching heart, you didn't know. But maybe it was because he was standing in front of you, and the way his next words made you run into his open arms and kiss him until you were both breathless,

"There you are, ange."

taglist part 1 @angel-luv3r @appalost @chexmixtrys @nimtano @sparklyphantom @natalieisfreeziing @reallysparklychaos @maydaylovex @johnnysactualgf @mochamei @kisumisumi @ttokyocat @mypurplewinee @rosaliinnn @nonniecannie @court-jester-stuff @detectivelucy07 @megumiif @untitledandrandom @erin-the-king @fangeekkk @nikolaevna-art @candesstuff @chaoticevilbakugo

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purest-expressionofgrief · 7 months

Note

i’m salivating over my first ever haliween ahhhhhhhggggjtjekwldlcjwkwnf. anyways, i trust you implicitly, so i’m gonna do the random thing:

milky way + princess peach + the craft 👁️👄👁️

(ily 🦐)

❀ Pairing: Witch!Yoongi x witch!f. reader

❀ Summary: When the red string of fate appears around your ankle, you have twelve days to find your fated partner or die. That’s how the spell works - that’s how fate has always run Her business. There is one, very inconvenient witch who keeps getting in your way, though, and you might just kill each other before your mark does.

❀ Word Count: 4,421

❀ Genre: Magical AU, Fate AU, a bit of angst, a bit of crack

❀ Rating: SWF

❀ Warnings: Talk of death!!! Reader thinks that she is going to die this entire fic, so she thinks about dying/makes jokes about dying a lot. At the end of the story, there are moments where she is sad and there are hints of depression because she is dying, but it’s not super intense and heavy. Language, Yoongi, and reader are both very stupid, the communication skills in this friend group are at ZERO.

❀ Published: Tuesday, October 3

❀ A/N: This is my first request filled for Haliween and I am so excited! This was so much fun to write and honestly, I was super inspired by Jade's ability to infuse humor in writing, so this is absolutely an ode to Jade. Inside my Halloween bag for you is… Yoongi, witches, and fate! This actually might be one of my favorite drabbles I’ve written all year if not all the time and I sort of wish this was a full one-shot with angst but I think it works sooo well this way. UNEDITED.

❀ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment, or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

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It’s raining the day that the red string of fate scorches your ankle. The pain is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, sending you to your knees as you scream. At first, Jimin thinks you’re dying. He drops his mug of tea, rushing over to you as the porcelain shatters, dropping to the ground to pull you up by the shoulders.

You’re prone for a moment, eyes rolled back, voice straining as your entire body tenses, hellfire licking through you.

Then it’s gone. Like it never happened.

The mark leaves you panting in Jimin’s arms, whimpering lightly as you pull the leg of your jeans up with trembling hands to reveal a singular scarlet circle around your ankle. The mark tingles, leaving behind the memory of sudden pain, now cool to the touch.

“Holy shit,” Jimin whispers, staring at the mark. His eyes are wide when he looks down at you, lips trembling. “Twelve days.”

Twelve days. Twelve entire days to untangle you’re new fate and follow it to the witch meant for you, your other half. Twelve days to find them and meet your magical half. To be whole again.

Because in the world of witches, there are some of you born not complete. Some of you have another soul out there, burning with some of your magic. And when that magic is ready to become one, it tries to kill you.

Twelve days to reunite it.

Or, twelve days until you die.

DAY ONE

The day is a waste. Impeding doom does not inspire confidence in the probability of finding the witch who is supposed to be your other half. Hoseok offers a tarot spread, flipping cards and trying to untangle the path that will lead to your savior.

He frowns as he looks at his deck. The images and text on them are nearly faded entirely, a heirloom of his coven passed down through generations of family members. Hoseok knows them by touch, feel, and energy alone. Could read them in the dark, if he wanted to.

Hoseok glances up where you’re curled on the couch in a blanket, doing little spell work to figure out where your mystery half is. “Perhaps you should have Namjoon read tea leaves instead,” he offers. Hoseok shuffles the deck and puts it back in a wooden box. “The cards want you to figure it out yourself. Tea is less judgmental, perhaps.”

DAY TWO

Tea is not less judgmental. You stamp out of the tea shop, feeling stormy, energy crackling like lightning. Namjoon, unable to help, mentioned that perhaps you should seek help from Jungkook, who often sees the future in his drawings. It’s what led him to Jimin, after all.

Someone crashes into you, knocking you off balance. You yell as you go, too lost in thought to catch yourself with magic before you’re topping into the street and a puddle. Cursing, you look up at the stranger who has knocked you into a dirty hole filled with water.

“Are you serious?” you demand, gesturing to your legs as water seeps in. “Watch where you’re going!”

The man in front of you is covered in coffee. He looks up at you dripping in dark liquid, the front of his white shirt ruined and sticking to his chest. If you weren’t so impossibly angry, you might think he was cute. Long, black hair tucked behind his ears, keen feline eyes, a rosy mouth in a natural pout.

But you don’t think it’s cute. Especially when he says, “Me? You’re on the wrong side of the sidewalk!”

“There are no sides to the sidewalk!”

“Of course there is! If you’re walking north you should walk on the inside of the sidewalk, if you’re walking south, you should walk on the outside!”

“That makes no fucking sense!”

“Says the girl still sitting in a puddle instead of getting up and drying herself off!”

You make an angry sound, shoving yourself up from the puddle, sopping wet. “Have the day you deserve,” you snarl at him.

“Have fun with your wet pants.”

DAY THREE

Day three is spent at the library looking up ways to break the red string of fate around your ankle. There are tombs and tombs of ancient texts on the various iterations of the spell through different cultures and religions, but so far you have nothing to show for it.

Huffing and tossing another useless book onto your useless pile, you walk back to the dark stacks of the magical section of the library reserved for members of the covens in the city. It smells musty and dusty in the back, the air dank with the promise of rot. You make a mental note to tell Jisung at the front to please use an air freshening spell.

As you turn the corner of the shelves, someone makes you pull up short. The man from the day before is in front of you, flipping through a book. You blink in surprise. A witch. It shouldn’t surprise you - most of the townsfolk here are magic in one way or another. But it makes less sense that he was so angry about spilling his coffee when he could just whisk his fingers in the air and put it back in the cup.

You’re angry all over again, balling your fists in the aisle. You have half a mind to flick your fingers and through a book from the shelf at him, but the tome in his hands makes you pause. It’s the book you’re looking for.

The man snaps it shut and tucks it under his arm, continuing to look through the shelves.

“Um, where are you taking that?”

He turns with a soft expression, eyes wide. Then he sees you and immediately scowls, nose scrunching. “Oh. You. If you came here for new pants, the Target is across the street.”

“I’m looking for that book.”

“Well, this book is coming with me.”

“What do you need it for, huh?”

His face is impassive as he blinks twice. “For a bonfire, thank you.”

With that, he spins on his heel and walks down the aisle. You step after him, but he snaps and you feel a sharp tug in your stomach, like a pull in another direction. You blink and suddenly find yourself several aisles over, making you scream in anger.

“Did you just teleport me?!”

DAY FOUR

Spent listening to Hey Jude on repeat. And dumplings. So many dumplings that you may not make it to day twelve.

DAY FIVE

What a good day. You’ve made no progress, but you head home with a smile on your face nonetheless. Even though you will surely expire when the red string of fate eats you from the ankle up in seven days, you have at least one good memory before your untimely demise.

Autumn hangs cooly in the air. Your scarf is wrapped snuggly around your neck as you skip home, fresh on the memory of the Puddle Pusher’s face when you bought the last of the black flame candles at Shadow’s earlier that day.

Give me at least one, he’d said to you. You don’t need five.

Well, what if I mess up? You’d asked.

Then you’re a shitty witch.

Well, that had offended you, so you bought the white flame candles too, just in case. Bags full of candles for your little ritual, you skip home to try another trick in breaking the scarlet mark around your ankle. You’re not hopeful but you are happy to rub the salt in with the Puddle Pusher before your sweet farewell to the world.

Even if he did look very cute today.

DAY SIX

Morale is low. The ritual from the night before utterly failed and set off your sprinkler system in your apartment. As you spend the morning blasting hot gusts of wind from your hands and levitating several items throughout the home to air dry, you wonder what it will be like at the end.

The red string of fate is such a rare thing. When you were little, you may have thought it was romantic. Knowing there was someone out there for you that was your twin flame, your other half. A person connects to you by the cosmic power of the universe. Whose spellwork with your own could make you unstoppable.

Now you think it’s stupid. You don’t need anyone else to make you complete. You’ve learned that over several failed relationships and the lackluster dating life of this town. There’s no reason for you to need to follow this stupid mark to find the one person you can no longer live without.

Love is not worth dying for. If it is even love. You cannot imagine that the magic that flows through the world unseen but felt is so all-seeing and powerful that it knows who you should be with. That it can tell you what to do.

Day six sucks. And you spend it crying. Alone and forgotten, without your other half.

DAY SEVEN

Jungkook sifts through his drawings, chewing his lip. The hum of tattoo guns buzzes like a hive of angry bees behind you. You ignore the awful music blaring through the speakers and the man screaming behind the piercing curtain getting his nipples pierced.

“Don’t you have something for that?” you ask, jerking your thumb at the sniveling. “The man sounds like you’re castrating him.”

“Oh, that? Some people like the pain. However, it is Jin so he is actually hating every second of it.” You make a face but Jungkook doesn’t notice, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, dude. I don’t see or feel anything in any of these recent drawings of mine. I wish I could be of better assistance. There’s this guy who might be able to help, though. Taehyung?”

“Tae-who?”

“Here.” Jungkook scribbles an address in truly illegible handwriting. “Visit him on the full moon in..” He looks at his phone and makes a face with yikes written all over it. “Five days.”

“Jungkook, in five days I will be hours away from-” You make a choking sound and roll your eyes back into your head. When you look back at Jungkook, he’s not amused. “Death. Dead. Está muerto.”

“Yeah, I got that. Not funny.” He shoves the paper in your hand. “Look, he’s a really powerful seer. Just go.”

“Think he can tell me what to wear as I croak?”

Jungkook is still not amused by your jokes. He looks around you as the shop door chimes, lifting a hand. “Hey, Yoongi. Be with you in a second.” He looks back at you. “Have you considered asking around for anyone who has had one show up recently? It might help, you know?”

“No thanks. Don’t need any weirdos trying to get into my skivvies by lying about it. Thanks, though. I’ll look into this.” You lift the paper.

Turning around to leave, you stop dead in your tracks. Yoongi is standing near the front entrance of the door. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a flannel shirt, his hair tucked under a beanie. He looks soft, especially when his attention isn’t on you and glowering.

For a moment, you’re not mad at him and you don’t hate him on principle. You just admire the way his nose is a little bit red from the cold outside, and his general sense of wonder is… innocent. Gentle. Kind.

When he turns to look at you, as though he feels your staring, his face morphs from cherubic to devilish, curling his lip up at you. Your momentary lapse of judgment vanishes. “Here to get a tattoo of Number One Puddle Pusher?”

“I didn’t push you.”

“Who's to say you didn’t? Do you have CCTV evidence?”

Yoongi scoffs. “I should be checking CCTV to see if you’re stalking me.”

“Me? Stalking you? I got here first.”

“Do you have CCTV evidence?” he mocks, making a face.

With a huff, you blow by him, turning to Jungkook who looks between the two of you with wide eyes and a dubious expression. “Make his tattoo ugly.”

DAY EIGHT

Yoongi as it turns out is new in town. Instead of spending day eight doing like Jungkook suggested and putting out an APB on Facebook Marketplaces and Craigs List, you spend it looking up your mysterious mortal enemy only to find that… he’s entirely normal.

Most of the covens in town have a long history of ancestry connected to the town’s creation. Yoongi seems to have no such thing, having only moved there a year ago. You’ve never come across him, though it seems you have plenty of friends in common.

From his social media, you can tell only two things about him: he likes cats and takes the worst dad pictures. By worst, you mean silly little photographs of things you can only see a father taking. Somehow the angle is always just wrong or the captions are so simple that you find yourself smiling.

And then you remember whose photos you’re looking at and you fix your face with a scowl.

Tossing your phone onto the couch, you curse Yoongi. The Puddle Pusher.

DAY NINE

Spent crying.

DAY TEN

Spent crying even harder. And spent looking at Yoongi’s cat on social media, only to accidentally double tap and scream as you unlike the photo, and throw your phone across the apartment in terror.

You cry more after. And add buy a new phone on your to-do list.

DAY ELEVEN

You’re going to die. It’s inevitable. You spend the evening watching the stars with Jimin. You let Jungkook tattoo a smiley face on your foot. You drink lots of hard cider, and you fall asleep in a bed that feels too empty and the knowledge that you’ll no longer have to worry about filling it.

DAY TWELVE

Taehyung lives in the middle of Fuck All Nowhere. While you might not find that exactly on the map, it is only somewhat easy to find his creepy, draconic estate outside of town. Getting out of your car, you look up at the spiring mansion, sure that you’re going to see bats flying out of the top like an episode of Scooby Doo.

Alas, there are no bats there to greet you in your final few hours. "Where are the bats, dude?" you ask, walking up the lawn.

The house is something out of a creepy cartoon. Old, wooden stairs creek under your feet as you climb them. The front porch has a severe lean, making you take a precarious step toward the massive front door.

A knocker in the shape of a snarling gargoyle greets you. Tentatively, you reach your hand toward it. Just before your fingers brush the knocker, the door swings inward, creaking and shuttering as it does. You snatch your hand back and take a step away from it, heart racing.

No one is in the entryway. You stick your head inside, looking at the maximalist disaster that is the interior. There are gauche tapestries all over the walls and exotic, loud wallpaper. Statues, busts, and other carvings cover every surface, and the faint smell of cardamom hangs in the air.

“Hello?” you call. Your voice seems to echo in the house.

You hear footsteps. Your heart rate picks up, hoping to see the infamous Taehyung you’ve come for. Except you don’t, feeling confusion first followed by irritation. Of course Yoongi is standing in this strange home that’s full of popping energy and static.

“What are you doing here?” you demand.

Yoongi frowns. “You’re not Taehyung, right?”

“No! Do I look like him?”

“I don’t know what he looks like.”

“Well. I’m not.”

Both of you have a silent standoff, staring at the other. Yoongi looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair a little greasy. You feel a momentary pang of sympathy for him, feeling the same sort of restlessness and weariness tugging at your edges.

“What are you here for, then?” you ask if only to fill the silence stretching between you. “And why are you inside?”

“It’s cold outside. And the house felt like it wanted me to wait inside.”

“Okay. Well.”

He crosses his arms. “I’m here because I’m… looking for something.”

“Something that requires black flame candles?”

“No.” He looks you up and down. “What are you here for.”

“Trying to break something.”

He hums.

Eventually, you both sit down in the sitting room. Neither of you say anything to the other, sitting in… almost comfortable silence. You sit and stare at the clock on the wall, watching your time slip away.

Your knee starts pouncing. You take out your phone, spamming Jungkook. Trying to get him to call Taehyung, perhaps. He doesn’t answer, your nerves unsettling your stomach. Eating away at you.

An hour slips by. Then another.

Sweat starts to collect on the back of your neck. Each moment the minute hand tick tick ticks, you lose another minute. Another five. Another ten.

You don’t feel sick or deteriorating, but you know that as it reaches ten at night, you only have two hours left. A collection of 120 minutes for the rest of your life. Barely enough to drive back into town and say goodbye to your friends. To anyone who cares.

Overwhelmed with the impending sense of doom, you suddenly stand up, wiping your hands on your jeans. Inside feels insufferable, so full of tension. You need to breathe, to maybe look at the moon for a little. To… feel the wind for the last moment, now that it’s here.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside. I - um. I don’t think he’s coming and I… want to be outside.”

Yoongi nods. “Mind if I join you?”

The question is gentle. Soft. Like that time you saw him in Jungkook’s shop, face so gentle and kind, round and soft with wonder and something like hope. It urges you to nod, reserved to not spend the next two hours hating this man who has made the last twelve days of your life annoying.

Instead, you’ll spend it with this man who doesn’t know you, but who has colored the pages of your life for the last two weeks.

It’s strange. Before that day outside of Namjoon’s shop, you didn’t know who this person was. Now, you know a little bit. Not a lot, but enough.

There’s a hill behind Taehyung’s house that you walk out to. You both sit on it quietly, looking out at the world. This far out in the country, the stars blanket the sky in a thrilling map of constellations and sparkling lights. It’s beautiful. Nice.

A general melancholy seems to hang around Yoongi. You don’t know what it is he is looking for, but you sort of hope he finds it in the way that you’ve been unable to. If you have to lose tonight, you think that someone ought to win.

“What was your favorite moment of your life?” Yoongi asks out of nowhere. You glance at him to see him staring out at the sky, eyes unseeing. His fingers pull at the grass by his shoe, uprooting them absently. “Or something that you just remember being a really good memory?”

You pull your knees to your chest and set your chin atop them, thinking. You’ve had so much time to think this week about your favorite moments or the best parts of your life before it’s gone, and yet, you hadn’t thought too much about it.

“Maybe…” you grin, eyes unfocusing. “The first time I ever listened to Hey Jude. I had never listened to the Beatles and Jimin had it on vinyl and it was one of the last days of summer when we were younger and he put it on… we danced to it and had the coldest lemonade and those red white and blue popsicles. It was right after a breakup and… it was the first time I felt unfettered, reckless joy.”

You can remember the sweetness of the lemonade, the sticky fingers from the popsicle. The sound of the record, the way it hissed into silence at the end of the track, just the crackling vinyl chasing you out of the end of summer.

Turning to look at Yoongi, you ask, “What about you?”

“The first time I heard a piano. I was on vacation with my parents but I got lost at the hotel and I found this piano in the lobby. This guy was playing it so I just sat down next to him and listened. It was… I wasn’t afraid anymore, and I just waited there until the front desk told my parents they found me.”

You grin, feeling a sweet curl of joy spreading through you. “Do you play now?”

“Mhmm. I wish I had played more in the last few weeks. I was … busy.”

“Hmm. I wish I had done a lot of things recently. Instead, I fixated on something unchangeable.”

Silence falls between you. You check your phone for the time. You realize that there are only fifteen minutes left, your heart clenching painfully. You place the phone face down in the grass, sucking in a deep, shaking breath.

“You should go,” you murmur gently. He looks up at you, brows raised. “I uh - need to do something that I think should be done alone.”

He nods. “Me too.” Gets up slowly, dusting off his pants. Yoongi starts to turn away and hesitates, looking down at you. You look up and think that Yoongi might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Soft face against the cosmos, dark eyes that are swirling and unreadable. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

He lifts a shoulder. “For being a surprise in my life, I suppose. A change of pace.”

“You too.”

With a little wave of his hand, Yoongi walks down the hill back toward the house. You watch him go until he vanishes around the front and you are left alone, the sound of the crickets around you.

Turning back to the empty hills, you exhale. In a way, you’re okay. You think that maybe Yoongi is right - he was an unexpected and at times vexing surprise in your life, but it was fun. A least a little.

Gently, you lay back in the grass. You don’t know if it’s going to hurt when you go, but you want to be lying down just in case. Your hands tremble in the grass and you feel your throat constrict with the urge to cry. Not because you’re alone, not because you’re afraid, but because you think maybe… you should have just enjoyed life a little more than trying to defeat it the last two weeks.

A lifetime of forcing things into submission and for once, you couldn’t do it.

The minutes tick by. You try to calm your breathing. There’s no escaping the red string of fate now. Without your other half, you will cease to exist. There is no more road for you.

You think of the sweet taste of lemonade. The chorus of Hey Jude. The breeze coming in through the open door and the scent of the honeysuckle climbing the awning. You smile, feeling a tear slide down your face.

Shutting your eyes, you breathe in deep. You are ready.

DAY THIRTEEN

You frown. You keep breathing. You take in another deep breath, thinking that maybe you just… timed it wrong. Settling in, you keep yourself calm, fingers drumming on the floor. Any second now you’re going to die. The life force will flee your body. You will perish. Ashes and dust and all of that.

It doesn’t come. You crack an eye open, looking at the starry sky. The stars are still hanging and the moon is still shining. Suddenly you wonder if you’ve already died and this is the afterlife. Would you even know if you were dead?

Sitting up, you grab your phone and look at it. If there are phones in the afterlife, yours shows that it’s past midnight.

“Huh?” you whisper, tapping the screen. It looks real. Feels real. “Why am I not dead?”

Footsteps behind you make you look over your shoulder. Yoongi is storming up the hill, a look on his face like wonder and fury or something weirdly in between.

“What were you doing at Namjoon’s shop that day we ran into one another?”

“What?”

“The shop!” he yells, throwing his hands up, panting as he crests the hill. “What were you doing there?”

“Getting… a fortune read. Sort of.”

“And the library?”

“Researching how to break spells.”

“And Jungkook?” Yoongi’s voice trembles. You don’t follow, but you shrug a shoulder. “Same thing as when I went to Namjoon’s. Trying to use the future to help me find something.”

Yoongi crouches down and reaches for your ankle. You pull it back, yelling, “Hey, hands off, weirdo! I’m not into foot stuff!”

He grabs your jeans and pulls the hem up, despite your kicking. When he reveals the red mark around your ankle, he abruptly sits down and stares at you. You yank your foot from his grip, ripping your jeans back down and glaring. “What gives? Yeah, I have a red string of fate, whatever.”

Mutely, Yoongi sticks his foot toward you. He has on dirty Converse with gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and jeans on. “I’m more of a Hubba Bubba myself,” you note, eyeing his foot. “But thanks?”

“My ankle.”

You sit up straight, heart racing. Yoongi had been going to Namjoon that day. And then at the library. Even visiting Jungkook. And buying items for… breaking a spell at the magic shop. Now, he’s here, for a reason unbeknownst to you.

And you’re not dead.

You’re not dead.

Slowly, you reach over Yoongi’s foot. Your fingers are trembling as you grab the soft material of his jeans, fingers weak. Steeling yourself, you pull gently to reveal Yoongi’s ankle. You expect to see creamy, smooth skin, unmarked and well… ordinary.

Instead, you see a single red ring scarring his skin. A perfect red string of fate marking his skin forever, telling him that he belongs to someone. That someone equally belongs to him. That there is someone out there in the world just as stubborn to accept fate, just as cranky when inconvenienced, and who loves music just as much as you do.

You’re not dead, and Yoongi is looking at you with a smile that holds the world.

You’re not dead, and you share loud, joyful laughter with your red string of fate partner for the first time.

DAY 20

“Yeah,” Taehyung says, leaning back and self-satisfied. “I saw them finding each other at my house so I just left. Let fate do its thing, ya know?”

You roll your eyes. “Your house is fucking creepy but not in a cool way.”

Yoongi laces his fingers with yours. “Yeah man, where are the damn bats?”

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