Oct 20, 2025
bruce please come and finish ash vs evil dead. the cliffhanger keeps me up at night💔
seen from Japan
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Australia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Italy
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Peru
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Maldives
bruce please come and finish ash vs evil dead. the cliffhanger keeps me up at night💔
lovesickness [상사병] (explicit) pt. 1 | pjm
title: lovesickness pairing: jimin x f. reader rating/genre: m (18+) ; idol!verse with canon divergence, obsession au summary: In which you, a BTS army, wanders into a magic shop in Las Vegas and ends buying something called a One Wish Willow and in times of desperation, jokingly makes a wish about your favorite BTS member…but maybe… you shouldn't have… [do not go see bts in las vegas and come home and watch obsession because now you have opened up pandora's box of thoughts of those with the potential to abuse its' power] warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Stalking, Separation Anxiety, Idol! Park Jimin, Making Out, Jealousy, Biting, Cunnilingus, Orgasm, Dry Humping, Suicidal Thoughts, Smut, Eventual Sex, Psychological Horror, Character Death (s)?, Angst, Unrequited Love, Mild Gore, Arguments, Power Dynamic, Touch-Starved, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Coercion, Rough Sex, Impulsive Behavior, Emotional Outbursts, Eventual Self Harm notes: this is my darkest fic i've ever written and I could've gone darker but Jimin is an angel and even in a fictional sense, I can't go that deep. heavily unedited since no beta reader, also based on the 2026 movie obsession, this fic incorporate a sense of realism, so the members will speak in korean (apologies as my korean is still in the works so there may be some awkward expressions i may have used) during certain points (with eng translations) and english at other points, jimin is at an intermediate level in his english in this fic etc. (pls check ao3 for more notes) total word count: 12k for pt. 1 if you'd like to read part 2 and 3, please check the rest of this fic out on AO3 here
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Las Vegas already feels like it’s humming before you even properly arrive in it, like the entire city is a living thing that inhales neon and exhales heat. The dry air hits you the moment you step outside with your friends, your skin tightening slightly under the sun that feels too bright to be real, too staged, like it’s been turned up for an audience. Day 1 of the concert hasn’t even begun, but everything already feels like it’s leaning forward, waiting.
You and your friends had landed with a plan that wasn’t really a plan, just a loose agreement to follow anything that felt vaguely ARIRANG-featured, anything tied to BTS lore, anything that might make the trip feel more like a pilgrimage than a vacation. It’s ridiculous, you think, as you walk past tourists filming fountains and gamblers spilling out of casinos like they’ve forgotten what time is. But it’s Vegas. Everything here is supposed to be a little ridiculous.
That’s how you end up there.
The Lotus Magic Shop sits wedged between two louder buildings, its sign small enough to miss if you blink. But something about it pulls your attention anyway. Soft gold lettering, a faint glow even in daylight, like it’s remembering being important once. Your friend laughs immediately when she sees it.
“Okay,” she says, pointing. “That is literally a Magic Shop. We have to go in.”
You don’t argue. None of you do. The name alone feels like permission.
Inside, the air shifts. It’s cooler, quieter, like the city got muted the moment the door closed behind you. Shelves line the walls in uneven rows, filled with trinkets that look half antique and half staged, crystal animals, dusty jars, folded paper charms tied with string. It smells faintly like cedar and something metallic underneath, like old coins or rain that never fully dried.
And then you see it.
The One Wish Willow.
It sits on a middle shelf like it doesn’t belong there, in a highly deceptive, retro, and cheap-looking mass-market packaging. The vintage 1980s-style box is designed to look like an ordinary, inexpensive novelty trinket you might impulsively pick up from a gift shop.
6.99.
Seven dollars, basically. It’s always the seven when it comes to BTS and Army!
You stare at it longer than you mean to.
“It grants one wish, it says!” The exterior and packaging also prominently display "Amaze your friends!" alongside important user warnings. Warning Labels: The packaging and included instructions heavily stress that wishes are irreversible and cannot be repeated.
Your friend snorts. “That’s so fake.”
“Obviously,” another says, already walking away. “But it’s cute. Get it for the memory.”
You should leave it there. You know that. You absolutely know that. But Vegas has a way of making bad ideas feel like traditions, like souvenirs you’re supposed to collect without questioning whether they’re real.
So you buy it. “Are you sure about this?” The cashier asks with a strange look on his face.
“Well, yes.” He continues giving you a look, but then shrugs. You pay him and that is that.
Seven dollars feels like nothing in a city designed to make everything feel like nothing.
When your friends see it at checkout, they laugh.
“You bought a cursed dead wood?”
“It’s not cursed,” you say automatically, even though you don’t actually believe that either. You just tuck the box into your bag like it belongs there. Like it was always meant to come with you.
Outside again, the sun is louder. The world is louder. You almost forget about the shop entirely by the time you’re rushing toward the venue, checking your phone every few seconds like it might suddenly tell you you’re late.
Soundcheck passes are real. You still can’t believe it even as you’re being guided inside with a crowd that feels too excited to be contained in a single building. Everything is flashing wristbands and security instructions and the distant thump of rehearsal sound bleeding through walls.
Inside the stadium, the scale hits you in pieces instead of all at once.
The stage is massive, extending into long catwalk legs that reach deep into the audience sections like arms stretching out to touch as many people as possible. Your seat is just slightly off-center, close enough to feel lucky, far enough to feel invisible. You notice it immediately. You always notice it immediately.
You’re not front row. Not even close.
Your fingers tighten around your phone as you sit. You can already feel the logic forming in your head: they will look everywhere, but not here. Not exactly here. Not you.
You really want them to see you. To acknowledge your existence and not just as a light in the crowd. But as... you.
Still, you came prepared. Your bag opens like a small arsenal of anticipation, light sticks, snacks you won’t eat, tissues you don’t need, and the poster you spent too long making.
On it, in bold exaggerated handwriting: “Can you BE MINE? 1 for Yes or 2 for Yes.”
It’s stupid. It’s supposed to be stupid. That’s the point. It’s based on Jimin’s solo work, a joke turned into hope turned into something you can hold instead of just thinking about.
BTS is about to step onto that stage. And more specifically, Park Jimin…the PARK Jimin, is about to exist in the same physical space as you again, even if only briefly, even if only in passing light.
You tell yourself that should be enough.
Soundcheck starts with “Swim,” then “Alien,” then “Fya.” Fifteen minutes that feel like they stretch and compress at the same time, like time is reacting to sound instead of the other way around.
When BTS come out, the stadium erupts in a kind of sound that feels too big for human lungs. You watch them move like they already know exactly where every camera is, every angle, every expectation. Kim Namjoon. Kim Seokjin. Min Yoongi. Jung Hoseok. PARK JIMIN. Kim Taehyung. Jeon Jungkook.
They look effortless in a way that makes you feel slightly unreal for existing in the same space.
Jimin moves like he’s half-aware of gravity but not fully obeying it. Like a fairy, if you will.
He circles the stage during “Alien” with the others, and you immediately stand a little straighter, as if that helps. You lift your poster slightly higher. You even try a small, awkward dance, something to make yourself noticeable, something to separate you from the blur of fans around you.
He comes your direction during the rotation.
Your chest tightens so sharply it feels like it might interrupt the moment itself.
He’s closer now. Close enough that you can see the way his hair sticks slightly to his forehead, the way his expression shifts between focus and warmth depending on where he’s looking.
You raise your poster higher.
“Can you BE MINE? 1 for Yes or 2 for Yes.”
Your heart is doing something unhelpful and frantic.
But his eyes don’t land on you.
They sweep over your section like a light passing over glass, brief, reflective, gone. He’s looking lower, closer to the barricade, the very front rows where people are practically reaching into the stage. His attention is anchored there, grounded in proximity.
You are just far enough back to become part of the crowd instead of part of the moment.
He smiles at someone else. Waves. Moves on.
And then he’s gone.
Just like that.
The disappointment is not immediate. It arrives a few seconds later, like your body needs time to realize what your mind already understands.
Soundcheck ends quickly after that. The members leave in a blur of coordinated movement and flashing lights, and the stadium slowly deflates into noise again, fans talking, laughing, already rewriting the moment into something softer.
You stay seated.
Long after everyone else begins to shift and stand and stretch and leave, you remain still, your poster resting against your knees like it suddenly weighs more than it did before.
Your friends notice.
“It’s okay,” one of them says quickly, sitting back down beside you. “It’s just soundcheck. You’ve got the main show. He’ll definitely see you then.”
“Yeah,” another adds. “There’s still so many chances. And your poster is literally iconic.”
You nod because it’s easier than explaining that something about it already feels decided. Like you’ve seen the shape of how today will go, and it doesn’t include what you wanted.
They eventually leave to get food, promising to come back before the show starts. The stadium empties in waves for a brief moment. You stay behind, claiming you need to charge your phone, even though it’s more about not wanting to move yet.
You open your bag slowly.
That’s when you see it again.
The One Wish Willow box.
It sits at the bottom like it’s been waiting patiently, as if it knew you’d eventually run out of distractions and remember it existed.
You turn it over in your hands.
6.99.
A joke. A souvenir. A stupid little object from a stupid little shop in a city that thrives on illusions. Spark the middle and break in half.
You almost laugh.
“What harm could it do?” you murmur under your breath.
It’s not even a question you expect an answer to.
You open the box.
Inside, the One Wish Willow is smaller than you thought. Delicate. Ordinary. Almost pathetic. Like something you could snap between your fingers if you wanted to.
You hold it anyway.
The stadium hums faintly around you. Distant staff and fan movement, echoing sounds from the VCR play around the venue, the lingering ghost of music still trapped in the walls.
You exhale.
“I wish Jimin would finally notice me,” you say quietly, almost amused at yourself.
There’s a pause.
Your brain tries, genuinely tries, to stop you there. To let it remain harmless. A joke. A story you can tell your friends later.
But you don’t stop.
Because if you’re going to pretend magic is real, it might as well be honest magic.
“…and that once he does, he can’t stop thinking about me. Like I stay in his mind. Like he can’t look away, even when he tries. Like he…”
Your grip tightens slightly.
You don’t know why it suddenly feels harder to breathe in a building full of air.
You continue anyway.
“…like he falls for me completely and can’t stop.”
The moment the sentence leaves you, you break the piece of wood. The air shifts.
Not dramatically. Not visibly.
Just enough that you notice it afterward, like a sound… a jingle… is registered by your ears after it’s already said.
Your phone buzzes beside you. You put away the broken willow in your bag.
You glance down automatically.
A notification lights the screen from a fan update account: soundcheck clips uploading. Thousands of fans reacting. People laughing about interactive moments you didn’t get to experience properly.
And somewhere in that noise, a strange thought forms, quiet and uninvited.
Like something heard you.
Like something is listening now.
Outside, the stadium begins to fill again.
And far away, under stage lights warming up for the main show, Day 1 of 4 starts to feel less like the beginning of something.
And more like the first time something has already chosen you back.
Your friends eventually come back with food in hand, talking over each other about how insane it already feels, how this is only Day 1 and somehow everything already feels like too much and not enough at the same time.
“You’re too quiet,” one of them says, handing you a drink.
“I’m fine,” you reply automatically, but not mention you embarrassingly pulling out that one wish joke trinket and making an actual wish.
Instead, you let the conversation wash over you while your eyes drift to the main stage again. The long catwalks stretch out like empty roads now, the barricades still lined with early fans trying to capture the perfect shot to show that they made it to the BTS concert and have the "best seats in the house". Staff members move across the floor, taping cables, checking screens, resetting the world for tonight’s main show like nothing supernatural had ever brushed through it.
But you cannot shake the feeling that something did.
By the time doors open for the general audience for the main concert, the energy shifts completely.
The stadium fills so fast it almost feels violent. Allegiant Stadium becomes a single body exhaling heat, light, and sound all at once. It's also just a bit overwhelming the more and more you think about it and look around. The crowd becomes a living thing pressed shoulder to shoulder, lightsticks blooming like a field of synchronized stars, and VCR music begins to play ominous traditional Korean instrumental tunes.
You and your friends are back in your seats discussing surprise songs they're hopeful to see, random tweets they saw online, and other yapping about BTS. Things have settled and feel different. Fuller. Heavier. Like whatever happened during soundcheck and you being embarassed by Jimin's lack of attention towards you has been swallowed by something larger.
When the show begins, it begins like impact.
“Hooligan” hits first, and the stage explodes into movement. Then “Aliens,” then “Run BTS,” and the entire stadium screams like it is trying to keep up with its own heartbeat.
BTS move like they are in control of gravity again, but you notice something subtle now that you did not during soundcheck. It is not obvious at first. Just small pauses between movements. Slight changes in where attention goes.
And more than anything, you notice Jimin.
He is smiling, performing, spinning into choreography like he always does, but his eyes keep drifting in ways that feel slightly unfocused. Not lost. Just… searching. Like he is looking for something he cannot name. His body language also looks off at moments, but maybe you're overthinking it a bit much.
Yeah, maybe you are just imagining it.
But then it happens again during “Fake Love.”
He and Yoongi walk toward the extended stage leg closest to your side of the floor. The crowd erupts around you, phones rising like a single wave. You rise too without thinking, lifting your poster again even though your hands are already tired from holding it earlier.
“Can you BE MINE? 1 for Yes or 2 for Yes.”
You watch him approach.
This time, he is closer than soundcheck. Close enough that you can see the way his expression tightens slightly when he scans the crowd.
He stops.
Just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
His eyes pass over barricade fans first, then the middle sections, then yours.
And for a moment, his gaze catches yours and he looks very elated to find you.
He then looks like he is reading the sign you made and laughs. Then he raises a peace sign. A 2. Answering your question. You and your friends suddenly cheer from the interaction of finally getting noticed.
Then his attitude shifts and he looks away sharply, almost as if something pulled him out of it, and continues moving.
You lower your poster slowly.
“Wait what was that?” your friend shouts over the music.
“I don’t know,” you answer, but your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “But who cares, I got noticed! Yay!”
You and your friends continue to fangirl and cheer throughout the set, and the rest of the concert continues like a dream that refuses to stabilize.
“Mic Drop” shakes the stadium so hard your ribs feel like they are vibrating separately from your body. “Fya” turns the crowd into pure movement, with other members like Taehyung and Hoseok coming onto your side. “Fire” makes everything feel like it is burning without heat.
During “Idol,” the members walk the perimeter in a procession, and you catch glimpses of them moving past your section. RM looks out into the crowd with a calm focus that feels almost grounding, like he is seeing the whole stadium at once instead of just pieces of it. Jin waves toward a section slightly farther away, laughing at something a fan is doing. Jungkook runs ahead of the others briefly, then slows like he remembers he is supposed to stay in formation.
But Jimin.
Jimin keeps pausing in small, inconsistent ways. Not enough for anyone else to notice if they weren't his fellow members and staff, though just enough for you to start noticing it as a long time fan. Is something wrong?
Once, during a transition, he turns his head toward the stage wings like he heard something offstage. Another time, he looks directly into the crowd again and holds it for a beat too long, then blinks like he is resetting himself.
Your stomach tightens.
You tell yourself it's likely exhaustion. Lights. Noise. Pressure. Anything normal. This is the last stop of the first leg of the World Tour, maybe he's not feeling 100%.
But the thought from earlier returns anyway.
Like something heard you.
By the time the encore begins, you are physically drained from all of the standing or screaming you've been doing for over an hour.
“Come Over” feels soft after everything that came before it, like the stadium is exhaling. “Butter” makes everyone laugh and sway, the members joking with each other, moving without precision on purpose.
During “Dynamite,” Jimin spins mid-step and for a brief second looks directly toward the center sections again.
And again, it is like something inside him stutters.
Like he is trying to focus on one thing and failing.
The surprise songs hit differently.
“Permission to Dance” shocks fans at it's sudden return to being played, to the dismay of some, but it brings back some soft memories from Permission to Dance tour. “Go Go” is chaotic and playful, but even then you notice Jimin lagging half a beat behind the others at one point, then correcting himself instantly like it never happened. He laughs it off, but you can tell members like Taehyung catch it immediately that this isn't normal for Jimin.
You hope everything is alright and that he isn't pushing himself.
The final stretch of the concert slows everything down. The members do their ending ments, thanking fans for coming to Vegas, mentioning how they know many travelled fair to be there and also coming back to this venue after 4 years. Time surely has passed. Jimin's ending meant is very normal during this: just teasing fans to make some noise and hoping everyone gets home safely after the show.
“Please” has them sitting on the rotating stage, turning slowly so every side of Allegiant Stadium gets its moment. The crowd is still loud, but it is softer now, emotional in a way that feels like collective fatigue and joy mixing together.
You watch Jimin during that rotation, recording with your phone for some clips to have as memories.
You zoom in with your phone. He is smiling again. Playing around with Yoongi who keeps poking at him, followed by Jungkook who slaps his knees.
But every so often, his eyes flick toward your section.
And stares deeply, as if he’s trying to find…you.
Then “Into the Sun” begins.
It feels like goodbye stretched into music. Slow, aching, and impossibly tender.
The members stand at the edge of the stage, waving, lingering, and walking backward as if refusing to fully leave yet. The stadium roars with everything it has left, a wall of sound that vibrates in your chest like it could keep them there forever.
And then it is over.
The lights come up gradually at first, then all at once.
Harsh, white, and unforgiving. Reality forcing itself back in like cold water after a fever dream.
The crowd doesn’t move right away. Everyone just stands there, stunned into a lingering, messy noise. Some still cheering, some already crying, a few calling out names that won’t be answered again tonight. The magic drains slowly, like water slipping through cupped hands.
Your friends stay frozen beside you for a long second. Then the disbelief spills out.“No way… that’s it?” one of them says, voice cracking. “I can’t believe it’s actually over. It doesn’t feel real.”
Another lets out a shaky laugh, rubbing their face with both hands. “I’m not ready. I’m literally not ready. How are we supposed to just go home after that?”
You swallow hard, throat tight. The stadium lights feel too bright on your wet eyes.
“But hey,” the first friend adds, trying to rally, “we’ve got tomorrow. and Wednesday. and Thursday.”
A half-hearted “Yay” ripples through your little group. Flat, tired, and sarcastic. You join in, but it comes out more like a groan.
Tomorrow suddenly feels less like a gift and more like the last step toward the edge of a cliff.
Your friends grab your arms anyway, pulling you forward before the ache can settle too deep.
“Photos,” one says, already steering you toward the barricade. “We have to get barricade photos while it’s emptying out. Come on.”
You follow them because it is easier than thinking. Easier than sitting still in your seat with your body suddenly too aware of itself. Legs shaky, chest hollow, the ghost of every chorus still ringing in your ears.
The barricade area is less chaotic now. Still slightly crowded, but more manageable. Fans take turns posing, laughing, recreating moments from the show that already feel like memories instead of present tense.
You take a few photos with your friends. You smile when you are supposed to. You hold your lightstick up. You try to match their energy.
But your feet hurt.
Your entire body feels like it has been emptied and refilled too many times in one night.
Eventually you drift away slightly, letting them continue taking pictures while you find a random empty aisle seat closer to the back of the floor section. It is not your seat. You do not care.
You sit down like your body finally makes a decision without asking you.
The relief is immediate and almost dizzying.
You lean forward, unlacing your boots with slow fingers. The floor feels colder than you expect. You pull out your foldable flats from your bag and slip them on, exhaling like you have been holding your breath for hours. You put your boots away in a reusable bag you had folded up in your main bag.
The thought of walking back to the hotel already makes your legs ache. The Strip will be chaos. Fans everywhere. Glittering noise and traffic and exhaustion all wrapped together in a single direction.
“Fans packed like sardines,” one of your friends had called it earlier.
It feels accurate now.
You lean back in the seat for just a second, holding onto your clear bag of stuff and your shoe bag.
Just one.
That is when it happens.
A hand grabs your arm.
Firm. Immediate. Real.
You are pulled sideways before your brain fully processes what is happening, taking a strong hold of your bags before they slip off.
“Wait–” you start, voice rising instantly, shock snapping through your body.
The grip tightens and drags you faster, away from your seat, away from your friends, toward one of the darkened tunnels that leads backstage.
Your breath catches hard.
Where are you going?!
The direction BTS disappeared into? Why?
Your instinct is to scream.
You almost do.
But the person stops abruptly and turns slightly, sensing it before it happens. A hand rises quickly, finger pressed to a masked mouth in a clear shushing gesture.
“쉬,” the man says quietly. [“Shh.”]
Your heart slams so hard it feels like it is trying to leave your chest.
The man is small-framed, wearing an oversized hoodie that swallows his body shape completely. A mask covers most of his face, leaving only his eyes visible.
And when you see those eyes properly, everything in you goes still in a way you had once joked about.
Not panic.
Not excitement.
Just total system freeze.
Because your brain refuses to accept what your eyes are showing you.
No.
No way.
That is not–
The man pulls you further into the tunnel, away from the noise of the stadium, deeper into the dim backstage corridor where everything sounds distant and muffled.
Your mind finally catches up to your body.
This is how you thought it would go, once, in a very delusional dream you had many years ago about BTS at Speak Yourself tour when you were still in college.
Well not like this. Not literally. But in that vague, impossible way you dreamed about and immediately laughed off once you woke up.
If it ever happens, you had told yourself, you will freeze. You will not scream. You will not move. You will just accept it because it cannot be real anyway.
And now you are doing exactly that.
Because the man glances back at you again, and the mask shifts slightly as he turns.
And when you meet his eyes properly this time, there is no room left for doubt.
It is him.
Jimin.
He is staring at you like he is still trying to confirm something.
Then, in a low voice, barely above a breath, he speaks in Korean first.
“왜 이렇게 조용해요?” [“Why are you so quiet?”]
You do not answer.
You physically cannot.
He lets out a short exhale that sounds almost like relief, then shifts his grip slightly, still holding your arm but gentler now, guiding instead of dragging.
Then he adds, in careful English, softer and more deliberate than before.
“I need you to come with me. Just for a moment.”
Your legs move because he is moving.
Not because you decided.
Because something in your brain has completely stopped arguing.
And as the tunnel opens further into the backstage world, where lights are colder and voices are lower and everything feels like it is happening behind reality instead of inside it, one thought repeats in your head over and over again.
This is not supposed to be happening.
And yet it is.
The corridor behind the main tunnel is nothing like the stadium.
The sound drops off so sharply it feels like your ears are malfunctioning. One moment there is 50,000 people still screaming somewhere behind concrete and steel, and the next there is only the hum of emergency lighting and the distant vibration of machinery you cannot see.
Jimin keeps walking until the noise of staff and stagehands fades completely.
You try to count doors as you pass them. You lose track after the third.
He finally stops in a narrow stretch of corridor that looks unused, like it exists only for maintenance and forgotten movement. No staff. No cameras in obvious sight. Just pale walls and a flickering light overhead that makes everything feel slightly unreal.
He releases your arm.
For a second, you do not move. You just stand there, staring at him in the hoodie and mask, your brain still refusing to fully translate what is happening into something logical.
Then he exhales, like he has been holding something in since soundcheck.
And suddenly, he steps forward.
Fast.
Before you can process it, your back hits the wall.
Not painfully. Not violently.
But firmly enough that your body registers it as final.
Your breath catches sharply, eyes widening instantly as your hands lift slightly between you and him out of pure reflex.
He is close now. Too close for any normal backstage interaction. Close enough that you can see the slight uneven rise and fall of his chest, like even he is not fully steady.
The mask is still on, but his eyes are completely uncovered.
And they are not performing anymore.
They are focused.
Locked.
On you.
Your voice tries to form something, but it does not make it out.
He takes his mask off and speaks first, in Korean.
His voice is low. Controlled. But there is something strained underneath it, like the words are being pulled out instead of chosen.
“오늘…” he starts, then pauses, as if correcting himself mid-thought. “오늘 제대로 못했어요.” [“Today… I couldn't do my best.”]
Your brows knit slightly. You know some Korean, so you're only able to catch fragments of words. Today. Could not. Best.
You do not question why he is speaking to you in a language that you don't really understand, mainly due to being a bit nervous of killing the vibe right now. Jimin continues speaking, not looking away from you at all.
“계속 당신을 찾으려고 했어요.” [“I kept trying to look for you.”]
Your breath stutters.
That word. 당신.
You know enough Korean to understand the weight of it. You. You specifically.
His hand lifts slightly, then stops midway, like he is unsure whether he should touch you again or not.
He continues anyway, voice tightening just a little.
“잠깐이라도 안 보이면…” [“If I could not see you, even for a moment…”]
He stops.
His gaze flickers across your face like he is checking whether you are still here, still real, still reacting.
Then he exhales through his nose, a sound that is almost frustrated with himself.
“불안했어요.” [“I felt anxious.”]
Silence drops between you.
It is not empty.
It is full.
Full of the stadium somewhere behind you. Full of the fact that this is Jimin. Full of the fact that he is standing too close, speaking like you are not a stranger he pulled into a corridor five minutes ago.
Your mouth opens slightly.
Nothing comes out.
Your brain finally forces a question to the surface.
What.
He watches your confusion register. His eyes soften slightly, and for the first time there is a crack in the intensity, like he realizes you are not following everything.
He shifts, leaning back just a fraction, giving you the smallest amount of space against the wall.
Then he switches to English.
Careful. Slightly uneven.
“I kept losing focus on stage.”
Your breath is still unsteady, but at least now you can understand him clearly.
He continues, eyes still locked on yours.
“I would be performing, and then I would look for a second, and you were not in my sight.”
A pause.
His fingers curl slightly at his side, like he is restraining something restless in his own body.
“And I could not stop thinking about it.”
Your heart is beating so hard it feels loud in your ears again, even without the stadium.
You manage a small, broken sound. Not a word. Just disbelief trying to become speech.
He nods once, like he understands that reaction more than he wants to.
Then he speaks again, softer now, but no less direct.
“I do not know why it was happening today.”
His eyes move over your face again, slower this time, like he is trying to confirm something that still does not make sense even to him.
“I have performed hundreds of times,” he says. “But today… I kept feeling like I needed to see you.”
The word see lands heavier this time.
Not just notice.
Not just glance.
See.
Like you were supposed to be part of something that he could not complete without you being there.
Your back is still against the wall. His proximity has not changed much, only softened at the edges.
And then he adds, quieter, almost like he is admitting something he did not plan to say out loud.
“I thought I was imagining it at first.”
A beat.
“But it kept happening again.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that feels less like performance and more like confusion mixed with certainty that should not coexist.
“And when I finally saw you clearly during ‘Fake Love’…” he pauses, swallowing slightly. “It felt like something clicked.”
Your fingers tighten slightly against the wall behind you, grounding yourself in something physical because nothing else feels stable.
You force yourself to speak, voice thin.
“You… you saw me?”
That is all you can manage. Stupidest question ever since you know he did and acknowledged your poster, but double confirmation from him would be nice.
He nods immediately.
“Yes.”
Simple.
Absolute.
No hesitation.
Then, after a pause that feels heavier than anything before it, he adds in English again, quieter now.
“I could not stop looking after that.”
The corridor hums faintly.
Somewhere far away, staff voices echo briefly, then fade again.
He does not move away.
You do not move either.
And in the strange silence between a stadium full of people and a hallway meant for nobody, it becomes very clear that whatever this is, it did not end when the concert did.
Your mind latches onto the only logical thread it can find, even as your body refuses to fully cooperate with logic anymore.
Did it actually work?
Did the One Wish Willow actually fucking work?
That stupid seven-dollar box sitting at the bottom of your bag. A joke. A souvenir. Something you were supposed to laugh about later.
Now nothing about this feels like a joke.
Jimin is still standing in front of you.
Too close. Too real.
And then his hands lift.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He cups your face like he is testing whether you are solid.
His palms are warm through the chill of the hallway air, thumbs resting just under your cheekbones. For a moment, his expression shifts like something inside him tightens again, like even gentle contact is not enough to settle whatever is happening in his head.
His voice drops, and this time he speaks in Korean again, slower than before, like he is choosing each word as it comes out.
“볼수록…” he murmurs. [“The more I look at you…”]
His gaze drags over your face like he is trying to memorize it in real time.
“너를…” he continues, then stops briefly, exhaling through his nose. [“You…”]
Then he finishes it, voice quieter but heavier.
“가지고 싶어져.” [“I want to have you.”]
A pause.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just heavy in the way silence becomes heavy when someone says something they were not supposed to say out loud.
His thumbs press slightly more firmly against your cheeks, not painful, but enough that you feel the intensity sharpen.
“그냥 보는 걸로는 부족해.” [“Just looking is not enough.”]
Your breath catches.
Not because you understand everything perfectly, but because you understand enough.
Enough to feel the meaning behind it pressing into the space between you.
His eyes flicker across yours again, like he is checking your reaction, and something in him seems to lean forward before he consciously decides to follow it.
The distance between you disappears further. The distance between you vanishes.
Jimin’s mouth finds yours like he’s been starving for it, slow at first, almost reverent, lips soft and plush as they press against yours. Then the hunger takes over. His hands slide from your cheeks into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back as he deepens the kiss. His tongue slips past your lips, hot and insistent, tasting you like he wants to devour every small sound you make.
You moan into his mouth and he answers with a low, throaty sound of his own, pressing you back against the cool wall of the hallway. His body is solid heat against yours, firm chest, narrow waist, the hard line of his thigh pushing between your legs. One of his hands drops to your hip, fingers digging in as he rolls his hips forward, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you.
“Fuck…” he breathes against your lips in English this time, the word ragged. Then he’s kissing you again, filthier, tongue stroking deep and slow while his hand slides under the hem of your shirt. His palm is scorching against your bare skin, fingertips tracing up your ribs until he cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple through your thin bra. It pebbles instantly under his touch and he groans, pinching lightly, rolling it until your back arches off the wall.
You clutch at his shoulders, the ash hoodie fabric bunching in your fists. He’s still in stage clothes underneath, sweat-damp tank top clinging to his body, and the scent of him fills your head: clean sweat, faint cologne, and something darker, purely him. You suck on his tongue and he shudders, grinding harder against you, the very obvious ridge of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.
“너 때문에…” he pants between kisses, voice wrecked. “이렇게 됐어… [Because of you… I’m like this…]”
His mouth trails down to your jaw, then your neck. He bites, sharp enough to sting, then soothes it with his tongue, sucking a mark right below your ear while his hand squeezes your breast harder. Your hips jerk against his thigh, chasing friction, and he chuckles darkly against your skin before kissing you again, messier this time. Lips wet, tongues sliding, spit-slick and desperate. His free hand grips your ass, pulling you tighter against him so you can feel every inch of his hardness rocking against you.
You’re both breathing hard, almost panting into each other’s mouths. His forehead rests against yours for half a second, eyes half-lidded and glassy with want, before he dives back in-kissing you like the world is ending, like this stolen hallway is the only place left. One of your hands slips under his hoodie, nails dragging down his back, and he hisses, hips snapping forward again in response.
He’s just starting to push your shirt higher, mouth moving down toward your chest, when–
A sound cuts through the hallway.
Footsteps.
Sharp. Controlled. Fast.
A voice follows immediately, colder than everything else in the corridor.
“지민아.” [“Jimin.”]
The spell breaks instantly for a moment.
Jimin’s hands drop from your face like he has been shocked. His entire posture changes in a single snap, shoulders tightening, breath shifting.
He turns his head.
RM is standing at the end of the corridor.
His expression is not confused at first.
It is sharp.
Then it turns fully into disbelief.
His eyes move from Jimin to you, then back to Jimin.
“뭐 하는 거야?” [“What the hell are you doing?”]
Jimin takes a half step back so quickly it looks involuntary, like his body is suddenly remembering it is supposed to have boundaries.
“What the fuck?” his eyes widen, and mutters under his breath, but not directed at anyone in particular, like he is realizing the situation at the exact same time everyone else is.
He looks down briefly, running a hand over his face, then turns slightly away from you as if trying to physically reset himself.
The shift is so abrupt it makes your stomach drop. What’s going on?
It’s as if someone just turned the volume of reality back on too fast.
Namjoon steps closer, eyes narrowing as he takes in the corridor, the distance between you and Jimin, the way Jimin is standing like he is trying to reassemble his own thoughts.
“무슨 일이야?” Namjoon asks, voice controlled but clearly strained. [“What is going on?”]
Jimin does not answer immediately.
Namjoon exhales sharply, looking between you both again.
“끝나고 나서 너 갑자기 후드 쓰고 마스크 쓰고 뛰쳐나갔다며.” [“After the show ended, you suddenly grabbed a hoodie and a mask and ran off.”]
He gestures vaguely down the corridor.
“스태프들이 계속 찾고 있었어.” [“The staff have been looking for you everywhere.”]
A beat.
Then his eyes flick to you again, slower this time, assessing.
Jimin suddenly lets out a short, strange laugh.
It is not the kind of laugh that belongs in this moment.
It is too light.
Too detached.
Namjoon notices immediately, his expression shifting.
“왜 웃어?” [“Why are you laughing?”]
Jimin tilts his head slightly, still half turned away, then looks back at you like he has just remembered you are there in a different way than before.
Then he says, in Korean, almost casually:
“그냥… 이 팬이 눈에 들어와서.” [“Just… this fan caught my eye.”]
His gaze lingers on you.
Then he adds, slower:
“같이 데려가고 싶었어.” [“I wanted to bring her with me.”]
Namjoon scoffs immediately.
“호텔까지?” [“To the hotel?”]
His disbelief sharpens.
“너 지금 우리 전부 다 걸고 그런 짓을 한 거야?” [“You’re putting all of our reputations on the line for that?”]
He gestures between Jimin and the corridor like he cannot believe he is having to say this out loud.
“그냥 데려가서 여기서 키스라도 하려고 한 거야?” [“Did you just drag her here to kiss her in a hallway?”]
The air goes still again, but this time it is different.
Not charged.
Just heavy with consequences.
Jimin opens his mouth like he is about to respond, then closes it again.
His expression shifts slightly, like he is trying to grasp something that keeps slipping out of reach.
Then, unexpectedly, he starts laughing again.
Softly at first.
Then a little more.
Namjoon stares at him like he is no longer sure what he is looking at.
You do not move.
You cannot tell if you should.
Jimin finally looks at Namjoon properly, still smiling faintly like the situation is slightly unreal to him.
Then he says, in Korean:
“형, 그냥 영어로 말해줘.” [“Hyung, just tell her in English.”]
A pause.
Namjoon blinks.
“뭐라고?” he asks, voice flat with disbelief. [“What?”]
Jimin tilts his head slightly toward you again, eyes briefly sharpening as if refocusing on the original thread that started all of this.
His voice lowers when he speaks next, calmer now, but still unsettling in its certainty.
“그냥 영어로 말해줘.” he says first, almost absentmindedly, like he is setting the tone of the moment for himself. [“Just say it in English.”]
Then, after a beat, he adds in Korean, slower, deliberate, as if each word has already been decided and there is no room left to argue with it.
“데려간다고 말해.” [“Tell her she’s coming with us.”]
Namjoon does not move right away.
The word hangs in the corridor like something physically uncomfortable.
“데려간다고?” he repeats, slower this time, like saying it again might make it make sense. [“Bring her with us?”]
His eyes flick to Jimin first. Then to you. Then back again, sharper now.
“지민아, 너 지금 무슨 말 하는지 알아?” [“Jimin, do you know what you are saying right now?”]
Jimin does not look away.
He stands straighter now, like the earlier instability has been replaced with something more fixed, more certain in a way that is almost worse.
“I know,” he says simply in Korean, then exhales once. “알아.” [“I know.”]
Namjoon lets out a quiet breath through his nose, frustration and concern mixing in a way that makes his voice drop lower.
“아까부터 이상했어.” [“You’ve been strange since earlier.”]
He gestures slightly toward Jimin, controlled but tense.
“무대에서도 집중이 계속 끊겼고, 스태프들도 봤어.” [“Even on stage, you kept losing focus, and the staff noticed.”]
His gaze sharpens.
“이거 그냥 넘길 문제가 아니야.” [“This is not something we can just ignore.”]
Jimin’s jaw tightens slightly, but he still does not step back.
Namjoon finally looks at you properly now, like he is including you in something he did not plan for. It makes you nervous. He is your bias wrecker after all.
Then he switches to English, voice softer but very deliberate.
“I need you to listen carefully.”
You swallow.
He glances briefly back at Jimin before continuing.
"Jimin wants you to come with us."
A pause.
Not dramatic. Just heavy. The kind of pause where a single second stretches long enough for your pulse to beat twice, three times, while your brain tries to assemble the sentence into something that makes sense.
"Okay…" The word comes out before you can stop it. Neutral. Question shaped. A placeholder while your mind scrambles for footing.
Namjoon's expression tightens slightly. Not anger. Something closer to the careful patience of someone explaining the rules of a game you haven't agreed to play.
He adds, more carefully now, "But you need to understand… this is not normal."
His eyes flick down the corridor, checking for what? Security? Staff? Other fans spilling out of nearby exits? Then back to you.
"I think he is going through something. Mentally. Like a crisis. I don't know what triggered it, but this behavior is not like him."
Behind Namjoon, Jimin says nothing. Doesn't move. Just keeps smiling that small, knowing smile, watching you like you are the only person left in the world.
Something cold traces down your spine. Not fear. Not yet. But the awareness that the ground has shifted beneath your feet, and you haven't noticed until just now.
Namjoon's voice drops lower, pulling your attention back.
"I am not letting you be pressured." He says it like a fact. Like a line he has already drawn in his own mind and will not cross. "But I also cannot just leave you like this in the middle of Allegiant Stadium."
He exhales, a slow controlled breath, and takes a step slightly closer to you. Close enough that the ambient noise of the departing crowd seems to recede. Close enough that his next words feel like they are being placed directly into your ribs.
"If you go with us, you stay calm. You do not post anything. You do not record anything. You do not argue. You just go where we go and we figure this out."
His eyes sharpen. Not cruel. Precise. The way a leader's eyes sharpen when they know the margin for error has just shrunk to nothing.
"And you tell your friends you left with other people from the concert. Other friends. Tell them you'll be back at their hotel tomorrow. You understand?"
A beat of silence. Then, softer, "Can you do that?"
"Yes." You blush a bit from his authoritative tone, which is one of the things you love about him.
The word leaves your mouth at the exact same moment your phone buzzes in your hand.
You glance down instinctively.
No signal.
That's strange. The stadium has been crowded all night, but your service has held. Now the bars at the top of your screen sit empty, replaced by a small, blinking icon you don't recognize.
Another flicker. The screen stutters, ghost inputs, a lag you have never seen before, and for a split second, the edges of your wallpaper pixelate into gray static.
Then your phone dims.
Not the slow fade of low battery. Not the auto brightness adjusting to the corridor's fluorescent glare. This is different. It is like the screen is struggling. Like something is pulling the life out of it in real time.
The phone goes dark.
Then it lights up again, dimmer. Then dark. Then dim.
Namjoon notices this.
You see the exact moment he does, the slight pause in his breathing, the way his gaze drops to your hand for half a second too long.
"That's fine," he says quickly, already interpreting it, already smoothing over whatever jagged edge has just appeared in the air between you. "Your phone is probably overloaded with the mass usage of the stadium network. Just say you couldn't share location."
His tone is steady, but there is tension underneath it now.
Jimin finally speaks again, quietly in Korean.
“형, 빨리 가.” [“Hyung, let’s go quickly.”]
Namjoon does not respond immediately. His eyes stay on you for another second, like he is still deciding whether this is a mistake that can be stopped.
Then he exhales once, sharply.
“Okay,” he says in English, more to himself than anyone else.
He turns slightly, gesturing down the corridor.
“Follow me.”
The walk with them feels unreal.
Not fast. Not chaotic at all.
Controlled, like your body has been inserted into someone else’s world and is now expected to cooperate with the storyline it's now in.
The corridors shift from narrow backstage passages into wider service halls. You pass staff areas, locked doors, rolling equipment cases. Every sound feels muted, like the building is underwater now.
Then you reach the loading area.
The air changes again.
Colder. More open. Outside doors are partially raised, letting in flashes of Las Vegas night light, distant traffic, and the lingering echo of a stadium that is still emptying out behind you.
A black Escalade is already waiting. The usual ones that transport BTS, that is.
Engine running.
Lights on.
Other members are not here.
Just this one car.
Just Namjoon, Jimin, and you.
Security is stationed nearby. A few staff members in BTS tour uniforms. And near the vehicle, a man you recognize from earlier briefings, likely head of security, labeled Mr Lee by the staff.
He looks at you immediately.
Not with curiosity.
With assessment.
Like you are a problem that has entered a controlled environment.
His eyes flick between you, Jimin, and Namjoon in quick succession.
One of the security staff leans slightly toward Mr Lee, speaking under his breath.
Namjoon notices immediately and steps forward before it escalates.
“괜찮아요.” he says firmly in Korean. [“It’s okay.”]
Then he switches to English for clarity, voice calm but authoritative.
“She’s with me. She’s a friend.”
There is a pause.
The security team does not look convinced.
Mr Lee’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than comfortable, then shifts back to Namjoon.
A quiet exchange happens between them without words needing to be said.
Then, finally, Mr Lee gives a short nod.
No approval.
Just acceptance of responsibility being transferred.
No one argues out loud, but the air says everything anyway.
Namjoon opens the door to the Escalade.
“Get in,” he says gently, looking at you again.
Behind him, Jimin is already waiting, eyes fixated on you like the decision was never really open to question at all.
And the night outside of the venue, fans continue to walk home, unaware that something with bts has already changed direction completely.
he car ride feels wrong in the way dreams feel wrong. Not frightening at first, just assembled incorrectly, with pieces that belong to different realities forced into the same scene.
The black Escalade pulls away from Allegiant Stadium smoothly and disappears into the Las Vegas night with dark windows and practiced timing. Outside, the Strip is exactly what you imagined it would be after Day 1 of a BTS concert. Thousands of people flood the sidewalks in every direction. Lightsticks still glow in people’s hands. Fans carry banners rolled under their arms and film themselves while walking in crowds thick enough to slow traffic. Cars inch forward beneath giant LED billboards and neon reflections.
You should be out there.
You should be squeezed between your friends, complaining that your feet hurt and replaying every moment from the show. You should be hearing someone insist Jimin definitely looked in your direction at one point. You should be heading back to the ARIA, where you're staying at, and deciding whether overpriced room service is worth it. Or if you should door dash some food from somewhere.
Instead, you’re here.
Inside a black SUV.
With Jimin and Namjoon.
You unlock your phone.
It freezes once before opening. The screen flickers for a second before stabilizing and immediately reveals a flood of notifications.
Friend 1: WHERE ARE YOU HELLO????
Friend 2: DID U LEAVE WITHOUT US?? WHERE'D YOU GO?
Friend 1:YOU LEFT YOUR POSTER BTW I'LL SAVE IT.
You stare at the keyboard.
Your fingers hover for longer than necessary.
Eventually you type:
you: sorry!! ran into some friends from online and hanging out for a bit 😭 my phone is glitching rn and i cant share location
you: but im okay!! don’t wait up if i’m late
You stare at the message again after sending it. It looks normal enough. Weird, but not alarming. Your friends know concerts are chaotic. People split up all the time. They won't question this at all, right?
You lock your phone.
Only then do you realize one of your hands feels warm.
You look down.
Jimin is holding it.
There is nothing dramatic about it. His fingers are loosely intertwined with yours between the seats as though he reached over without thinking and never stopped. He isn’t gripping tightly. He isn’t even looking at your hand.
He’s looking at you.
Not glancing.
Looking.
You’ve spent years watching performances, interviews, clips, fan interactions, livestreams. You know his expressions. You know what his performance face looks like. You know what his fanservice face looks like. You know what his polite public smile looks like.
This isn’t any of those.
His eyes look almost unfocused around the edges, soft in a way that makes your stomach feel strange. Like he found something unexpectedly beautiful and cannot stop checking whether it’s still there.
His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles once.
You look away first.
On your other side, Namjoon sits with his elbow resting against the door. His expression is neutral, but not relaxed. His phone keeps lighting up. You accidentally catch pieces of the group chat reflected faintly in the screen.
Jungkook asking where they are.
Taehyung asking if everyone’s alive.
Jin saying staff is really upset with them right now.
Namjoon types for a while.
Namjoon: Found him. Coming back. Will explain.
Then another message appears.
Namjoon: Actually.
Namjoon: Something’s weird.
He sends it.
Locks the screen.
And goes back to staring out the tinted window.
After a while he finally turns slightly toward you and says in English, quietly enough that it feels private, “You okay?”
You blink.
The question feels too normal.
You swallow and answer honestly. “I think so.”
Namjoon nods once and looks away again before saying, “You don’t have to be afraid,” then pauses briefly before adding, “but I know this is strange.”
You almost laugh.
Strange feels like the wrong word for being pulled out of a stadium by your celebrity crush after making a suspiciously specific wish to a fake magic item.
The ride ends before your brain can finish processing any of it.
Eventually the scenery outside changes. The Strip becomes cleaner. Taller. More expensive.
Then the SUV turns and your eyes widen slightly when you realize where.
The Waldorf Astoria.
Which feels absurd because you and your friends are staying at ARIA. Practically next door.
The car doesn't approach the front entrance. Instead it descends into a private underground level. Concrete walls. Controlled access. Security checkpoints. Quiet lighting. The kind of infrastructure designed specifically so famous people never have to become public if they don't want to.
The vehicle comes to a smooth stop. Before anyone can speak, Jimin opens the door and gets out. Then he immediately turns and reaches for you. You grab your things and take his hand because, apparently, that is what your body does now. You are not questioning anything right now. He pulls gently but decisively, and suddenly you're moving again. Namjoon unfolds his tall frame from the backseat and follows behind with the energy of someone who has accepted this situation without approving of it.
You're led through the garage toward a set of elevators tucked behind another secured entry point. Private elevators. No guests. No chance encounters with fans or sasaengs. Jimin pulls you inside, grip firm and possessive, and Namjoon steps in right after you, earning a visible eye roll from Jimin.
Jimin presses the button to close the elevator doors immediately before any of their staff could enter with them. Three's already a crowd, he thinks.
Once again you're sandwiched tightly between them, Jimin facing directly in front of you, Namjoon behind you. There's space. And no escape. The elevator starts its smooth ascent and your pulse spikes.
Oh god, not here. Not with both of them like this. Your mind races. You can feel every inch of them. Your clothes are wrinkled, your makeup is ruined, and these stupid foldable flats make you feel small and unprepared.
Jimin notices the split second your eyes flick toward Namjoon. His expression shifts instantly, still calm, but now sharply attentive. He leans in closer, chest brushing yours, and murmurs low against your ear in Korean.
"여기 봐요." Look at me.
Your face burns as you obey. The second your gaze meets his, his eyes soften with dark satisfaction. Then he dips his head without hesitation.
His lips find the side of your neck, hot and deliberate. He kisses you open mouthed, slow and wet, sucking gently at first before dragging his teeth along your pulse point. A helpless little whimper escapes your throat before you can stop it. Embarrassment floods you. Namjoon is right there, inches away, witnessing every second of this. But the shame only makes your body react stronger. Heat pools low in your belly.
Jimin smiles against your skin, clearly loving it. He loves the sound you made, loves how you tremble knowing you have an audience. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you tighter against him as he kisses lower, sucking harder at the sensitive spot just above your collarbone. His tongue traces slow, filthy circles before he nips again, hard enough to make you gasp.
You can feel Namjoon's solid warmth at your back, his body heat radiating through your clothes. The elevator feels impossibly small. Jimin's free hand trails up your side, thumb deliberately brushing the underside of your breast through your dress, teasing the curve as his mouth continues its assault on your neck. Licking. Sucking. Marking you.
Another needy, breathy moan slips out of you. Jimin's grip tightens possessively, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. He's completely lost in teasing you now, staring deeply into your eyes whenever he pulls back for air, his gaze hooded and hungry.
Behind you, Namjoon clears his throat. Loudly. He stares fixedly at the glowing floor numbers like they are the most fascinating thing in the world, his jaw tight, his ears visibly red. This is probably one of the most embarassing moments of his life, and he can't believe Jimin's audacity right now.
Mortified of being watched by your bias wrecker, you push weakly at Jimin's chest, your voice shaky and breathless. "Jimin, Namjoon is right here. Let's save this for when we're alone."
Jimin scoffs, low and amused, his lips still grazing your flushed, marked neck. He steals one last slow, deliberate kiss right under your jaw, tongue flicking teasingly, before he finally pulls back. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and full of filthy promise.
The elevator doors open with a soft ding.
The hallway outside is quiet and expensive in a way only luxury hotels can be. Thick carpet. Soft lighting. Closed suite doors.
Before Namjoon fully exits, Jimin moves.
He takes your wrist and starts walking quickly.
“지민아,” Namjoon calls.
Jimin doesn’t stop.
One door.
A keycard.
A green light.
The door opens.
You’re pulled inside.
And before Namjoon reaches it–
Click.
Locked.
Outside of that door, there’s now silence.
Namjoon stands there staring at the door for a second before letting out a tired sigh.
Nearby, other doors open.
Jungkook appears first and looks around before asking, “왔어?” [You’re back?]
Then he notices one person missing and asks, “지민이 어디 갔어?” [Where did Jimin go?]
Other doors open.
Jin.
Taehyung.
Yoongi.
Hoseok.
Namjoon rubs his face and says quietly, “…나도 아직 잘 모르겠어.” […I still don’t really know.]
Everyone waits.
Then he adds, “근데 여자 한 명 데려왔어.” [But he brought a girl.]
The hallway goes silent.
Jin immediately lowers his voice and asks, almost whispering, “…팬?” […A fan?]
Namjoon nods.
Jin rolls his eyes.
Taehyung blinks once before saying casually, “지민이 성적으로 너무 답답했던 거 아냐? 오랜만에 투어잖아.” [Maybe Jimin’s sexually frustrated? It’s been a long tour.]
Hoseok immediately smacks his arm. “야.” [“Hey.”]
Taehyung rubs his shoulder dramatically and frowns.
“왜? 진지하게 말한 건데.” [“What? I’m being serious.”]
Jin lets out a quiet breath through his nose and mutters under his breath. “진짜 별소리를 다 하네.” [“You really say the most ridiculous things.”]
Yoongi shakes his head before Taehyung can continue and says quietly, “아냐.” [No.]
Everyone looks over.
Yoongi crosses his arms loosely and leans against the wall.
“대기실에서도 이상했어. 계속 멍 때리고 있었어.” [“He was strange in the dressing room too. He kept spacing out.”]
His expression turns thoughtful.
“…집중을 못하는 느낌?” […“Like he couldn’t focus?”]
Hoseok nods slowly.
“맞아.” [“Yeah.”]
He glances toward Jimin’s closed hotel room door.
“…누구 찾는 것 같기도 했고.” […“And it kind of felt like he was looking for someone.”]
That makes Namjoon’s expression tighten.
He noticed it too.
Not enough to interrupt the concert.
Not enough to panic.
But enough.
Enough that he checked on Jimin between transitions.
Enough that he remembered him staring too long toward one side of Allegiant Stadium before snapping back into choreography.
Enough that he noticed Jimin miss a cue during rehearsal and brush it off.
Namjoon looks back at the closed suite door.
Then quietly says:
“…공연 중에도 그랬어.” […“He was like that during the show too.”]
Nobody says anything after that. Because suddenly this feels less like recklessness.
And more like something none of them understand.
The hallway goes quiet. Namjoon stares at the closed door for several more seconds.
That is their shared grand presidential suite.
Normally they barely saw each other once schedules ended. Separate bedrooms. Separate routines. Namjoon goes out often to avoid feeling enclosed in these concrete buildings only meant for their temporary lodging.
But tonight…
His eyes linger on the door.
He thinks back to the corridor.
The look on Jimin’s face.
Too focused.
Too emotional.
Too....unlike himself.
Namjoon exhales.
Then turns.
“…오늘은 내가 다른 방 써도 돼?” […“Can I stay in someone else’s room tonight?”]
Everyone looks at him.
Jungkook blinks, confused.
“왜?” [“Why?”]
Namjoon rubs the back of his neck.
“그냥… 좀 놔두는 게 좋을 것 같아서.” [“I just think… it’d be better to leave him alone tonight.”]
His eyes drift back toward the closed door.
“생각 정리할 시간 필요할 수도 있잖아.” [“He might need time to organize his thoughts.”]
His shoulders lift slightly.
“…내가 옆에 있으면 오히려 불편할 수도 있고.” […“Me being there might make it harder.”]
Nobody speaks immediately.
Jin studies him.
Then quietly asks:
“너 괜찮겠어?” [“You okay with that?”]
Namjoon exhales softly.
Not really.
But he nods.
“내일 되면 괜찮아질 수도 있지.” [“Maybe tomorrow things will be better.”]
His eyes lower.
“…그냥 오늘 하루 이상했던 거면 좋겠어.” […“I just hope today was weird and that’s all.”]
A pause.
Then Jungkook lifts his hand.
“형 와!” [“Hyung, come stay with me!”]
Taehyung immediately points.
“야 왜 너만.” [“Hey, why only you?”]
Jungkook looks offended.
“내 방 제일 커.” [“My room’s the biggest.”]
Taehyung scoffs.
“내 방도 커.” [“My room’s big too.”]
Jin immediately cuts in.
“둘 다 조용히 해.” [“Both of you, be quiet.”]
That finally earns a small smile from Namjoon.
Small.
Tired.
He nods.
“고맙다.” [“Thanks.”]
Before leaving, though, he looks at Jimin’s door one more time.
For a second he considers knocking.
Checking in.
Talking.
But he stops himself.
Jimin isn’t dangerous.
He’s overwhelmed.
Exhausted.
Maybe emotional after finally touring again.
Maybe tomorrow they’ll talk.
Maybe tomorrow Jimin will apologize.
Maybe tomorrow things will feel normal again.
Namjoon turns and follows Jungkook down the hallway.
Behind him, the door stays closed.
And he doesn’t notice that for the first time in years…
he feels uneasy leaving Jimin alone.
Meanwhile, behind the locked hotel room door, you stand in unfamiliar silence and realize for the first time all night that there are no crowds now, no friends, no staff, no excuses.
You are completely alone with him.
The place is quieter than you expected.
Not silent. Hotels are never truly silent. There is still the low hum of the air conditioning somewhere overhead, the faint vibration of elevators traveling through hidden shafts in the walls, and the distant pulse of Las Vegas existing dozens of floors below. But compared to the roaring stadium, the screaming crowds, the lights and constant movement, it feels unnaturally still.
And huge.
You hadn’t actually processed where you were until now.
Your eyes drift upward first.
The ceilings are absurdly high.
Then outward.
The suite opens far beyond what your brain expected when someone says hotel room.
It isn’t even a room.
It feels like an apartment.
No. Bigger than that.
A long central living space stretches ahead with polished wood floors and designer furniture arranged so intentionally that it almost feels untouched. There’s a sitting area with couches and a television mounted into the wall. Farther in, a dining area. Decorative lighting. Another hallway branching deeper into the suite.
Your brain immediately compares it to your room at ARIA.
Two queen beds shared amongst three women. Suitcases exploded across every available surface that is NOT a bed. Phone chargers fighting for outlets. Someone’s makeup bag permanently open for the duration of the trip.
This feels ridiculous in comparison.
Your eyes continue wandering.
There’s another side of the suite too.
You notice another closed bedroom farther away across the living space. Bigger than a normal connecting room. Another member probably stays there.
You wonder who.
Not that you’d ask.
For some reason the thought of accidentally opening the wrong door and discovering another BTS member relaxing in pajamas or even naked feels more embarrassing than ending up backstage with Jimin.
Your attention shifts back.
Jimin is watching you.
Not intensely this time.
Almost shy.
Like he forgot what this would look like through someone else’s eyes.
You glance around once more and laugh quietly.
“…Your room is huge.”
His expression softens immediately.
He looks around too.
Then gives a small shrug.
“익숙해져서 잘 몰라요.” [“I’m used to it, so I don’t really notice anymore.”]
Then after a second he smiles faintly.
“…근데 그렇게 말하니까 갑자기 큰 것 같네요.” […“But hearing you say it makes it suddenly feel big.”]
"Hehe, yeah.." You smile back at him.
He stands there for another second before walking over.
Without really thinking, he reaches for your wrist again.
Not pulling.
Just guiding it.
His fingers wrap loosely around your hand this time.
Then he quietly says:
“이쪽이에요.” [“This way.”]
He leads you across the suite.
Not toward the center.
Toward the left side.
As you walk farther in, the layout starts making more sense.
The shared spaces stay behind.
The hallway narrows.
There’s a bedroom tucked off separately, with its own bathroom and sitting area outside the room.
This must be his room.
When Jimin opens the door, you notice now how his actual bedroom feels more lived in than the rest of the place.
A hoodie tossed over a chair.
A phone cable plugged in.
Water bottles.
A few bags.
Enough signs of actual life that suddenly this stops feeling like a luxury hotel and starts feeling strangely personal.
Jimin releases your wrist after he closes and locks the bedroom door.
For the first time since he pulled you from your seat at Allegiant, he seems uncertain.
He glances around once, then quietly walks to the edge of the bed and sits.
And just… sits.
His shoulders look different now.
Not smaller.
Just heavier.
You remain standing for a moment, watching him.
Finally he looks up at you.
His eyes still carry that earlier softness, but something else lies underneath now.
Fatigue.
Maybe embarrassment. Does he regret bringing you now?
You swallow.
This feels like the moment you should ask about him.
You take a small breath and speak carefully.
“I wasn’t sure when the right time was to ask…”
His expression shifts.
“But… are you okay?”
His brows move slightly.
You look down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “What Namjoon said… about how you were acting during the concert.”
You hesitate.
“I know this probably sounds weird because I’m literally your fan and everything, but… I like you.” Your face warms. “I mean… obviously I do.”
That draws a faint smile from him.
You continue anyway. “But if something’s wrong… I don’t want to do something if you’re vulnerable or not okay.”
The room falls quiet.
Jimin stares at you. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes begin to water.
Your stomach drops.
His gaze lowers. His hands clasp together loosely. When he speaks, his voice is quieter. “Kind of. I’ll say it in Korean first, to let my feelings out, as it’s hard to describe in English.”
He exhales, then switches into Korean. “괜찮긴 했어요.” He looks at his hands. “근데…”
He lets out a short, embarrassed laugh. “나이 드는 게 생각보다 별로예요.”
You stay quiet, letting him continue.
“예전 같지가 않아요. 예전엔 하루 종일 연습하고 공연해도 괜찮았어요.”
He translates for you. “When I was younger… I felt unstoppable.” His smile is small. “But now… my body feels different. It doesn’t help that military happened.” His expression tightens. “I hated it.”
His voice lowers. “Coming back… touring again after so long… I keep thinking… what if I get hurt? What if I get sick? What if I can’t keep up and everyone has to slow down because of me?”
Your chest tightens.
He laughs once under his breath. “You know… I started noticing every little thing. My knees. My stamina. My breathing.” He smiles faintly. “And then I started thinking too much.”
He finally looks at you. “And today… I saw you.” He shrugs slightly. “And everything burden and problem disappeared.”
You think for a second, then walk over and sit beside him. Not too close. “You say all this like your value is in how perfectly you perform,” you say softly. “I think people came back because they missed you. You’re allowed to get tired. You’re allowed to not feel twenty forever.” You smile a little. “And honestly… if a member got hurt or needed a break, I think ARMY would want them to rest and be healthy more than perfect. You don’t carry everybody.”
His eyes soften. Then he laughs, small and real. His shoulders lower. “Thank you.”
After a moment his ears turn faintly pink. He looks embarrassed. “…I’m sorry. For grabbing you. And bringing you here suddenly.” He rubs the back of his neck. “This is probably really weird.”
You shake your head, expression softening. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m here… as a fan.” You pause. “And as a friend.”
His eyes widen slightly, then soften. After a moment he reaches for you slowly, carefully. His fingers curl around yours and he tugs gently, inviting.
“Will you stay tonight?” he asks quietly. “…I think I need comfort.”
Your heart twists. You nod. “Okay.”
His face relaxes. You both sit there for a while. Eventually he stands and begins to undress, leaving only his sweatpants on. Shirtless. His body is toned yet compact, bigger than yours but somehow delicate in the low light.
He pokes your side gently, nudging you to do the same. You undress, slipping out of your lace black dress, socks, and shoes until you’re left in your undergarments. He promises to give you one of his shirts afterward.
When you sit beside him again, a strange awareness settles between you. Not bad. Just heightened. You are suddenly very conscious that you are in a hotel room with Jimin at midnight.
He looks at you quietly, then smiles. “You being here… makes me really happy.”
Your face heats. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He scoots closer. “I thought if I got close I’d realize I imagined all of this. But you’re still here.”
He leans in and kisses you. Softly at first. Warm. Unrushed. His lips move against yours with tender care, deepening gradually as his tongue brushes yours. You lift a hand and touch his cheek, feeling the smooth warmth of his skin beneath your palm. He sighs into the kiss, the sound low and needy.
His hands find your waist. With gentle strength he helps guide you onto his lap until you straddle him. Your thighs settle on either side of his hips. The new position presses your bodies closer, and you feel the heat of his bare chest against you. His hands slide up your back, holding you there as the kiss grows slower, deeper, more sensual. Every brush of his tongue sends warmth spreading through your body.
Then suddenly he freezes. His eyes widen. He pushes you away, body jerking back. Fear flashes across his face angrily saying:
“씨발!…”
He moves too quickly and loses balance, falling off the bed.
You jolt upright. “뭐야?!” A word in korean slips out, “What? Why did you do that?”
He sits up, rubbing his face. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” His breathing is uneven. “I’ve had weird experiences before… with people. Something in my brain… triggered.”
“You’re scaring me a bit.:
“I know, I know. I’m sorry! Please forget about it.”
You stare at him, chest aching at the genuine fear in his eyes. He notices your concern and reaches over, squeezing your hand. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says quietly.
He does.
Jimin coaxes you onto your back with soft kisses along your jaw and neck. He peels away the last of your undergarments with careful hands, then settles between your thighs. His mouth is warm and insistent. He starts slow, teasing licks and gentle kisses that make your hips twitch. Then he grows bolder, tongue pressing flat and dragging over your most sensitive spot before circling it with focused intent.
Your fingers thread through his hair as pleasure builds. He hums against you, the vibration pulling a moan from your throat. He doesn’t rush. He savors every reaction, every gasp, adjusting to what makes your thighs tremble around his head. When release finally crashes over you, sharp and overwhelming, he keeps going, gentling you through it until you’re boneless and panting.
Afterward he climbs back up, lips shiny, and kisses your forehead. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a warm, damp cloth. With tender care he cleans you, wiping away the evidence of your orgasm with slow, soothing strokes. He presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then helps you slip into one of his oversized shirts before pulling you into his arms.
Eventually the tension fades. Conversation replaces the awkwardness. Exhaustion wins.
Later he curls behind you in bed, one arm draped around your waist, warm and sleepy. You both drift off like that.
At 3:45 AM you wake and quietly slip into the bathroom outside the bedroom with your phone to pee. Notifications from friends, memes, photos. No stress calls from friends asking if you've been kidnapped luckily. You'll craft a story later that will prevent them from knowing what's going on.
Then you open reddit and search up the one thing that has been bothering you the most: One Wish Willow. Only two reddit threads with comments come up. People swearing it worked. Others calling it coincidence. Warnings not to wish vaguely. Things going to shit. Warnings not to wish emotionally. Suggestions to buy a crystal for protection...
Your stomach twists.
If this actually worked… why does everything feel so off? Especially with Jimin?
You stare at your reflection, then lock your phone. Nothing bad has happened. Maybe you’re overthinking.
When you return, Jimin is already awake, sitting on the bed, menacingly. His eyes find you immediately, but they look dead. You’re scared to address him being awake, so you plan to ignore it and lay down to continue your sleep.
However Jimin decides to speak.
“어디 갔어요?” His voice sounds clear as day, with a tint of frustration. He speaks in korean, and you manage to understand what he says thanks to the countless kdramas you’ve seen. Not a hard question to answer.
“The bathroom.”
His shoulders tense. “I thought you left.”
You smile and settle back down beside him. “I’m not leaving any time soon. I willl tell you when I go later in the morning. I have to meet my friends.”
His brows knit. “…later?”
You nod. “Yes, I’m going to the concert later too.” You tell him you forgot the exact row, but your seat should be closer this time.
His expression visibly relaxes. “좋아.” Then, quieter: “I want to see you. At all times.”
Your chest tightens at the words, but you don’t question them. Instead you let him pull you closer, holding you like he needs to be sure you are still there.
Is it odd to say you’re progressively starting to feel a bit weirder about this. But will you do anything about it? Despite the strange situation you’re in, the answer is no. - - ▶ cue: Emotions by Brenda Lee
↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺
- -
To be continued... I initially wrote too much to be a part 2, so i split it to part 3. That will be the final!! Please don't be a ghost reader and let me know what you think! p̷͉͓̓̅̏̃ļ̶̳͙͚̃ę̴̼̿á̸̪̠͓̱̇̃s̶̲͉͙̽e̸̟̘̺͌̾ ̴̮̐̇̍̌p̶̡̞̬̉l̷͙̲͔̐̚ͅẹ̸͕͌a̸̢̗̿͑̇̚s̴͙̺̲̙͘e̴̻͔͔͌̀ ̷̦͐́͆p̸̳̩͔̘̀̈́͑͝l̵̙̫̀̚e̴̗̦̘̐̾͋͠a̴̡̛̅͘͘s̷͈̈͛̈́͘ȩ̵̡̖̇̕͜ ̷̼͍̻͆͊́d̶̮̾̕̚͝r̶̟̰̯̅̎͌͐o̶̧͎͛͜ͅp̶̭͉̌ ̴̰͍͙͙͗s̸̤̼͋̓͝o̶̜͒͆͘ṁ̸͉̲̑͊e̷͕͊͆ ̵̹́̓͗k̴̨̧̝̕ù̵͇͋̐ḋ̷͓͝o̴̤͔̺̰͐̐͘͝s̷̬̣̙̝̽ ̷̰͔͎̻̑a̶̹̺͔̾ṅ̴͈͕d̶̜̞̩͍͝ ̶̱̗͓̍c̷̙̘̀̓͠o̴̰̖̅̎́m̶̬̞̐̽̆ḿ̵̛͙e̸̲͙͐n̴̜̑̓́͜ẗ̴̢̘͈̰́͝s̷̡̃̆̐
Movie Night
When horror movies don't scare you anymore, your boyfriend wants to figure out what you are afraid of.
⤑ pairing: Jungkook x fem!reader (feat. the Daegu boys) ⤑ genre: horror, mystery, suspense, one-shot ⤑ rating: 18+ ⤑ word count: 6.1k ⤑ warnings: obsessive behavior, stalking, depictions of kidnapping, torture, and multiple murders, hidden camera, non-explicit sex, a bit of angst, open ending. this fic gets pretty dark, so please be cautious of the warnings! ⤑ note: happy halloween! this started as a little spooky shower thought i had a little over a month ago and became this lol. i love reading scary stories, but lmao, i feel like i'm not very good at writing them. thank you @angelicyoongie for assuring me that this isn't as terrible as i think it is. also please note that this is a work of fiction and i don't think IRL jungkook is like the character in this fic at all
“No, please! Don’t hurt me!”
The shadow of a muscular, male figure looms over the female protagonist. His breaths are heavy from chasing her around, barely visible against the chilly, October air. Finally, he has her cornered. He holds up a sharp knife in the air.
The woman trembles on the ground, sobbing and pleading for her life to be spared. Mascara runs down her cheeks, and a look of hopelessness and despair fills her eyes. She holds her hands in front of her in a feeble attempt to defend herself.
The camera pans away as the killer violently stabs the woman. Her terrifying screams of pain and anguish echoes from the TV screen as fake blood splatters on the wall.
Blue and white light bathes over you and your date in the dim living room. You try to suppress a long yawn with the back of your hand.
You’re so bored, you’re practically in tears.
“You didn’t like it?” Jungkook asks you, chuckling at your reaction.
“It didn’t scare me,” you admit sheepishly, hoping he doesn’t get the wrong idea.
You love horror movies. It’s what inspired you to become a film student. You love being on the edge of your seat from the thrill and suspense that the main character acts out. You love being genuinely shocked from unexpected twists and jump-scares. You love a good ghost story that haunts you long after the credits roll, or the paranoia of a similar terrifying incident happening to you.
But perhaps, over time, they’ve lost a bit of their magic.
Although the production of movies has become phenomenal in recent years, movies these days seem to rely too heavily on shock value and nostalgia. Once popular franchises are milking out their legacies to a newer audience. There are so many retellings of the same, old stories that you can already accurately predict what will happen before you reach the ending. Even some of the most climactic scenes of the movie are so over-the-top, they’re almost comical.
Honestly, it has nothing to do with your date or even the so-called horror movie itself. You just don’t scare as easily anymore.
Jungkook peers are you curiously, a boyish grin on his face. “Then, what are you scared of?”
“I don’t know. Probably nothing.”
“Yeah? That’s a bold statement.”
“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”
Jungkook laughs. “You have to be scared of something.”
You throw the question back at him. “Then, what are you afraid of?”
He thinks about it, rubbing his chin in thought and pushing his tongue against the lip rings on his mouth. Then, he meets your gaze. There’s a sparkle in his eyes as he smiles at you. “Hmm, I think I’d be scared to lose you.”
You find yourself smiling back at him.
“You’re so sweet, Kook,” you tell him, leaning over to kiss him.
Only recently, you and Jungkook started dating officially, and you really like him a lot. He’s very cute, funny, handsome, and perfect in many ways. Butterflies flutter in your stomach when you’re around him, and there’s still that exciting giddiness and eagerness of new love whenever he messages you or visits you in the evening.
In some ways, Jungkook is almost too good to be true.
Part of you wonders if there’s a catch.
But with his lips on yours, it’s easy to push that thought aside.
Credits roll on the screen as the movie comes to an end. His fingers glide up your thigh as yours tangle into his hair. The cool piercing on his lips presses against your bottom lip as he slips his tongue in your mouth, and a soft moan escapes you.
Suddenly, Jungkook pulls away and faces the TV. He uses the remote to tap out of the movie credits and browse through the list of recommended shows on your streaming service. Casually, trying to hide a teasing smirk, he asks, “How about we watch a different movie, then?”
You stare back at him, a bit stunned and flustered. But your own smile touches your lips.
“Or,” you suggest, grabbing his wrist to lower the remote. He turns away from the screen to look at you, eyes lingering on the sultry smile on your lips. “I know something else we can do instead.”
When you first saw Jungkook, you thought you were being catfished.
His selfie on the dating app included a slight head tilt, a pucker of his pierced lips, and a peace sign. Big, doe-shaped eyes stared back at you from your phone screen, and you noticed the tiny moles below his lip, on the tip of his nose, and on his cheek.
The second picture was of him and his brown doberman, affectionately named Bam. The picture was taken of them outside. One of his hands was holding a tennis ball and the other was gently touching the dog’s long ears. A small, fond smile tugged on your lips when you looked between them and realized that they kind of looked alike.
The third picture was him at the gym. It was a back-shot where he was using the equipment. Broad shoulders, buff arms and back, a tiny waist. You stared way too long at his strong muscles and the ink on his arm before you finally swiped right.
Turned out, much to your surprise, he liked your pictures too. The two of you were a match.
And it wasn’t long until he sent his first message to you. In your inbox, a simple: “hey :)”
On your first date, the two of you agreed to meet at a very public, very crowded bistro. You stood nervously by the building, dressed nice for the occasion. And in case anything went wrong or if this Jungkook guy wasn’t who you expected him to be, you shared your location and had a “send help lol” message on standby for your bestie, Min Yoongi.
As you waited, scrolling through and jumping around different apps on your phone, you found yourself to be surprised yet again.
Someone who looked like the guy you’ve been chatting with called out your name. And soon, he was standing in front of you: big eyes, bigger muscles, tiny beauty marks on his face, colorful ink on his arm, a charming smile, and a simple, “Hey, I’m Jungkook.”
One date turned to a second date. Then, a third. And by the fourth date, as he laid in your bed that night and snuggled close to you, it finally started to sink in that Jungkook wasn’t some figment of your imagination.
He was real, and sweet, and seemed to really like you as well.
Jungkook, like you, had an interest in filming. He especially liked editing videos for his dance challenges, short clips, and a series he called “Golden Closet Film” on his channel. While you imagined yourself to be a big director, working in movie sets, and making scripts come to life with your vision, Jungkook told you he’d like to film a project where you’re the star.
“I don’t think I’m on-screen material,” you replied, amused by the idea. You’re not an actress. You don’t think you have the kind of beauty filmmakers seek out for their lead roles. Hell, if anything, Jungkook would be a better fit for an acting gig.
“You are,” he insisted, brushing his thumb against your knuckles. “To me, you’re perfect.”
You smiled at him then, your heart fluttering by his words. “You are to me, too.”
It was shortly after that conversation when you both decided to date each other exclusively. And it felt like the kind of romance you’d see in the movies. Picture perfect, a little corny at times, and a thrilling whirlwind of laughter, teasing remarks, and intimate touches.
“Am I who you thought I’d be?” Jungkook asks you the next morning after the movie-night bust, propping himself up on the side and peering down on you. His arm flexes, colorful ink decorating it, as the thick comforter wraps around his bare body.
“No,” you confessed, still a bit tired from last night. You keep your eyes closed as you quietly murmur, “You’re even better.”
“Yeah?”
You don’t need to open your eyes to see the pleased look on his face. As you feel him press his lips against your cheek, you ask, “What about me? Am I who you thought I’d be?”
Had you opened your eyes then, perhaps you would’ve seen it. The blank look on his face as he pulls away from you, how the light in his eyes suddenly seems to vanish, as if he isn’t really looking at you anymore.
Jungkook doesn’t answer you right away. When you open your eyes, you see him shaking his head. The same, sweet boyish smile appears on his lips.
“You’re exactly what I’m looking for.”
The topic about exes inevitably came up early on in your relationship with Jungkook. You’ve dated casually before. Even thought you’d be getting somewhere with some of the guys you were talking to.
But none of them quite compared to Kim Taehyung.
You were a film student. He was a photography major. The two of you were bound to end up in some of the same classes together in the art division.
To you, it was love at first sight. You fell for him so hard and so fast.
What started as bumping into each other at the library and helping each other with assignments led to making out at each other’s dorms with the text books left unopened. Coffee dates between classes became anniversary dinners at nice restaurants. He introduced you to his parents, and you proposed going on a romantic getaway together.
The day you didn’t think you’d ever love anyone else was when he snapped a photo of you looking out at the scenery during that weekend trip. It was just you and him, and a natural setting that looked straight out of a movie.
He smiled to himself as he looked at the picture through his camera. That day, he called you his muse.
And in return, you told him that you loved him.
When you fell for Taehyung, you fell hard and fast. Eventually, it occurred to you that Taehyung didn’t do the same.
Sure, he cared about you. Sure, he loved you. But while you heard wedding bells and dreamed about your future with him, Taehyung was just starting to put himself out there in the world. His art was being recognized, and he was getting booked to shoot at weddings, parties, and other big events every week.
Soon, the dates happened less frequently. The romantic gestures of bringing you flowers, surprising you on nice dates or small gifts, or even renting your favorite movies to watch together happened even less. He would promise that he’d make it to a party or an important event to you, just to let you down. And it felt like him giving you a bit of affection or attention was a chore.
Taehyung was the world to you, but the petty arguments and the distance that started growing between you two made it clear to you where his priorities were. And it wasn’t with you.
Breaking up with him was the hardest thing you had to do. Both of you knew it was coming. It was just a matter of who broke up with who first.
Just as Taehyung came into your life, quickly and effortlessly, he was gone. Nothing but bittersweet memories of what once was and what could have been weighed heavily on you for months.
What made it worse was that Taehyung, a man you loved with all your heart, had moved on from you so fast and so easily.
You saw him and his new girlfriend at a mutual friend’s party. You were warned that he’d be there, that he was already seeing someone. But it still hurt like hell to see him happy and in love with another person.
But if Taehyung could move on, so could you.
It felt weird at first, but you started to put yourself out there again. You joined dating apps. You went out with the people that fancied your interest. You met Jungkook.
And from there, everything was history.
With Jungkook, you started to think about Taehyung a lot less. The plaguing “what ifs” have quieted down, and the hurt from heartbreak began to heal. With Jungkook, you started to feel like yourself again: you started to smile more, laugh more loudly, enjoy watching movies again, became passionate about cinematic ideas you’d like to create one day.
With Jungkook, you’re also cautiously optimistic.
Because like Taehyung, you feel yourself falling hard and fast for Jungkook. It’s almost scary how truly perfect he is.
“I think you’re just psyching yourself out,” Yoongi tells you, sliding into the chair opposite of you with two cups of coffee in his hands. He smells like freshly-baked cookies. A spot of flour stains his apron as he uses his fifteen-minute break to hang out with you.
“Maybe,” you sigh, gratefully taking the drink he hands you. “What do you think about him?”
“Does my opinion even matter at this point? You’re in love with him,” he drawls before taking a sip of his Iced Americano.
“Of course it does, best friend. Why else would I keep you around?” you remark, taking a sip of your own drink. “Besides the free coffee and cookies. Thank you, by the way.”
He rolls his eyes. The perks of being friends with the cookie boy at your local bakery is a free cup of coffee and getting dibs on leftover treats that didn’t sell the day.
“He’s fine. Kind of annoying. A little too energetic,” he answers as his eyes flit toward the TV screen that his boss keeps on. A woman dressed in bright, business clothing holds a microphone as she reports on the recent news. There’s a grim look on her face.
You have your back turned to it, but you can hear Yoongi’s boss turning up the volume.
Breaking news. Missing woman found dead near home. The victim has succumbed to multiple stab wounds. It is believed that she has been kidnapped and tortured prior to her violent death. The attacker is currently unknown and still at large. Local authorities advise staying indoors and to please report any suspicious activity.
Your heart sinks as you look over your shoulder, seeing police taping off the crime scene and answering what they can to the news outlets. The location is so close to where you are.
“This is the second victim,” a customer mutters with a frown.
The person they’re with nods their head and asks, “Do you think they’re connected?”
“I don’t know. I hope not. We’ll have a serial killer in our hands.”
“Hey,” Yoongi calls your attention. When you look at him, there’s concern on his face. “If you need a ride anywhere, make sure you call me. Doesn’t matter what time.”
“I’ll be okay, Yoongi. Jungkook usually comes to my place anyway.”
“Still. Just let me know that you’re still alive when I check in, all right?” he says as he stares at the screen. You don’t blame him for being worried. As you follow his gaze, you see a picture of the latest victim of the ongoing case that has the whole town on edge.
This woman, like the others, kind of looks like you.
“If you’re with me, you have nothing to worry about,” Jungkook assures you, throwing a tennis ball as Bam hurriedly chases after it.
The two of you are at a park with his dobermann. Despite how scary it’s been lately with the news, it’s a nice day. Children are screaming and playing together on the playground as their parents watch them nearby. A group of teenage boys are playing basketball on the outdoor court. Middle-aged and elderly couples are paired up and are getting their daily steps in.
“My hero,” you joke half-heartedly, but you’re still a bit concerned. Yoongi being worried about you makes you feel paranoid.
Jungkook turns to you. He holds out his hand as Bam retrieves the ball and drops it for another throw. “I thought you weren't afraid of anything.”
“Movie-wise, I’m not. But this is different.”
Jungkook throws the slobbery ball again. Further this time as Bam barks happily and takes off. He takes a seat next to you on the park bench. “I can leave Bam with you when I have my evening shifts. He makes a good guard dog.”
He works as an editor and cameraman for a big content creator, which gives him lots of flexible hours to work on his projects when he isn’t busy filming. Since the beginning of autumn, his boss has been giving him evening work to film ghost-hunting videos and other spooky content for Halloween.
“That’ll be nice,” you reply with a small smile. The two of them have been coming to your place so often, it might as well be their second home.
From a short distance, Bam lies on the grass with the tennis ball by his paws. His tongue is out, needing a short break from running around, as he faces you and Jungkook. Even with other dogs and kids around, he’s very well-behaved.
Just as Jungkook tells you that he’ll get Bam, the sound of small, excited barks grab your attention. A familiar black and brown pomeranian approaches you like an old friend, wagging its tail and perking its ears up when it sees you.
Your heart nearly jumps when you recognize the dog.
“Tan!”
You know that voice. How could you not?
That deep, smooth baritone has haunted you for months.
Taehyung, your ex-boyfriend, stops in his tracks when he realizes why his pomeranian took off. The two of you were still together when he adopted Yeontan, and you were there to help raise him when he was still a puppy.
“Who’s this?” Jungkook asks, drawing your attention back to him. He reaches out to pet Yeontan, but the pomeranian growls at him. Almost like he wants to protect you from him.
“Sorry, he’s mine,” Taehyung apologizes, stepping closer to you two and picking his dog up. He looks at you as he tries to soothe the agitated Yeontan in his arms. “It’s been a while. How’ve you been?”
“Good,” you reply politely. Old feelings start to pull on your heart strings that you fervently try to ignore. “I’m good.”
“You look good,” Taehyung starts, but then he purses his lips in regret. It’s obvious that he’s nervous to talk to you. Maybe he feels the same as you.
Softly, you reply, “You do, too.”
“Who’s this?” Jungkook repeats. This time, there’s an annoyed look on his face as he stares at Taehyung.
It puts you off a bit. Jungkook is usually a friendly guy.
“Oh, this is Taehyung. We used to date,” you tell him honestly. Though, the information seems to just annoy him more. “Taehyung, this is—”
“I’m Jungkook. She’s my girlfriend now.”
His arm snakes around you possessively. He holds a steady gaze, but it’s a look you’ve never seen on him before. Dark, threatening, and angry. It’s almost unnerving.
“I see…” Taehyung trails off as his gaze shifts toward him. Yeontan is still in his arms, growling and barking at Jungkook. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the pup so aggressive toward someone. Even Bam comes over, ditching his ball to guard over you and Jungkook.
“It was nice to see you, Taehyung,” you tell him, sensing the tension in the air and deciding to cut things off. He seems reluctant to leave.
“Yeah…” he continues to trail off, finally pulling his gaze away to look at you. It looks like there’s a million things he wants to say to you. In a lower tone, he tells you, “My number is still the same. If you ever want to talk.”
You frown. After the breakup, you’ve deleted his number and unfollowed him on social media. “Oh, I don’t—”
“Then I’ll call you,” he promises, firm with his decision.
You don’t get it. You and Taehyung have run into each other after the breakup before, and he’s never had an issue with you dating anyone after him. He clearly has moved on, and so have you.
Why now?
What is it about Jungkook that has him worried for you?
“I don’t like that guy.”
Jungkook is still heated as he drives you home. His grip is tight around the steering wheel, and the tires screech when he makes a sharp turn. Bam stumbles a bit in the back before sticking his head out the window again.
“Slow down, Kook. You have nothing to be worried about.”
The radio blasts in the car, too much in a rush to connect his playlist to the stereo. It’s playing the week’s top music, and a catchy song from a popular artist fills the car.
Curious, you open your phone and check your followers. You’ve unfollowed Taehyung a long time ago on all your social platforms, finding it hard to look at any of his recent pictures – even just his scenic photography – without thinking about how he had once called you his muse.
But Taehyung never unfollowed you. He had always kept his inbox open for you.
“Did you see the way he was looking at me? It’s like he was looking down on me,” he continues to rant, speeding over a yellow light. He glances over at you and sees that you’re distracted with your phone. “I don’t like how you were looking at him either.”
“Are you serious?” you ask, turning your attention to him. “We barely talked. What the hell are you trying to insinuate?”
On the radio, the program is interrupted. One of the hosts makes a grim announcement.
Ladies and gentlemen, we just received unfortunate news that a third body has been found pertaining to a series of brutal deaths.
“You still love him! You’ll go back and leave me again!” he suddenly snaps, throwing you off guard.
Silence follows the tension.
Then, you inquire, “Again?”
The third victim is a young female. Hair color and eye color match the previous victims as well, indicating that this might be a targeted attack by the killer.
Not once have you been unfaithful to Jungkook. Even when you were starting to message each other, you weren’t talking to anyone else. The two of you haven’t even been dating that long.
“Forget I said anything,” he starts with a frustrated sigh. But he realizes he’s fucked up.
“No, I’m not just going to forget it. What do you mean by that, Jungkook?”
As of now, authorities have no leads on a suspect. All victims have been kidnapped, tied up, and tortured prior to their deaths. We are led to believe that this is the work of a potential serial killer.
He nearly slams to a stop. The seatbelt around you yanks you back from hitting the dashboard. Bam falls to the floor and you gasp as the back of your head hits your seat.
Jungkook doesn’t answer you, but for the first time, it feels like the rose-tinted glasses you have on him have fallen off. He’s always been perfect to you: sweet, athletic, talented, and kind. But the Jungkook before you is someone completely different.
This Jungkook scares you.
Stay inside. Lock your doors. Call the police if you see anything suspicious. Be safe out there, folks.
“I told you to forget about it, didn’t I?” he asks through gritted teeth and a harsh look in his eye.
You nod your head, hands trembling a bit as you hold onto your vibrating phone. The screen shows an unknown number trying to contact you.
“Is there a reason why your boyfriend called me?” Yoongi asks you from the other line. He has you on face-time, awkwardly propping up the camera to show his elbow as he mixes a batch of cookies.
It’s been about a week since you saw Jungkook.
After he dropped you off at home, he wanted to put it all behind him. He kissed you sweetly and murmured apologies for overreacting as his hands slipped under your shirt. But you sent him home before he could convince you to sleep with him. You were still upset about how hostile he was toward Taehyung, his accusations about you, and what his outburst meant.
That hasn’t stopped him from trying to get back to your good graces, though.
The number of missed calls from him keeps increasing by the hour. Ones that you leave unanswered or send straight to your voicemail.
You don’t want to talk to him.
At your door, you hear him rapping his knuckles against the wooden frame and insistently ringing at your doorbell. From the other side of the door, he begs for a chance to explain.
You don’t want to see him.
Clearly, after reaching you directly hasn’t worked, he’s starting to contact your friends.
“He’s probably trying to find me,” you tell Yoongi, poking at a bowl of fresh strawberries. You’re still dressed in your pajamas, sitting on a stool by the kitchen counter.
The sound of a small dog can be heard in the background of your line. It dawns on him that you’re not at your place or Jungkook’s.
Yoongi is silent for a moment. Then, he grabs the phone and asks, “What do you mean? Where are you?”
You don’t feel safe in your own home. And that day, while you were in Jungkook’s car, Taehyung called to check up on you. He was always good at reading people, and he warned you that he had a bad vibe about Jungkook.
And you’re starting to see what he meant.
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
When you turn your phone, you reveal Taehyung busy in the kitchen, cutting off the crusts from his sandwiches. He looks over his shoulder and gives a sheepish smile at the scandalized expression on your best friend’s face. “Hey Yoongi.”
“Can you please explain what’s going on? Why are you at your ex’s?”
So, you do. You tell him that Jungkook wouldn’t leave you alone, that you needed some space to cool off but he wouldn’t let you breathe. It was becoming overbearing and overwhelming.
Against your better judgment, you call Taehyung. He invites you to stay over at his place until you’re ready to talk things out with Jungkook. Because even if you’re not together, he still cares about you. Because a part of him will always love you. And at the time, it seemed like a good idea.
“I didn’t want to be alone, especially with a killer targeting women like me out there,” you explain quietly. It feels like the murders have increased in a shorter period of time. If the town wasn’t on edge before, they certainly are now. “But I was still mad at Jungkook, and he was starting to scare me.”
“So the first person you go to is your ex-boyfriend?”
“There’s nothing going on between us.”
That ship has sailed. You know it has when you walked in and saw his engagement pictures hanging on the wall.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I’m sure he would’ve figured out that I’d be with you,” you tell him with a frown.
“I just wanted to help her, hyung,” Taehyung adds as he stands behind you. “I worry about her too. That guy gives me and Tan a bad feeling.”
Yoongi sighs. “Listen, I don’t think this is a good idea either. You shouldn’t stay with Taehyung. It’ll just make things look a lot worse.”
“I guess you’re right,” you reluctantly agree. Taehyung grimaces, but he can see Yoongi’s point too.
“I’ll pick you up after my shift. You can stay with me until you’re ready to talk to Jungkook,” Yoongi tells you, looking rather serious. “Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime, okay?”
Hey. It’s Jungkook.
You stare at the message on your phone. Three dots that indicate that he’s typing something, but he keeps erasing and re-typing them again. As if he’s trying to properly convey his words.
Are we breaking up?
You stare at that message even longer. It feels childish to break up with him without trying to talk to him. For the first time in a week, you pick up your phone and type back.
You scared me, Kook.
His response is immediate.
I thought you weren’t scared of anything.
You huff when you realize he’s teasing you, even now.
Movie-wise, I’m not. But this. This is different, Kook. You were really scaring me.
Again, you see the dots appear and disappear before a handful of responses appear.
I know, babe. I’m sorry. Can you please come over? I want to show you something I’ve been working on.
You think about it.
I miss you. Bam misses you too.
Yoongi said not to do anything stupid.
Please, baby. We can just watch a movie, if you want.
But, like in every horror movie, the protagonist finds themselves making a plethora of stupid decisions.
Okay, Kook. I’ll come tonight.
Movie nights with Jungkook was one of the things you always looked forward to throughout the week. Nothing appealed to you more than a night-in with your boyfriend, food delivered at your door, and checking out new shows and movies.
You have your list of favorites, but nothing quite holds a place in your heart than a good ol’ horror movie. Tellings of urban legends, supernatural forces, paranormal activities, true crime, and slasher films.
As you step into Jungkook’s house, it almost feels like you’re in one of those movies.
His place is dark, almost pitched black. You could barely see what’s in front of you.
“Come inside,” Jungkook says, grabbing your hand. He pulls you in and deadbolts the door behind you.
“It’s so dark,” you remark, gingerly stepping forward. You have a bad feeling about this. You almost pull back toward the door, thinking of waiting for Yoongi or going back to Taehyung instead.
But Jungkook has a firm grip on you. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”
“This is different, Kook,” you try to reason. “You’re really freaking me out.”
He pulls you further inside. In the living room, nothing but the TV is on. The screen is paused on a homemade film.
This must be the project that Jungkook is talking about.
Everything is set. The living room is clean, a bowl of popcorn and a couple bottles of alcohol sits on the coffee table, the lights are off, and the show is ready to play. He sits you down in the middle and keeps an arm around you.
“You know, when we met, you were exactly what I was looking for,” he starts as he presses play.
The tape shows you. Bam lying on your lap as you affectionately pet his face and kiss the top of his head. You, holding Jungkook’s hand and leading him down a busy sidewalk. You, in the kitchen, trying to swat his hand away as he steals your ingredients. You and Jungkook, peering into the camera lens, and your bashful face as he kisses your cheek.
A smile tugs on your lips as you watch yourself on the screen. Jungkook leans over, copying his onscreen self and kisses your face.
One thing you liked about filming is seeing things from a different perspective. In this case, seeing yourself through Jungkook’s eyes. You look so happy, so incredibly in love with him.
Like with Taehyung, you fell for Jungkook hard and fast.
But Jungkook fell for you harder and faster.
Your smile fades as the next scene shows.
The camera points to the bed, and a couple walks in. It’s you and Jungkook, stumbling in together after drinks at a bar. You’re laughing and trying to wrap your arms around him as he leads you onto the bed. The kiss you share is messy, heated. You tug off his clothes to feel more of him.
You remember that night, but…
“Jungkook. When did you record this?”
You had no idea he was filming you then.
You don’t realize it then, but he makes eye contact with the camera, as if to check that it’s on. He maneuvers you to get a good angle of your body as you busy yourself with your own clothes, wanting him to touch you more as well.
“Jungkook, stop. I didn’t—”
You feel so sick to your stomach.
“Don’t cry, baby. Here, I’ll fast-forward.”
But you don’t want to watch anymore. You want to leave. You shouldn’t have come here.
The screen shows you and Yoongi. The two of you are at the bakery he works at, and you’re wearing an old cardigan that you got rid of . You smile and eagerly reach for one of the coffees in his hands and take the bag of cookies he’s holding between his lips. He rolls his eyes at something you say before he takes his first sip of his Iced Americano. It’s a typical hangout between you and him.
It looks like it was taken across the street. Your heart plummets even further when you realize that the old cardigan you’re wearing was a piece of clothing you got rid of before you met Jungkook.
The scene changes. You’re sitting at the fountain at your university, looking over a script you wrote for an assignment. Taehyung comes to take a seat next to you. He greets you with a boxy smile and a kiss. The two of you were still dating at the time.
How long has Jungkook known about you?
How long has he been targeting you?
It’s you and Taehyung again. This time, it was filmed from the other night. When Taehyung came to pick you up from your house. He helps you carry some of your things into his car and hugs you when he sees the distressed look on your face.
“Jungkook, what the fuck?”
It dawns on you that you don’t really know your boyfriend at all.
You try to stand up, but Jungkook has a firm hold on you. His grip tightens when you try to resist him, and his hand seizes your neck as he pushes you down. Your heart hammers against your ribs when you quickly realize you can’t escape him. Jungkook is much stronger and faster than you are.
More images flash through the screen. It’s Jungkook this time, taking a mirror-selfie of himself dressed in all black. He has his hood up and a Halloween mask covering his face.
It cuts to his feet walking across the sidewalk. Carefully, the camera tilts up, showing that there’s a woman just ahead of him. She’s about your height, her hair the same as yours. She doesn’t notice him as she listens to music playing in her earbuds.
The scene cuts again, and the same woman is bound and gagged on a chair. Fear shines through her eyes as a shadow of a knife reflects from her body. Behind the camera, Jungkook demands, “Say your line.”
He removes the gag from her mouth. Her voice pitches in a high shrill as she quickly says, “I-I love you. I won’t leave you.”
You recognize her as the latest victim of the latest killings.
And the realization hits you like a truck. Jungkook and his night shifts, the increasing deaths, his interest in filming, having you as the star.
“I practiced, you know. I’ll get it right this time,” he tells you, pulling out some rope he had hidden behind the cushion. You’re trembling as he wraps them tightly around your wrist. “I’ll make sure you don’t leave me again.”
“You’re so bad,” the Jungkook on the screen says, showing what looks like an abandoned warehouse. It’s dimly lit, but you can hear someone running from him. But he doesn’t seem worried, his heavy footsteps casually echo across the concrete. In his hand is a sharp and bloody knife. Mockingly, he asks, “Where did you think you’d go?”
The victim has been let go, but she isn’t free. Ahead, she finds herself cornered as Jungkook catches up to her. Terrified, she holds her hands out in front of her, as if that would stop him.
It’s like seeing your own fate on the screen.
The woman begs and screams before her blood splatters across the floor. You find yourself quoting her, staring up at his darkened eyes. “No, please. Don’t hurt me.”
“What’s wrong?” Jungkook asks, staring right at you. His mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “I thought you liked horror movies.”
Thank you for reading ♡ Comments & reviews are greatly appreciated!
Bump In The Night | MYG
▻ Bump In The Night ↳ Bogeyman!Yoongi x f.Reader ⤜ Horror/Thriller/Demon, Nyctophobia ⤜ Monster Under The Bed AU | angst, smut ⤜ Rating: MA ⤜ WC: 12,395 ⤜ Summary: The dark can be scary; full of strange, unseen things. Just when you think you’ve got a handle on your fear, the lights go out, and you face the reality that you were always right—you should fear the dark and especially what’s waiting in it. ⚠️ Crass language, fear, inciting fright, playing on emotions, teasing, kissing, fingering, biting/marking, dom tones, begging, choking, panic, unprotected v. sex, feeding on fear, dark thoughts, revealed dark intentions, predator/prey tones, chasing, claiming, serpentine tongue, oral f.receiving, monster cock/sex, metamorphosis
Written for the BTS Fantasy and Fangs Halloween collab for @minisugakoobies A/N: Sunny, I hope you enjoy this as much as I did while writing it. Happy belated birthday and hope you have a pleasant spooky holiday full of Bogeyman Yoongi delight!
A special thank you to @star-my @hisunshiine and @downbad4yoongi for their amazing beta services!
Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad
Beg For It
Nyctophobia [ nik-tuh-foh-bee-uh ] - noun Psychiatry: extreme or irrational fear of the night or of darkness.
One…
Two…
Three…
Breathe. Another few seconds, that’s all you want; just precious moments to prove yourself.
Four…
Five…
Six…
Cold chills slither down your spine despite the hot water beating against your back. Your fingers work vigorously against your cheeks and along your forehead. What feels like a thousand pounds settles along your lashes, even though you know it’s nothing more than marshmallowy-light foam.
Seven…
Eight…
Nin—
You spin around, nearly losing your footing in the shower as you angle your face under the spray from the showerhead. The heels of your palms press against your lids as you try to rid them of the foamy facial cleanser.
Air wheezes into your lungs, stray drops of water sucking between your parted lips as you try to breathe against the panic building in your chest. Jerking back from the spray, you open your eyes, wincing at the sting from the water-mixed-with-cleanser that drips from your lashes and floods the corners.
Nothing. There’s nothing there. All you see is the steam-filled space of your shower, water pelting down at your feet, a smattering of bottles arranged on the lip of the tub, and the inside of your plain shower curtain.
You sigh, irritation itching in your chest. Not even nine seconds. You were trying for at least ten. It never fails to leave a bitter taste in your mouth whenever you can’t seem to get a grip on yourself. It’s just the dark. Hell, it’s not even really the dark. It’s just having your eyes closed against the bright fluorescent lights of your bathroom; a pseudo-darkness.
The unease in your stomach refuses to dissipate as you turn off the shower, step out, wrap yourself in a towel, and go through the routine of brushing your teeth and massaging moisturizer into your skin. You hang up your damp towel, quickly pulling on the oversized t-shirt and shorts you intend to sleep in.
Steam clouds the mirror. You don’t typically care to wipe it away, not anymore. It’s one of your small, personal victories—one you intentionally remind yourself of now after your panicked stint in the shower. It used to be that you couldn’t stand not being able to see the space behind you through the reflective surface. Knowing if something lurked outside your line of sight, it couldn’t hide from being exposed through the mirror. Being able to see behind you was all that mattered. Now, you take pride in not needing to see…yet, the niggling in the back of your head won’t cease. So, you swipe a hand, collecting tiny beads of moisture on your palm as you go.
You’re unsure why the act makes your heart beat a little harder. It’s supposed to elicit the calm you so desperately need. But, once you’ve slashed a clear path across the mirror, your brow furrows as you lean in closer to it. Cold dread thunders through your veins as you jerk back, spinning on your heel to make sure what you saw through the mirror wasn’t just your mind playing a trick on you.
Nope, not a trick or even a figment of your imagination…unfortunately.
You stare in paranoid disbelief at the slender gap along the bottom of the bathroom door. The door that leads into your bedroom where you are absolutely, without a doubt, positive you left your bedside lamp on. The gap is dark, like a void threatening to suck you right into an endless nightmare of unrelenting terror. All that’s missing is a gaunt, skeletal hand sliding its too-long fingers under the door.
Shoving away those intrusive thoughts before they can take root and further fester like a dirty wound on your sanity, you try to think logically. It’s possible the bulb in your lamp could have blown, but you know you replaced it just last month. It’s far too soon for it to blow on its own, and surely, it’s not a faulty bulb. So, why is it out? Were you careless and, in truth, didn’t turn it on? A manic laugh gets caught in your throat as you silently berate yourself. That must be it. You simply forgot. So careless.
Fear is an acrid taste on your tongue as you slowly approach the door. You hate this feeling. Even though you tell yourself there’s nothing out there lurking in the dark to harm you, you simply forgot to leave the light on. The distress doesn’t subside—and it won’t. At least, not until you open the door and prove the dark to harbor no ill intent toward you.
Squaring your shoulders and taking what is supposed to be a calming and fortifying breath, though it feels more like sand slipping into your lungs, you wrap your fingers firmly around the brushed nickel handle. The metal is warm, slightly wet from the condensation formed during your shower, against your palm as you twist it.
You lick your trembling lips, taking one more moment to center yourself. Your eyes slide closed as you mentally recall the layout of your room, calculating how many steps there are to get to the nearest light switch. Your bed is angled so the foot faces the bathroom door, and the closet door to the left near the two windows you know are closed tight with the curtains drawn. The bedroom door is easily the furthest from the bathroom, leaving the overhead light out of the question. You knew, before you even began to analyze, that the bedside lamp you recall yourself leaving on is going to be the closest light source. Still, you needed to go through the motion of solidifying that information in your mind.
As you haltingly push it open, the quiet creak of the door, which sounds deafening in the silence of the bathroom, causes chills to pop up along your arms and the hairs at the nape of your neck to stand on end. Darkness ebbs as the light from the bathroom bleeds across the hardwood of your bedroom floor, slowly revealing the interior of your room.
Your heart lurches, and a scream rips from your chest when you see a dark figure sitting at the end of your bed come into focus as the bathroom door swings further open, the handle barely held in your now numb fingers. Panic barrels through you. Your muscles react instinctively, fingers tightening around the knob as you jerk back, the door closing with a harsh bang as you backpedal across the bathroom.
“Babe,” calls a playful voice from just on the other side of the door. You can barely hear it over the roaring in your ears. Nausea threatens to double you over, even as relief floods your system—such conflicting emotions that you feel suddenly off-kilter.
There is a fine sheen of cold sweat clinging to your neck. Your hands fist into the front of your shirt as the door eases open to reveal your boyfriend standing at the threshold. His dark ensemble makes it seem like the bathroom's light bends around his form, not daring to touch him.
You’ve never liked it when someone intentionally scares you, claiming it’s a joke. It always seems more like a cruel prank than a laughing matter. Though, you note, no one is laughing right now either way. He doesn’t look smug or self-satisfied for having scared you, just simply mildly amused.
“You scared me, Yoongi,” you state flatly, crossing your arms over your chest, hoping he picks up on your discomfort.
The corners of his lips turn down, and his brow furrows as he gives you an exaggerated pout. Even with your pounding heart and the upside down in your belly, you can’t help but appreciate how cute he is when he does that. “I know. I just didn’t see the point in wasting the power if you weren’t going to be in there.” He gestures vaguely behind him to your room, which is barely lit by the light pouring out of the bathroom.
It’s on the tip of your tongue to remind him that even though you weren’t in there, he was. Though, for some reason, Yoongi sitting in the dark doesn’t strike you as out of place. In the five years you’ve been together, you’ve learned to love his odd quirks just as much as any other part of him. He’s genuine, a caring person who isn’t afraid to be vulnerable—a far cry from anyone else you’ve ever given your time to.
“How was work?” you ask, aiming to get back on track with some semblance of normalcy—anything to not dwell on the lingering discomfort that’s still beating away in your chest.
His shoulders hitch up in a nonchalant manner. “Same as always. There’s been a big break in the Hunt case. Director Park thinks we’ll have the code cracked in a few more days. I say by tomorrow night, tops, just in time for our date. It’ll be a reward for my hard work,” his eyes twinkle with mirth. “After all, I think Samhain is a pretty fitting day for dealing with evil, huh?”
You make a noncommittal sound at that last part. Yoongi might enjoy that thought, but to you, tomorrow is more so just a day…simply October 31st and is more about plastic pumpkins, like the ones you have sitting on your front porch, than dealing with evil like that. The fact that Yoongi has convinced you to go to a festival tomorrow night is so wild you’ve been forcing yourself not to think about it.
“Well, I’d put my money on you over Director Park any day,” you say instead, giving him a soft, knowing smile. Yoongi has a penchant for estimations. If he thinks it’ll only take another day to crack a code that’s been wreaking havoc on Interpol for the better part of a year, then you believe him. You don’t pretend to understand all the intricacies of what he does; just know he’s really good with computers and helps whichever government agency needs it most or something like that.
Yoongi gives you a lazy smile in return. “Mmm, that’s what I like to hear. Your confidence in me is like kindling for my fervor,” he croons, wrapping you up in his arms. It feels good to relax in his embrace, the last vestiges of your earlier panic melting away as you soak in his warmth and familiarity. “Sorry I scared you,” he murmurs into your damp hair. “Let me make it up to you.”
“What did you have in mind?” you ask, laughing softly when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt and teasingly caress your sides—the touch is light, making your skin tighten and prickle in response.
A rumbling groan vibrates through Yoongi’s chest as he playfully nips along your jaw before planting his lips firmly over yours in a dizzying and claiming way. “We’ll start with kissing,” the words are whispered between plucks of his mouth against yours, tongue swiping sensually across your bottom lip.
“Kissing is good,” you agree, smiling against his mouth before melting into another heated tangle of tongues and stilted breaths. That fist around your heart eases, letting your chest expand fully for the first time since before you showered.
“Biting,” he murmurs, pulling away from the kiss to bury his face in your neck. The light pressure of his teeth pressing against your skin has your toes curling against the cold tile floor and your fingers fisting into the front of his shirt.
Yoongi plants his mouth right over your pulse point, his tongue flicking over your throbbing vein as his teeth clamp down gently. You swallow hard against the sensation, your heart shifting gears to thud fast in your chest for a different reason. It’s not necessarily fear that drives your senses higher now so much as it is anticipation and an increase in adrenaline—terror adjacent, something you prefer much more to the former.
You shudder against him, knees going weak as he moans, the sound sending pulsing shocks of vibrations down your spine with how his mouth fits against your neck. His fingers ghost along your shorts before finally pushing past the elastic band. The palms of his hands are warm as they slide around and grip handfuls of your ass.
Using his hold on you, Yoongi lifts you up onto the counter beside the sink. As his hands retreat, they tug your shorts with them, working them around the curve of your ass until they’re caught at your knees. You let him push them further until they slacken and fall to catch around your ankles, then onto the floor. Wincing slightly at how cold the counter is against your bare skin, you urge him to fill the space between your thighs, seeking his warmth flush against you once again.
“Yoongi,” you hiss, sucking in a sharp breath as he slides a hand between your bodies and presses the flat of his fingers against your pussy. You don’t need to look in the mirror to know his teeth have left an impression on your neck. He leans back and licks his lips in a show of appreciation, lidded eyes full of mischief and barely veiled lust. “Please.” It comes out warbled as he teases his middle finger between your lower lips.
“Beg for it,” he says. “Show me how much you want me to make you forget about the darkness.” His voice has an edge, like he’s teasing at something, but it’s lost on you to piece together what it might be.
Sucking in a deep breath, you repeat your plea, “Please.”
Your chest is rising and falling rapidly, and you can feel your erratic heartbeat pounding between your legs and under the sensitive skin of your neck that Yoongi ravaged with his teeth. Lightheadedness kisses the edges of your clarity, daring you to get lost in the delirium that Yoongi is offering.
“You can do better than that,” Yoongi taunts, his laugh low and husky as he pulls away, leaving you bereft of his touch where you want it most. “Beg. For. It.” The words are clipped, punctuated with staccato taps of his middle finger against your sensitive clit.
“Fuck—Yoongi, please! Please, I need you!”
“That’s my girl,” Yoongi smiles wickedly. Two slender fingers sliding into your wet heat are your reward. “You’re so wet already. Look at how your body is pulling me in. Fuck, that’s nice.” He angles himself so you can both look down and watch his fingers slowly pull out, glistening with your arousal before sinking back in.
Your body squeezes around his fingers, walls fluttering in anticipation and building pleasure. “Need you,” you mumble, grabbing at the button on the front of his dark wash jeans with one hand and tugging at the bottom of his black t-shirt with the other. “Fuck me, Yoongi, please. Please, fuck me. I need you to make me forget.”
A flurry of motion accompanies his answering growl of approval as he helps you strip him out of his clothes and the rest of your own. You barely feel the absence of his fingers in your cunt before he pulls your ass to the edge of the counter and shoves his cock inside with a guttural moan that echoes in the small space.
The fit of him inside your body is deliciously perfect, like he was made to please you. Your fingers press dents into his shoulders as you grip him tightly. One of his hands squeezes your hip to keep you from slipping off the counter while the other finds its way to having a light grip on your throat.
His forehead rests against yours, the back of your head pressed against the mirror behind you. The angle makes his thrusts shallow, forcing the crown of his cock to rock against a sensitive spot deep inside that has you seeing spots behind your closed lids.
Yoongi has always been a contrasting lover, hot and cold, in a way that always leaves you breathless and assuaged. The look on his face says he’s fucking you, but the sensual roll of his hips says he’s making love to you—the hand on your throat says he just wants to control you. Regardless of how he fucks, it always consumes you. From the first time to now, he wholly and utterly devours your sanity and spits it back at you two-fold. He brings you palpable lucidity while also destroying all sense of right and wrong. Some call it morally grey; you call it just another titillating facet of who he is.
Pleasure builds fast, and you know you’re about to tip over the edge when the pressure of his hand on your throat increases. It’s an infinitesimal change, but it feels like the tightening of a vice all the same.
The erratic beat of your heart stutters further, swallowing you down into a thick-headed spiral of trepidation. You know Yoongi won’t hurt you. It’s not that—not quite. It’s the idea and knowledge that he could. It’s a taboo feeling, craving that helpless flutter deep in your belly that dares you to indulge in the darkness instead of running from it.
Yoongi’s hips continue to roll against you, your body pinned in place by his hand on your throat. Your eyes flutter open just to fall shut again as the hand on your hip moves until his thumb presses against your clit, making your body jerk and hurtle back toward the precipice of pleasure from before.
With his thumb pressed against one throbbing artery in your neck and the pads of his fingers against the twin on the other side, he has complete and utter control over you. All it takes is another barely-there squeeze to have you changing your grip from his shoulders to his forearm.
The bitter taste of cowardice laces together with the cloyingly sweet, carnal flavor of lust that’s coating your insides. Yoongi rumbles, a moan low in his chest. The rhythm of his hips kicks up until they’re hammering against yours to the point that measures of pain mix with the terror, forming into a rapture of exhilaration. His thumb coaxes your orgasm through precise flicks over your swollen clit.
You can’t help the sound that rips from your throat, squeezing past his grip in a ragged mockery of a moan—bright colors spiderweb across the backs of your closed lids as you sip from his chalice of wickedness. White noise joins the rush of blood in your ears as somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, alarm begins to bleed into the hazy euphoria clouding your head. “Yes!” Yoongi groans. “That’s it, fuck!”
“Y-yoon—“ you try to choke out his name, fingers trembling from their tight grip on his forearm. Just as you’re about to try and shove him away to get a reprieve, his hand loosens its hold on your throat, and the instant rush of oxygen to your brain washes away all other thoughts as your body surrenders once again to his dominion. The orgasm tears through you, sweeping you out in a hedonistic riptide. Your walls clamp around his cock so hard he snarls and shudders with the trigger of his own release.
You must have blacked out from the overwhelming cascade that besieged your senses because the next thing you’re aware of is Yoongi tucking you into bed beside him. The sheets are cool against your heated skin, a welcome lull of relief. He presses into your sated body, chest against your back and arm possessively curling over your hip. “Get some sleep, my queen,” he murmurs. “I’ll hold the darkness back.”
The room is dark, just as it was earlier when you panicked. But, just as always, when Yoongi is around, it’s less frightening…seemingly somehow less dark and foreboding. He might have darker desires when it comes to pleasure, but right now, he’s the light that chases away your other demons.
🖤🖤🖤
Yoongi
The taste of your fear still lingers in the back of Yoongi’s throat as he pretends to sleep curled around you. He knew turning off your bedroom light would scare you. It’s why he did it. The peckish feeling that rumbled in the pit of his stomach drove him to want to play with you. Your fear instantly sated his hunger, and it made his dick hard when you screamed. You scream so prettily he just can’t help that natural, primal response.
That is, after all, precisely why he chose you. Everything about you speaks to his needs, promising sweet and succulent fruit that’s always ripe for plucking.
He learned early on that if he could elevate your heart rate and incite a sliver of fear in you while fucking you…well, his full belly is testament enough to how much he loves that. You call it a kink, he calls it dessert. It wasn’t his intention to fuck you after he frightened you, but the irritating erection grating along his zipper had other plans.
His mortal form isn’t his favorite. It’s far too small and has far too many baser needs and limitations. Though he does enjoy the feel of your soft, pliant flesh under his—especially when you’re ripe with the sweet smell of terror—it makes it worth the discomfort this inferior mode has.
It’s not lost on Yoongi that he could have ruined you from the start by taking too much from you. But he’s been careful over the years, molding and training your body to be the perfect vessel for him to feed from. The fact you were already experiencing high anxiety and an innate fear of the dark prior to him coming into your life helped tremendously. Nyctophobia is such a beautiful thing.
You claim he’s helped you, for the most part, get over your fears. However, he knows this is just a lie you tell him and yourself to make yourself feel and seem braver. He knows the truth, though. There is no getting over your fear, not when it lives with you…sleeps next to you, touches you, fucks you. He’s everything you’re scared of, everything you think is creeping around in the dark, waiting to pounce. He’s your worst nightmare…literally as much as figuratively—and you have absolutely no inkling of that truth. All you see is what he lets you see: just a sweet guy with a penchant for darker tastes behind closed doors.
To you, he’s just Yoongi. But he has had many names over the centuries: Demon, Baba Yaga, El Coco, Butzemann, Tikoloshe, Bogeyman, and so on. All of them are generally the same, but none are quite right. He is all these things, and yet none of these things—he’s so much more.
It’s a common misconception that he only targets people who do misdeeds. That’s not it at all, for the sweetest fruit is the unwary, the innocent, the vulnerable, and the scared. That is the pinnacle of his desire, the unctuous delight that feeds his depravity and gives him power over the darkness—darkness that calls to him now.
Being careful not to wake you, Yoongi slips out from around your soft, lush body. Feeding on your fear in the bathroom drained some of your vitality, lowering your constitution, and the best recovery for that is a good, uninterrupted eight hours. So, he’ll leave you to replenish so that he may feast once again—one last time before he executes his final, ultimate plan; the whole reason he chose you to begin with and has been periodically parading around in this limited meat suit for years.
The maw of darkness under your bed beckons him to shake off the mortal form and take his rightful place as King among the shadows. Yoongi catches his reflection in the standing mirror across the room. The only thing distinct is the brilliant red eyes staring back at him. It feels good to stretch and dissolve into his proper form, shadows snaking along his limbs and filling his every breath.
You fidget on the bed, brow furrowing as your body reacts to the nearness of his proper form. He likes watching you twitch and shift, soft mewls of fright sounding low in your chest. If he wanted, he could swallow you whole, and you’d never be the wiser, one moment existing in your nightmare and the next slithering into the ether of what comes after. But, it’s not time…not yet.
Letting one of his long, spindly shadow fingers draw back in and reform into the echo of human flesh, he presses the blunt tip against your temple. You instantly quell your movements, and the pitiful cry in your chest subsides. Yoongi can feel the subtle tremble of your body, the vibrations skittering through your flesh as your body recognizes his hellish touch. Your subconscious is as familiar with his umbral form as your conscious is with the lies he’s used to frame how you see him with your eyes.
Digging through the screen of your nightmare, he pulls back the darkness and lets in just enough light to lull you into a false sense of security—something he does nearly every night after he’s fed from you so he doesn’t accidentally drain you dry. By the time he returns, the light will have faded from your dreams, and there will be just enough unfettered distress permeating the air of your bedroom to give him a top off of delicious fear, his own personal cup of pick-me-up.
Yoongi slides under the bed and into the darkness, leaving you to your deep, lambent dreams. He melts through the barrier between your world and his. Euphoria buzzes through him as his depth of power increases. That’s the biggest downfall of walking the mortal plane. There aren’t quite enough shadows or stinking fear to fill the neverending void inside him. But here, in the Realm of Darkness, the taste of terror is thick and nectarous. It lingers in the air and is as permanent as the oxygen you breathe in your world.
Yoongi drifts through the firmament of his domain, letting the worries and stress of what’s to come fade. For a being with endless power and control, he never thought he might have the need to be concerned over something seemingly so trivial. But, the ceremony and ritual he has planned for tomorrow night is easily the most critical thing he’s ever dared to accomplish.
The Realm of Darkness might be sufficiently filled with succulent fodder for him, but there are other limitations he encounters. Constraints that involve the worlds beyond his Kingdom. He doesn’t want just to be able to thrive here on his own turf. He has aspirations of letting his darkness seep into the outer realms—including yours—and if he has his way, you will help him do just that. The barriers will crumble, and he’ll be free to bathe the distant realms in his thick ichor of destruction.
Finally feeling more like himself, he aims for the Shadow Spire, where waits the Throne of the Damned—his throne. All it takes is a simple thought, and he’s standing in the sprawling cavern of the throne room. It stretches wide in all directions, having no end or beginning, just existing as his will needs.
Pillars of malachite soar into the air at equal intervals, disappearing into the glittering cosmos expanse above his head. Silvery flecks of light cast the whole room in a mockery of the night sky of your world, something he’s grown to admire over the years spent there. Yoongi takes a deep breath, soaking in the tangy, bitter stench of brimstone and copper. Soon, he hopes, your delectable perfume of fear will join them.
“Sire,” a gruff voice says in surprise. “We weren’t expecting you back until the ritual. Welcome, is there anything we can do for you?”
Yoongi settles his shadowy form on the monstrous broken stone pillar at the top of the dais that rises from the rocky floor. His court, ever vigilant in their duty to him, wait for him to respond. “Is everything prepared for the ceremony?” he asks, eyes finally landing on the six figures seated on the smaller stone plinths arrayed in a semi-circle in front of him—the Shadow Court once again complete with his return. Hopefully, he won’t have to leave the comfort of his court but one more time. Once the ritual is done, he shouldn’t have to so much as lift a finger to reach into the overworld.
“All is well and ready, Sire.” Wicked smiles spread like wildfire across the court. They’re just as excited as Yoongi is to be finally moving forward with the plan. None of them have tasted the kind of fear that Yoongi has feasted on from you—the fresh terror of the mortal realm—but if they had more corporeal forms, he knows they’d be salivating. Soon, so very soon.
Looking around at his companions, he can’t help but think how humorous it is that you so readily believed his deceptions about working for the human government. He remembers the day he finally stepped from the shadows and made himself known to you. You were immediately drawn to him and couldn't stop yourself from indulging in your curiosities like a moth drawn to a flame.
Yoongi had already come up with an elaborate backstory and characterization for the human he wanted to portray. He knew all of your deep, dark fantasies and brought them to life. Your eyes got round with awe and reverence when he first revealed his supposed job, confirming how gullible and under his spell you were. He can’t deny it’s worked in his favor.
He’s allowed to keep odd hours and disappear as needed. When he returns to your bed before the sun rises, he’ll leave you a note on your pillow about being pulled away for work. You’ll read it and sigh a dreamy sigh as you have every other time he’s done that. You never bother to seek further explanation—your trust in him is so wholly concrete.
There is satisfaction in the freedom you’ve granted him to embrace a darker side. It’s how he can get away with fucking you so callously that your brain warps it into some deranged form of love. You’ve chalked every depraved thing he’s done to you up to him needing an outlet after dealing with such heinous stuff for work. He only had to mention a few well-known acronyms, like FBI and CIA, and you accepted it. As scared as you are of the dark, he’s aware of the collection of slasher and horror novels you keep stuffed away under your bed and that you listen with rapt attention to those silly crime shows and podcasts that tell you he’s not the one you should be scared of. Soon, he won’t have to worry about any of that, though—no more silly backstory, no more hiding, no more stuffy mortal form, no more holding back. Tomorrow signifies a change, a new beginning. It’s the time when the veil between the worlds will be thin enough that he can drag you down without it sucking your life away. Some call it Samhain, Calan Gaeaf, Mischief Night, Halloween—it holds nearly as many names as Yoongi himself does—but for him, it will be the night he calls triumph. The night his shadows will lay a claim to you wholly; the night you stop fearing what goes bump in the night and instead stand by its side and let it consume you.
Wicked Delight
Consciousness comes in fits and spurts of clarity. There is a moment where you’re asleep but aware. With this awareness, you can discern and feel the potent darkness webbing across your subconscious. You’ve seen it before, the myriad of inky tendrils that zig-zag through the light like fissures over a dried river bed. It scares you but also fills you with intrigue so rich it nearly eclipses the fear.
You know that if you could just hang on to that in-between space, the feeling of teetering on the edge of a knife, you could examine the darkness further and figure out what it is and where it comes from. But your body has other plans, sucking you away from your inspection and pushing you toward uneasy wakefulness.
Shifting under the blankets, a crinkling noise draws your eyes open to land on a rumple of white paper lying beside you on the empty side of the bed. With fumbling fingers, you grab the ripped leaf of creamy parchment and turn it so you can see the blue scrawl of words.
Got some darkness to take care of. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Don’t forget; 11 pm sharp, beginning of the corn maze. X
There is no name signed to the note, just an X, but you know who left it, regardless. You roll over, holding the thin paper above you so you can see the faded, faint print under his ink. A smile tugs at your lips when you realize it’s a corner ripped from Kinder und Hausmärchen, one of Yoongi’s favorite books. He has an original first edition that he’s let you moon over a few times. The first time you found a note and saw what it was written on, you nearly crawled out of your skin to berate him for ruining such a prize. He gently chided you for your reaction and assured you it was just a copy, scanned and printed for the whimsy of it.
Looking closer, you see the corner is from a page of the Cat and Mouse in Partnership tale. Your smile fades, turning into a mild frown as an odd feeling ghosts beneath your skin, eliciting goosebumps to pop up along your arms. Sighing, you shake your head and pull the blanket up high under your chin, chalking the sensation up to being cold. Your eyes rove around the room, taking in the early morning light filtering in through your thin curtains, showing you just enough of the inside of your room to be comfortable with not having a light on.
Finally deciding there’s no point in dallying in bed further, you toss back the covers and brace yourself against the chill in your room. Only, it’s not as cold as you were anticipating. Opening the small drawer on your nightstand to deposit the message in with the dozens of others Yoongi has left you over the years, you can help but smile. They’re sweet, little pieces of him that affirm to you why it’s okay he disappears the way he does. The reminder comforts you, especially on this day.
Halloween has never been your favorite. Well, that’s not true, exactly. You do like Halloween—just the modern and more mainstream version with candy, pumpkins, and warm, spiced drinks. Fall colors are also something you enjoy. The cooler air is nice. You’re partial to cozy sweaters and boots, too.
All in all, you enjoy this time of the year. You just don’t necessarily like the darker parts, the scarier parts. Haunted houses and scary movies are things you could do without unless it’s under very specific circumstances. Such as having Yoongi there. Which is the only reason you’ve agreed to meet him at the festival tonight. You haven’t been since you were a teen and got so scared by the fright actors that you swore never to return.
Except, now, you are returning. It’s been on the tip of your tongue for the last week to cancel on Yoongi, feigning a head or stomach ache. But, the sheer excitement in his gaze when you agreed, has been enough to make you bite your tongue every time a protest bubbles up. You can—and will—do this.
With an entire day to go before your date with Yoongi, you busy yourself with mundane tasks. A bit of cleaning, some light reading, and lastly, dumping a few bags of assorted and prepackaged candies into a bright orange bowl with a goofy jack-o-lantern face printed on the side.
You’re usually a porchlight-off kind of person. Still, this year, considering your own venture outside your proverbial Halloween box, you decided why not go the extra mile for others, too? Even if one kid dumps the entire bowl into their treat bag, you’ll at least feel somewhat accomplished in your attempt.
Setting the bowl on your doorstep, you stand back and survey it. The yellow-tinged porch light illuminates the candy and the plastic pumpkins you have arranged on either side of your door. You contemplate adding a ‘please take only one’ sign for the bowl but decide a paper warning isn’t much of a deterrent. Leaving the candy to its fate, you head back inside to finish getting ready.
Time flows in a weird, out-of-body kind of way. You’re aware of pulling on your coat and walking into your garage through the kitchen—even the process of driving to the festival registers in your mind. But, you’re genuinely not cognisant of what you’re doing until you’re staring at the large flashing sign for the festival. You have to practically put on blinders to make it through the ticketing process, ignoring the scare actors as you wait in line.
The corn maze is at the center of it all, meaning you keep your eyes glued to the ground as you skirt the edges of the food stalls and game stands until you reach it. There, you wait, standing at the start of the corn maze and stare at your watch, counting the seconds as they tick by with the small hand.
The air is cool, the crisp scent of fall heavy around you. Laughter and faint screams carry to you from the festival surrounding the maze. The giant corn labyrinth is the center of the entire two-week-long event. Thousands of people flock from near and far to venture within the husked, cream-colored stalks.
If you make it through the maze without assistance from the scare actors, then you get an entire bucket of caramel popcorn drizzled with chocolate. That’s never been enough of a reward for you to try. Even the last time you were here, you never stepped foot into the clustered embrace of the maze.
The festival is lit enough with all the twinkling lights and fair games lining the thoroughfares and the midway. Food trucks and stalls litter through the vendors with stuffed animals and cackling clowns. You try to ignore the bodies that sway and shamble through the crowd—the scare actors. They’re just people dressed up in costume and makeup, but they still elicit that flighty feeling in your belly, that little trickle of fear.
At the ticket booths, there were neon green necklaces you could purchase. You used them as a distraction while you waited in line. They’re ‘no scare’ necklaces, big bright indicators that you’re a sensitive little bitch that doesn’t want to be scared. At least, that’s how you felt looking at them, considering buying one. You know they’re an extremely valid item, a protective emblem that many people need, and that it’s perfectly fine—in fact, it’s encouraged for people to use them if they need to.
As you fingered the green nylon of the lanyard, you couldn’t help chewing your bottom lip, worrying at it until it cracked under your teeth and the coppery tang of blood danced across your tongue. You almost bought it…maybe you should have. However, the fact that you’re half-hidden by the corn maze sign and doing everything in your power not to draw unwanted attention to yourself seems to be keeping you from attracting the actors your way.
The tiny hand on your watch ticks away, drawing closer to turning over the minute, which'll turn over the hour to 11 PM. Sharp. Yoongi’s insistence. Just as the hands come together on your watch, you feel that telltale tingling feeling of eyes on you. It’s a familiar sensation, one you often associate with Yoongi. Daring to step out from behind the sign to the corn maze, you spin in a slow circle, trying to catch sight of him.
“Looking for someone?”
You have to clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the shriek that rips from your chest as those words drift in from right behind you. So close that it’s impossible to imagine you hadn’t noticed him approaching you as you looked around.
“Yoongi,” you sigh, dropping your hand.
He's enveloping you from behind before you can turn around and give him a pouty yet stern look. His familiar musk and warmth ease your heart back from its hammering gallop. “You’re good enough to eat,” he gruffly murmurs, pressing his nose into the fabric of your coat at the juncture of your shoulder and neck. You can feel more than hear his deep inhalation, as if he’s drawing in the scent of your very soul and branding it throughout his olfactory system.
“The maze closes in an hour. Are you sure we can make it to the center before then?” you ask, voice light and airy as relief infused with drips of serotonin weaken your knees and your resolve to be upset with him for frightening you. You turn in his arms, keen to look upon his face for another kick of comfort, but it sours in your belly when you take in his pulled-up hood and the thick black gaiter covering the bottom half of his face. “What’s that for?”
Yoongi shrugs, shoulders lifting in his typical nonchalant manner. “It’s Halloween. Consider me dressed for the occasion.” He winks at you, but it does nothing to quell the unease still rolling around just beneath your surface. Feigning that stomachache is starting to sound more and more appealing, Yoongi’s excitement be damned.
“You look like a burglar.”
You can’t see his smile, but you can tell it’s there by how his eyes crinkle and lids lower mischievously. “And you look ripe for the burgling.”
“You’re insufferable,” you gripe teasingly, finally letting a smile grace your face despite the lingering anxiety. It’s easy to forget your fears and worries when you’re looking into his umber-colored gaze.
“Come on, let’s go.” Yoongi offers you his elbow, and you tuck your hand into the crook of it, leaning your shoulder against his arm.
The fleece-lined leggings you chose to wear keep you warm enough, paired with the knit sweater and thick tweed coat covering your top half. Your chunky boots are comfortable and practical for the slightly uneven terrain of the cornfield-turned-maze. Yoongi is far more casual in just jeans, the hoodie, and a pair of dusty and worn sneakers.
You study his face the best you can past the edge of his hood and out of the corner of your eye. He’s just as handsome as always. Even the black fabric covering the bottom half of his face doesn’t detract from his allure, which seems to be intensified by the deepening darkness around you as he leads you through the maze entrance.
A festival worker stands off to the side in full-on farmer-gore. Their overalls are covered in faux viscera, and there is a bloodied sling blade dangling from their off-hand as they beckon you and Yoongi forward with their other.
“Tonight's savior phrase is ‘Pumpkin Guts’, yell it out if you need assistance navigating the maze, and a helper will assist you,” he offers before turning to the next patron approaching a few feet behind you and Yoongi and giving them the same information.
“Pumpkin Guts,” Yoongi scoffs with a quiet laugh. “Surely they could have come up with something far more fitting than that.”
“I find it kind of nice. The childish charm of it helps make a situation like getting lost in the maze less scary, don’t you think?”
His eyes look more onyx now that you’re within the maze, the only illumination coming from tiny, sparse fairy lights. They catch your gaze, and you see a smile tilt up the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. “That’s adorable.”
“What?” you laugh, feeling heat crawl into your cheeks.
Yoongi shakes his head, his smile growing. “You always find the good in everything. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”
All the residual anxiety from earlier bleeds away with just that singular statement. You press in closer to Yoongi and angle your face up in silent request, to which he immediately obliges. He hooks a finger in the lip of his gaiter and pulls it down so he can slant his mouth over yours. His lips are warmer than usual, his breath carrying faint hints of bourbon as he teasingly slips his tongue through the seam of your lips. All too soon, he’s pulling away, leaving you with just that small taste of him. The gaiter slides back into place, and he nods ahead of you. “The quicker we make it to the center, the quicker you get the surprise I have waiting for you.”
“A surprise?” you ask, thoroughly intrigued.
His affirming hum in response turns into a soft chuckle as you eagerly quicken your steps, tugging him along beside you. As someone who isn’t partial to being shocked or scared, it’s perhaps a bit ironic that you love surprises of the unknown. They just have to be the right kind—like one from Yoongi; er, well, at least the ones that don’t involve him sitting on your bed in the dark as you open the bathroom door or so you tell yourself—but you digress.
Though, perhaps there is a bit of enjoyment from those kinds of surprises, too. In a twisted, semi-fucked up way, the surge of adrenaline is like a counterweight to the dopamine response from your amygdala that follows any time you get frightened. The perfect balance of emotions. The fight or flight reflex makes your body feel like it’s keyed up with extra energy, leaving you feeling like you’ve just run a mile or fucked for an hour. It’s maybe a little unhinged to salivate over those small sips of terror secretly. Does that make you a masochist?
You’d almost think Yoongi picks up on your inner thoughts with the way he makes an amused sound in the back of his throat and gives you a sidelong, knowing look. Something tingles beneath your skin, an electric feeling akin to loose ambitions. It seems tonight won’t be so bad after all.
The crunch of dried corn husks and hay accompanies the occasional scream or laugh echoing from various points in the maze. You’ve only led Yoongi to a dead-end a handful of times so far, but the anxiety at not having found the center of the maze yet is starting to mount.
“I can feel your stress in the tension in your hand,” Yoongi muses softly. “Relax, you’ll get your surprise.”
“What if they close the maze before we make it to the center, though?”
“They won’t.”
You cut a quick glance at him. He looks smug. “You seem so sure, but from my count,” you shift your attention to your watch, “we only have fifteen minutes before the festival closes, and I’d guess we’re nowhere near the center yet.”
Yoongi shrugs. “I may have paid the vendor to let us stay as long as we need.”
“You did what?”
“Tonight’s special,” Yoongi tugs you to a stop, his hands engulfing yours, and gives you a pointed look. “Very special.” The thumb of his right hand grazes over the expanse of skin above the knuckle on your left ring finger. “Now, let’s go find the center…and your surprise.”
A new sensation trickles in–excitement. Your heart patters faster as you turn and haul Yoongi on with renewed vigor. Gone is any trepidation; in its place, nothing but giddy and barely veiled anticipation. And to think, you’d almost been silly and canceled on him.
🖤🖤🖤
Yoongi
Yoongi wasn’t exaggerating when he said you look good enough to eat tonight. If only you knew how close to an accurate statement that was. He’s had a constant flow of moisture seeping into his mouth since he laid eyes on you standing behind the wooden sign for the maze. He had just finished setting up the surprise for you in the center, utilizing his natural form in order to move quickly without being seen.
All the implements he needs await him at the maze's center. The theatrics of it all are only for fun. He could have simply taken you without them. But he’s always been partial to playing with his food before devouring it. The pungency of your anxiety as you waited was a delightful appetizer to what is sure to be a satiating main course.
Every time you make a wrong turn in the maze, Yoongi can feel the tension in your muscles and the momentary disappointment that flavors your scent. It’s amusing watching you shuffle your feet and grumble under your breath before turning and backtracking.
It’s not lost to him the amount of uncertainty you’ve had ever since he asked you to go with him tonight. Not that he would have given you a choice in the end; he’d have taken you by force if needed. But he’s a passive creature at best, so the less work he has to do, the better.
Using the ruse of there being a surprise waiting for you isn’t entirely untrue. Though, the treat he’s confident that he’s planted the idea of in your head is far different from what’s actually going to happen. He’s spent enough time in the mortal realm to know what you’d have interpreted from him stroking that particular finger with the right look in his eye. Your heart had gone into a frenzy of thick, heavy beats, and your eyes had lit up with wonder.
Yeah, he’s pretty sure he knows what’s driving your feet to move as quickly as they are now. It’ll just make the disappointment taste that much sweeter. Over the five years he’s been administering to you, molding you into the perfect vessel, he’s learned the small nuances that make you tick. Whether it’s for eliciting fear or excitement, desire or anguish, he knows exactly how to produce the results he wants.
“Ugh,” you grumble for the dozenth time when you turn a corner and come to another dead end. “This is impossible. How can you find enjoyment in these things?”
Yoongi smirks. “It’s quite analytical if you really want me to answer that.” The way your nose wrinkles when he says that is positively adorable. “Come on, I’ll help you out.”
You gleefully cede the lead, letting him guide you back and toward a different direction entirely. You’re still excited, bubbling with positive anticipation, even though you’re no longer playing the game, per se. It’s interesting how you so quickly relinquish the hunt—he’d never.
The noise of the festival and maze has long since fizzled away. He didn’t actually pay the attendant. He’s just using some of his ability to mask your presence from anyone who might get in the way. Some of the lights from the midway are still going, and a few rides are lit up. However, the deeper Yoongi leads you into the labyrinth, the darker it becomes. He’s confident you’re so wound up that you don’t even notice how his shadows grow and stretch along the narrow walkway around you.
“Oh, look!” You excitedly point at the opening that comes into view at the end of the row. “I can smell the popcorn. Did that bribe include a bucket waiting for us, too?”
Yoongi has no idea if there is popcorn waiting, but he imagines you’re only smelling the lingering scent. He can’t detect anyone else within a hundred-meter radius around the maze. If the prospect of popcorn makes you happy, then sure. “Of course it did. We’ll need a snack once I’m done with you.” Which mostly isn’t true, though he can’t be sure. Yoongi has never shadow-turned a human before, much less taken a mate in the process. You might be ravenous by the time he’s done; though, he’d bet it won’t be popcorn you’ll be craving.
There is a distinct moment where Yoongi can feel the shift in your demeanor. Your excitement dips into confusion as you take in the finish line area that’s deserted of anyone and anything other than the large 10 ft square structure he erected in the middle. The raw malachite plinths are so dark the lindworm-colored stone seems to absorb the illuminance around them, turning the gateway into a giant pit of darkness that devours the faint twinkling lights. Shadows bleed from the open space between the pillars, reaching for their master.
Yoongi’s blood sings with desire as fear trickles in with the confusion. “Yoongi,” you whisper his name, and it warbles from your lips oh so beautifully. “What’s that?”
“That’s your future, my love.” He untangles himself from your grip, circling you like a predator. “Now, run!” he snarls from right behind you.
You don’t even scream when he shoves you forward, your arms windmilling and boots tripping over the scatter of dried corn husks before you topple headlong between the pillars. The last thing he sees before the waiting shadows swallow you is the whites of your eyes as you throw a panicked look over your shoulder at him.
It’s mildly disappointing that you didn’t even so much as grunt or give him any sort of satisfaction that you’re petrified other than the cloying perfume of your terror that settles on his tongue when he huffs in irritation. Hopefully, when he follows you through the gateway, you’ll already be on the run because he’s in the mood to play a while longer before he shatters the world as you know it.
Yoongi wants you to recognize him, so he only casts off some of his mortal form, choosing to keep his face and most of his body intact. What changes is his size; he grows larger, arms and legs longer, fingers more like talons, and eyes the dark red of fresh blood.
He knows he looks monstrous, even more so with the cloth still covering the lower half of his face and the hoodie now ripped and hanging from his physique. As soon as he slides through the barrier of the gateway, he’s met with that euphoric sound he hoped for earlier. Your scream rends through the thick, stale air of the Realm of Darkness, music to his ears.
“That’s my girl,” Yoongi crows, his voice gravelly and distorted by his natural form. He inhales deeply, sucking in your dismay's succulent and divine fragrance. “Fuck.”
You scream again as he steps toward you, which spurs you into gaining your feet, not even caring to look at the soot-like substance caking your hands and knees. Yoongi can only imagine the thoughts warring inside your pretty little head right now. Wild fear makes your eyes flick frantically around before you choose a direction and sprint at breakneck speed between the skeletal trees surrounding this side of the gateway.
He chose the Forest of Decay specifically because it provides the perfect environment for a chase. It allows him to easily keep up with you while giving the illusion of protection. There’s also not a single nook or cranny Yoongi isn’t intimately familiar with; after all, he can’t have you finding some unknown hole to burrow into.
The flash and flicker of your coat draws his attention as it zigs and zags through the petrified sentinels of the forest. Their long, gnarled branches reach far, entwining overhead like a macabre endless bird's nest. It creates a dim atmosphere, with the faintest hint of light bleeding through the limbs. Each tree is about a foot wide and twenty feet high, the ground covered in sooty ash; it’s an ideal playground.
“Leave me alone!” you sob when Yoongi lets you catch another glimpse of him.
Yoongi shudders as a fresh, new wave of terror undulates from you and washes over him. “No can do, my queen.”
The thrill of the chase adds kindling to Yoongi’s need to consume you whole. Every step you take is reckless. You throw yourself around trees so fast you nearly hit the next. The spacing between the trees is relatively narrow, just a few feet at most. Still, with the way you’re barreling through them, you’ve already accumulated a few scratches and minor lacerations from the dried bark, feet kicking up small puffs of ash with every frantic step. The tangy, sweet scent of your blood makes him salivate. The thick, viscous drool coating his tongue will make it all that easier to fuck you with it once he catches you.
Lumbering on behind you, Yoongi intentionally stomps and makes as much noise as possible. Every crack and thump he makes has a whimper shivering from your throat. The thick appendage between his monstrous thighs swells with each terrified sound you make. Fucking you in his proper form will be such a treat. Surely, it’ll be far better than any sex he’s had with the limits of his human body, even if he does love the way your softness compliments his.
But there is nothing soft about Yoongi now—not when he has such a tasty morsel running and screaming so prettily for him. He’s all hard edges and thick muscle. A manic chuckle bubbles in his chest as he leaps ahead, hounding your heels.
It’s comical, ironic even, when he watches your foot catch on a high root hidden by a pile of ash, and you go sprawling on the ground before him. He’s seen enough of those cheesy horror films so fervently worshiped in your world to know how funny this is.
“Please, no! Leave me alone!” you beg through ragged breaths. Your face and hair are marked with scratches, flecks of dried bark, and the pewter-colored ash covering the ground.
An appreciative moan works its way free of Yoongi as he stands over you, swaying like he’s drunk. Which, maybe he is. There is a faint buzzing in his ears, and if he opens his eyes too wide, your image doubles. Two of you; he grins wickedly at the prospect. Now, that would be a definite treat.
As it is, there’s only you; that will be sufficient for what Yoongi has planned. He looms over you, and the backward-bending joints of his knees give slightly as he towers across your prone form. Your eyes pan over his arched body, perhaps for the first time, taking it in with true clarity. Yoongi lets his skin ripple between human and proper form, coalescing and whirling with shadows.
With a flex of darkness, he rends the remnants of his clothes. The ripping of the seams and subsequent soft plop of the ruined fabrics echo through the suddenly silent space. You’re barely even breathing as you take him in, eyes landing on the swinging cock that nearly brushes your belly as he places a gnarled hand beside your head in the ash.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, though it comes out more like sand in a grinder. Lowering further, Yoongi nudges your chin with his nose, guiding your head sideways to give him unfettered access to your throat. Pressing into the crook of your neck, he huffs hot breath over your skin, rejoicing in the instinctive reaction. Your skin prickles and flushes with goosebumps, and a thick cloud of potent fear wafts up as your pulse hammers away beneath his lips.
“P-please,” you whimper through trembling lips. Tears stream down your cheek and drip off the bridge of your nose. Their salty tang mixes with the sweetness of terror pervading the air.
That word, spoken in that way…it does something to Yoongi. He groans, nipping at the skin of your neck with his blunted teeth before letting them elongate so he can adequately graze your papery-thin flesh. You cry out when they slice through, leaving behind thin blood trickles and shallow scratches.
Your blood is laced with fear, blooming on his tongue like an ambrosia of the gods. “You’ve always begged so prettily, my queen. You’re a treasure, and I’m so glad I found you all those years ago, so innocent and unsuspecting—my perfect mate.”
The next scream that leaves your lips is guttural, full of panic and delirium as Yoongi takes his first pull from your body. Thin wisps of black shadow thread from his lips to yours. They pulse with every drag he takes. He’s fed from you thousands of times, but never like this—never so profoundly.
Fear, terror, horror, fright…it’s all the same, and yet Yoongi is almost sure he can taste the distinction. Like a fine wine, you have tasting notes that vary with every sip. By the fifth breath, your body has grown slack, your eyes wide and glassy. Tears still stream down your face but in silence.
Yoongi watches your pallor grow sickly, waxy as sweat pearls along your hairline and temples. Draining you is a delicate affair, something he’s both dreaded and looked forward to for so long. Watching the fire that he loves so much bleed from your eyes and the vigor leech from your skin pangs him with a foreign sensation, something akin to mourning? He realizes now he will mourn the loss of your human form, even if it’s far inferior to what he will turn you into.
With one final shuddering gasp, the darkest, thickest tendril of shadow snakes its way between your parted lips. Your fingers and limbs spasm as the inky darkness roots in deep, tethering itself to you like the strings of a marionette. It pulls tight in Yoongi’s own chest, cementing his essence to yours. As a barbed ring of shadow settles on the ring finger of your left hand, the bond snaps into place, and chaos ensues.
🖤🖤🖤
You’ve never experienced such visceral fear before. It’s consumed every fiber of your being. You’re no longer who you once were and will never be the same again. You are simply fear incarnate.
A boiling starts beneath your skin, beginning at the tips of your fingers and toes before rolling through to the center of your chest, where it pops and sizzles like dry ice in tepid water, so cold it burns.
It’s like flipping a coin. One minute, you are experiencing insurmountable terror, and the next, you exude it. Nothing can scare you now, not even the monster sitting a few feet away watching you with calculated eyes—familiar eyes, eyes you’ve lost yourself in more times than you can count.
They’re not as cold as they were a moment ago. You distinctly remember how those red eyes softened right before you felt yourself float away. It’s Yoongi, you know this, but it’s also not. He’s different, and it’s not even the deformed, gangly shadow form that makes up his body, either. There’s something more, something that draws you in, like an anchor dragging you into his deepest, darkest depths. He’s a vast ocean, and you’re pretty sure what he just did was akin to drowning you—killing you.
Only you don’t feel dead.
Quite the opposite, in fact. For the first time in your existence, you feel truly alive; and not in the living sense but in the eternal sense. You have no ending or beginning; you exist as you will yourself to be.
With that thought, your body urges you to change, to morph into a far more comfortable form. Darkness seeps from your pores, cascading out of your skin until it becomes a mockery of its former self, and it feels good—so good.
“What have you done to me?” Your voice sounds different, soft yet sultry. It reminds you of black silk and lace, devious and coy, with the perfect mix of husk and drawl.
Yoongi lets out a slow breath, the sound like dry leaves crackling. “Made you mine.”
“What…what are we?”
The soft ash sifts between your now exposed toes, the boots you once wore laying in peeled strips along with tattered remnants of your clothes. Nudity has never been an issue for you, but it’s as if you have no inhibitions at all now. The shadows around your body contort to form curves and perfect swells.
“We have many names. Demons, bogeymen…it’s all very fitting, yet doesn’t quite capture the truth. What I am—what we are—is darkness, fear, terror, and shadow. We are infinite, endless, and everything all at once.”
“Why me?” you whisper. That tether inside of you pulses, pulling tight as you shift and try to put distance between yourself and Yoongi. It’s like a rope around your throat, pulling you up short.
Yoongi narrows his eyes, lips quirking in amusement. “This is the Realm of Darkness—my domain,” he gestures broadly with a clawed hand, “and it was all I had access to until I found a way to enter yours. Once I tasted the sweet nectar of fear it provided and the power it allowed me access to, I couldn’t stop my curiosity and need for more. Then I found you, and I knew you would be the perfect compliment to my aspirations, just the thing I needed to break the barriers completely.”
He straightens up, and the way his body catches your attention has a heat flaring somewhere deep in your being. Your eyes lock on the dark sinews and plump muscles that stretch and contract as Yoongi moves to crouch in front of you. The ribbed and notched cock swaying between his thighs dribbles a thick, viscous line of lavender-colored arousal.
Tearing your eyes from the sight of it, you force yourself to look into his feral, red eyes. His explanation is both confusing and clear at the same time. You understand it, but know that you should be railing against it because it’s morally incomprehensible. You’ve essentially been kidnapped and forced into what this is. Yet…yet—“I feel…” you trail off, trying to find the right word to describe it.
“Powerful,” Yoongi offers with a knowing, pointed-tooth grin.
“Powerful,” you repeat, letting the word roll around your tongue before nodding. Perhaps that’s why you are shrugging off your cares and the moral compass that has seemingly forgotten how to point north.
The subtle smell of burnt wood and sulfur hits you as Yoongi raises a hand to fit across the front of your throat. Those too-long fingers engulf it, sending a shiver down your new body. Instead of your belly filling up with fear, it fills with desire and need. You no longer need to battle the terror, letting it drip away from you instead.
“Look at you. You’re so perfect. You don’t feel scared, but that’s only because this realm leeches it away and devours it before it can poison your mind, leaving behind nothing but how you truly feel.”
You know there has always been a darkness inside you, something that even you feared to face head-on. After all, it must take some kind of crazy to be both scared of the dark and want to embrace it. It’s not just the way Yoongi plied your body and made you forget to care about being proper and good. Is this what you were made for—all the fright and terror you’ve experienced and secretly sought out leading you to this very moment here?
All it takes is one look at Yoongi to know the truth.
You were created for this, crafted to be precisely what Yoongi needed, just as he said.
With that moment of clarity and acceptance, a new sensation slithers down your spine. A lasciviousness that has you moaning in surprise.
“Fuck,” you grind out between clenched teeth.
“Gladly,” Yoongi chuckles, his red eyes taking on a lecherous gleam. “Let’s unleash your darkness on the realms, my queen.”
Between one breath and the next, your knees are splayed wide, and Yoongi has his face buried between your thighs. All it takes is one languid swipe of his long, broad tongue to have you cursing again. Caustic words fall from your mouth, laced with vitriol as it’s unfair how good it feels. It’s like every inch of contact between your body and his writes itself across what was once your soul.
“Mmmph,” you moan incoherently as the beginning of an orgasm lashes against your insides. Yoongi greedily sucks and licks, tongue laving over your throbbing clit before sliding between your contracting walls.
A tsunami of darkness crashes out from within you, blanketing the surrounding forest in shadow. Wisps of clarity ebb and flow, drifting along with the gloom until Yoongi grounds you with an exceptionally sharp pinch to one of your nipples.
“Almost there,” he announces gleefully, licking his lips before launching forward and forcing you onto your back.
Yoongi feels like fire against you, his body scorching everywhere it touches. You expect to feel the soft ash against your back but the only sensation that ebbs in is a cool aeration against the exposed skin between your shoulder blades.
Monstrous arms wrap around you as Yoongi slots his too-big mouth over yours, invading you with his slick, serpentine tongue. Your eyes flutter open, and you catch a glimpse of a pewter sky beyond the scraggy branches that are suddenly closer overhead.
You try to pull away from his devouring kiss to alert him to the jagged web of dry wood about to scrape his back, but he growls and renews his effort to shove his tongue as far into your mouth as possible. Snaps and cracks fill the air, and wood explodes around you.
Realization dawns as more should-be-fear-turned-lust pours through your body and expands beyond it, filling the sky around you with a murky darkness. The power of that emotion propels you further, sending you and Yoongi far above the landscape to suspend over the entirety of the Realm of Darkness, leaving a streamer of smoke-like essence in your wake.
Yoongi throws his head back, finally relenting from the kiss. His broad chest heaves against yours, and his red eyes are wild as they roll manically before landing on you. “How is this possible?” you pant, hands gripping the muscles of his shoulders tightly.
“Anything is possible here,” he whispers fervently before spinning you so fast your vision blurs. The horizon spans as far as you can see around you. You and Yoongi are hundreds of feet higher than even the tallest mountain peak. Everything is a monochrome grey, black, or in-between. A jagged line of mountains rear to your right while inky streams and rivers zig zag to your left. It’s a hideously beautiful display that contradicts all scenic views you’ve ever seen, yet is better than all of them combined.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when Yoongi forces your legs wide and slots his hips between them from behind. Shadows billow around you, charged with energy that crackles and sizzles, barely restrained from being unleashed to wreak untold havoc.
Thin fingers slide around to cup the front of your throat, giving a none too gentle squeeze. Yoongi snarls, “There is no God here. We are the gods!” His declaration is punctuated by the head of his cock prodding against your sopping cunt. This new body is already eager to pleasure Yoongi and receive pleasure in kind.
His hips kick forward, and you feel every delicious ridge and ripple along his thick shaft. It feels like he invades the pit of your stomach, filling you to the brink. It’s a rush of wicked delight, pure erotic rapture.
You moan again, this time invoking the only name left on your tongue, “Yoongi!”
“I’ve been looking forward to fucking you like this for five years,” he grunts, emphasizing the words with his hips pumping against your ass in brutal strokes. “Claiming you wholly, decorating the world with our combined shadows. Look how they writhe for you, waiting for you to command them. Let go.”
Your eyes roll from side to side, taking in the dark, undulating forms stretching wide around you. With each prick of pleasure Yoongi insights in your body, they branch and roil further out, creating the foundation for your own personal bedlam.
Like a bounty won at the end of a hunt, Yoongi ravishes your body with his. He’s brutal, unrelenting and wanton. The hand on your throat tugs with every slam of his hips, bowing your back and forcing you to peer out at the Kingdom begging for your rule. Darkness beseeches you, screaming for your glory and power as it pours out and blankets the sky.
Your world narrows to one pin point of coherency. Yoongi. He is nothing and everything all at once. He is the beginning and the end—fear, loathing, lust, and madness…through it all, he is infinite. And he’s yours.
With one final, shuddering breath you let go; welcoming the darkness once and for all.
“Yes.” The word, whispered from your parted lips, is sucked away with the maelstrom that detonates around and within you.
You barely hear the guttural, primal roar that emits from Yoongi as he buries himself to the hilt and fills you with his terrible darkness. You shatter into a multitude of shards, a glittering storm that dances through the ether, sparking and catching on the thin membrane that stretches between the realms. All it takes is one weak point, a small breach in the barrier, and everything falls apart.
It’s glorious, feeling yourself everywhere all at once. Your body is still fluttering around Yoongi, sucking and welcoming his release into your soul. But, your consciousness is spread wide, bleeding through the nexus of this realm and the one you once called home.
The mortal realm bows to your will. You can feel the beings of the Realm of Darkness funneling toward the broken gateways, pouring through to consume and conquer with the whisper of your glory on their tongues. Fear reigns supreme, consuming everything in its path as you expand your hold on the darkness.
“My Queen of Darkness,” the ephemeral coo caresses your ear, phantom lips brushing along your shadows. Yoongi’s darkness blends with yours, adding to the pulse that seeps to all corners of existence. “No longer will you fear, as you are fear itself…glorious, neverending fear.”
◅ Back to Main Master List ©️ 2023-10-23 ColorMePurplex2
Connotations Of Sin - JHS (m)
Summary: At your lowest, you’ve been living on the streets for the past couple of months. When you decide to leave your only safe haven and find yourself lost in a mysterious fog, an angel stretches out a hand of mercy. Little do you know, black taints his once alabaster wings.
Genre: Fallen Angel Au | Angst, fluff, smut (mdni), horror (V lowkey, I swear)
Word Count: 30k
Masterlist
Please read these warnings carefully!!
Warnings: Homelessness, Kidnapping (? is it though??), Suicidal ideation, referenced and described abuse and murder of a child. Hoseok is his own warning. Mc gets drugged and then she gets sick... A bit of religious babble, mc has nightmares (one of which is actually kinda bad...), she almost dies at one point. Hoseok likes playing mind games, but they aren't serious (Honestly debatable...). Implied gang activity and violence. Hoseok contradicts himself a lot, he's really confusing. Smut: oral ( m and f receiving) soft dom Hoseok, i think Hoseok has an oral fixation (or is it ME, the author?????) unprotected sex.
Notes: Phew, welcome!! SO, it's finally here!!! I'm so excited to share this project with you alll! It was such a big project for me, and so much time and effort went into it. Believe it or not, this started out as a smut piece and it had nothing going for it at all. If you've been following me for a while, you'd remember that back in 2021 i posted a teaser for something similar. Tbh back then probably wasn't the right time to post such a thing lmao, i for certain wasn't ready to write it and it wouldn't have been written in the way it was meant to with my writing style back then. It's been a long journey of understanding the characters portrayed here, and a lot of work to get them right. Very big shoutout to @hwaslayer who's - as always - been there with me from the very beginning and has been the biggest help and motivator, please look out for her Ateez's Seonghwa fic that shares this universe!! I won't keep you any longer, but please be sure to leave feedback, a lot of effort went into this project and i'd love to hear what you think and answer any questions! Happy reading!!!
“You sure you don’t wanna stay here with me dearie? I know it ain’t much, but it’s better than being out in the elements.” Abigail takes your hands in hers, hands that – much like yours – are dirt stained and ruddy, but bring you comfort that you wouldn’t find elsewhere. Abigail – or Toothy as everyone else calls her – is a frail woman with wispy auburn hair and a gap tooth smile. Her hair had gone white in some places, the crows’ feet at her eyes can barely help you guess her age. Her eyes are blue and dull but still regard you warmly like she did when she’d found you wandering along the fourth avenue weeks or so ago.
The space where she stays isn’t much; a nook in an alleyway between two rundown buildings that people don’t bother to go into. She’d tried her best to make it into a space that’s comfortable enough, the roof made of termite bitten sheets of ply that’s at least a square and a half wide. An old, mildew ridden tarp thrown over it and held down by a couple pieces of rubble from the building across makes up the walls that offer shelter from cold wind and rain and as much privacy you could get out here. The floor made of giant trash bags Abigail had swindled from some place or another, covered with old sheets that’s definitely seen better days. Even though the sheets had long lost their softness and leave you itching, they kept your butt off the cold concrete.
You’re going to miss the stories she’d tell. You’d lay on the floor, the longest part of the tarp folded over the top, and stare up at the strip of night sky between the buildings, twinkling with the bit of stars you can see and listen.
She’d tell you of her life before she fell to rock bottom, how grand everything was. How, many years ago, she’d won the lottery by a stroke of luck, only to have it turn sour when her fiancé gambled it all away and she lost everything. She never did tell you what happened to him.
You’d miss walking the couple of miles to the river, armed with pieces of run-down bar soaps and plastic bags with the little clothes you owned in them bundled in your arms. Or the nights when it’s cold, you’d go down to the square with her and look around for things to burn and dump them into the steel barrel to keep warm.
There are days when there’s nothing, and Abigail would distract you from your stomach trying to eat at itself with another one of her stories and old cans filled with steaming boiled rain water. There are days when you’d sit with a full tummy, there’s usually one kind soul out there that takes pity on you both to offer as much as they could.
You’ll be forever grateful for Abigail, with her motherly affection and her warm hands. She never once asked how you ended up here too, she simply offered a hand when you needed it most.
You felt as though you lingered too long... this is the longest you’ve stayed in a place. The company was good, but you feel like there’s just so much you’re robbing Abigail of by staying with her. You know she would strongly disagree; she’d probably whack you with her busted up sneaker and send you to sit in a corner until you’ve apologized. It’s simply how you feel, if you’re not here, Abigail wouldn’t have to share the little of what she gets, you feel terrible enough that she gives you more than she keeps for herself.
“Don’t worry Abigail.” You smile, pulling one hand away to pat hers. Her fingers are bony and long, and lacking the warmth they did earlier in the day. “I don’t stay one place for too long.”
It’s a lie, obviously. You’d rather chew your leg off than go out there alone. Away from the safety this little nook had been for the past month, away from Abigail, who’s cared more about you than anyone has in a while. But you care about her too, enough that you’d leave to make sure that she eats well enough to survive and not give it all to you. She’d be better off.
Abigail narrows her eyes at you, the wrinkles of her face deepening as she frowns. She looks sad, you note, the blue of her eyes dark and stormy, but she says nothing, just squeezes your hands for a while before letting go.
You smile softly, and continue stuffing your clothes into an old backpack Abigail had given you a while back. You fold the dirty ones tight, setting them at the bottom, and the few clean ones you had that still smelled like your last bar soap at the top. You don’t have much, and you’ve gotten used to it – as hard as it was.
When you shouldered your bag and stepped out from under the tarp, Abigail follows, worry on her brow, saying that she’d walk you to the mouth of the alleyway.
“Oh!” She says, turning back to duck under the tarp. You hear the rummaging of her old pot wares, the clanking of the metal before she comes back and holds out a can to you. The label looks worn, peeling off in some places, but you make out the bright red ‘canned peach’ on the side. “I was savin’ this for when we go down to the river, but you’d better have it.”
“Abigail...” You sigh, guilt gnawing at your edges, “I can’t take this.”
Abigail purses her lips, smacking the can into your hand, “Yes, you can. It’ll hold you out for a little while.”
“Then what would you eat?” You outstretch your hand, offering the peaches back to her and she narrows her eyes at you.
“I can manage.” She says testily, and then sighs, softening, “Are you sure you’ll be okay out there?” She takes the can and tucks it into the outside pocket of your bag, “It’ll be rough ya know.”
“I’ll be fine,” You say, and then, you hug her. Truly, you’ll miss her. She pats your back gently, “Thank you for everything.”
“Don’t mention it, we gotta look out for each other out here.” Abigail smiles, pulling away. She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her baggy jeans, something she’d picked up at a donation shelter a couple of days ago. It’s got a few holes and it’s frayed at the ankles but she’d never complain. “If you fall into luck, don’t forget me.”
“Never.”
You both say your goodbyes and you try your best to not cry at the sadness that clings to Abigail’s form as she hobbles back to her little nook. You take a breath and pick a direction to walk in.
You think about going to the river first, to get a little cleaned up before you go looking for somewhere to sleep for the night. You’re already regretting leaving the comfort that Abigail provided. You know she wouldn’t blame you if you turned right around and dragged yourself back. You’ve already made your mind up, though – it’s better this way.
You don’t have a gauge on the time, but the sun’s getting quite low. It streaks the sky in orange and pink, hiding behind a fluffy white cloud as it makes its slow decent. You might be able to make it to the river and back before night falls completely if you hurry. So you walk, and walk, and it’s a long way past the street Abigail first found you, where the city meets a forest edge.
You once asked Abigail why she didn’t live closer to the river, you worry about her most days, taking her frail self through the streets for such a long walk just to get here. She’d told you that even though some of your street dwelling comrades are friendly, most aren’t, and would do the worst to get what they need. It’s too risky to be close to the river where all manner of folk pass to get to it.
You tuck your bag to your front and keep an ear out for anyone that may be in the area. You grimace as the twigs and stones of the forest floor poke at your feet. Your shoes were on their last, they kept your feet warm most days, but they’re biting holes into your last good pair of socks. The trees get sparse the further in you go, and over the tweeting and chittering of the forest critters, there’s the sound of rushing water.
You break out of the trees and stand on the little edge where the forest pauses and the soft wet dirt begins. The river is a bit wild today, rushing through the rocks as it makes its way from wherever it starts. You know there must be a spring somewhere deeper if you follow the river back, but you don’t have the time to as the setting sun makes the forest look darker already. You wouldn’t like to be out here at night.
You slip out of your shoes and socks, wanting to keep them dry and walk down to the bank. Abigail has a little spot between three large boulders where she hides things. The spot is covered with leaves and sticks, and you dig through it to find the old blue bucket. It’s missing it’s handle and turned over to keep things under it.
There’s a new pack of soap powder that’s already been opened, a little square plastic bowl that’s probably seen better days on a dish rack and half of a soap bar. You pull the bucket out of its hiding place, taking just a handful of the soap powder and tossing it into the bucket. You tuck the powder into a corner of the rock with the soap bar on top of it and carry the bucket over to the river.
You rummage through your bag to find the clothes that needed cleaning, and put them in the bucket with the soap. It takes a moment of scooping water from the river and pouring it into the bucket. All the while you’re wondering where Abigail scored the soap powder from. A lot of things are hard to come by, but some people make trades with the little they’ve got. You feel a little guilty as you watch the water and soap soak into your clothes, though you know she wouldn’t mind if its you – you’re the only two that know where she keeps her stuff hidden – but still.
The soap smells sweet, and fresh in a way you haven’t smelt in a while. With the sun long gone behind the trees but still lighting the sky a bit, you wash your clothes as quickly as you can. You throw the soapy water on the bank and not back in the river, and rinse your clothes out just as quick.
There’s no time to wait for them to dry, with the sun being as low as it is and the wind baring its teeth. So you wring them out and pull out the plastic handle bag you keep folded in one of your backpack pockets to stuff them into.
It’s completely dark out once you’ve put the bucket back and covered Abigail’s things again and made your way back out of the forest. You would’ve liked to take a quick wash, but it’s too dark and the water’s too cold now. You’ll come back tomorrow when the sun’s high and hot.
You walk in a different direction than the way you came, looking for the little park that Abigail mentioned once. Its completely dark by the time you get there, your feet aching from the long walk and your mind muddled with thoughts.
You would often remind yourself not to think too hard, as your thoughts would often lead you to a dark place you find difficult to crawl out of. You would often regret not having people close enough to call good friends, maybe then you wouldn’t be out here.
You didn’t have a difficult life; you grew up in a loving home with both parents making sure that you were happy and not too spoilt by the fruits of their labour. You know the value of things and you know well to act like your parents raised you with some sense. Your mother passed when you were ten, and your father remarried when you were sixteen. You couldn’t understand why, your father loved your mother so much and you thought it would just be you and him against the world. You understood that your mother wouldn’t want him to live the rest of his life overshadowed by her passing and forget to continue living. So when he introduced you to the woman he met on a business trip, looking happier than he had in six years, you didn’t have the heart to tell him that something was off.
Your mother had always taught you to see the good in people, to give them the benefit of a doubt. There was no mistaking the thinly veiled disgust in your step mother’s eyes when she would look at you. She was quite young, compared to your father, anyway, and as the years went by, he spoilt her. He gave her whatever she wanted when she wanted it as long as it made her happy and you could only watch from the sidelines.
Your father fell ill, and everything went downhill from there.
When he passed, your world shattered and crumbled, leaving you standing in the rubble grasping at the wisps of it slipping through your fingers. Things were okay, for a while, grieving the loss of your father and trying to move on and step without him. Then the news of his will came not long after he was buried.
Your father left everything for his wife, the house, his money, and as you’d found on the first night you were out here, the savings account your mother had set up for you.
You had nothing.
You’d always kept to yourself growing up, and never let anyone closer than you would allow. You were home-schooled – all the way up to your tertiary education – and had no friends to speak of. Your parents never spoke of their family, all you knew and had were your mother and father.
It’s been a while since then. A good long while. It was hard to adjust to having everything at the tip of your fingers to having it ripped away all at once.
The first week was hard. You’d worked odd jobs here and there to keep your head above the water. Sleeping in a motel every night wasn’t ideal, especially since you had to buy food and every thing else. The little money you had ran out quickly, even when you pawned the possessions you did own it wasn’t enough.
You’ve had time to adjust since then. You met Abigail and things were as okay as they could’ve been considering. You remember, she had been pestering you about why you were pacing around on that bridge when she found you.
The deep rushing water below it had looked inviting – an easy way out. No one would’ve missed you, anyway.
You take a breath in sharply, and it burns. Cold air fills your lungs with little pinpricks as night fully settles. You try not to think about anything more as you walk through the park.
It looks empty, large trees and neat grass fields and cobbled walkways. There are dark metal benches scattered about, a trickle of water you can’t pinpoint coming from somewhere.
You’d just stay here for tonight, and find somewhere you wouldn’t be in trouble to stay at in the morning. You’re pretty sure you’re breaking some law being who you are as you sit down on the bench. It’s uncomfortable, the metal cold and biting, but you’d just have to deal for the night.
You dig through your backpack, pulling out the plastic bag with your damp clothes, a jacket that’s still in good condition and the canned peach Abigail sent you off with.
You spread your clothes out on the back of the bench, and you’re hoping they dry properly even if the air feels a little damp.
With a soft sigh, you lift the circular pin on the lid of the can and pull. The peaches are cut into slices and swimming in a sweet juice, and with some guilt you pick a piece out. It’s sweeter than anything you’ve had in a while, and for a moment you feel like crying.
You feel tears burn your eyes and nose as you chew the fruit, washing it down with a sip of the juice that tastes slightly like the can. It wasn’t long before it was all gone, your fingers sticky with the juice and you stare into the empty can with a frown. You wonder about Abigail and if she’s okay right now.
Setting the can down near the foot of the bench that’s bolted into the cobblestone path, you lay back. The sky is fairly clear, with a little smattering of wispy clouds floating by and stars that twinkle in the distance.
Drifting off slowly, you try to find a comfortable position to sleep in – though there isn’t one with this metal bench. Your jacket thrown over you as a makeshift blanket.
You’re not certain how long you sleep for, but when you wake, its to a tapping on your shoulder. The air is thick with something as you breathe in, and a lot damper than it was when you’d settled.
“Ma’am.” A voice calls, prodding your shoulder again, “Hello, miss?”
You open your eyes and your blood runs cold at the sight of the man in uniform standing above you. You sit up, excuses dancing at the tip of your tongue before you realised you could barely see past your nose.
The officer is holding a flashlight, the beam directed somewhere off to your right. A thick fog had settled while you slept, swirling way past the officer’s head.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t sleep here. This is a private park.” His words aren’t unkind, they come out gentle and a little pitying, as though he regrets having to do his job of keeping the riffraff out. He lets you gather your things, stuffing your still damp clothes back into your bag.
He takes a step back when you stand, “If you need somewhere to stay, there’s a shelter not far from here. Couple blocks that way.” He waves his flashlight behind you, towards the park’s exit, “Can’t miss it.”
You could barely see the guy, much less which way exactly he’s directing you to. You turn, squinting at the way you think he pointed. “Thank you... I’m really sorry about –”
“Don’t worry about it...just keep walking straight and you’ll find it.”
He motions with his flashlight again and you take two steps away before stopping and turning back, “Sorry but...the fog...which way...”
The man is gone, no sign of him having been there in the first place. It’s quiet, not even insects are chirping, you don’t hear any retreating footsteps. You stare at the spot he was just in, but didn’t want to linger lest he comes back and he’s decidedly less kind.
You hike your bag up on your shoulder, squinting to see through the fog as you walk towards the exit. The roads are empty, there’s the soft clicking of the traffic lights and the glow of shop lights and street lamps that make it a little bit easier to see. You still look both ways before walking quickly across the street, keeping straight like the officer told you.
It’s quiet, and honestly, it freaks you out a bit. You don’t think it’s that late, and even so, there should be people out and about. You don’t even think you slept for that long, it couldn’t have been more than an hour. There’s no reason for no one to be around, then again, you don’t know this area very well.
You walk for some time, the sound of your footsteps and your steady breaths your only company. You’re keeping your eyes peeled for any sign of the shelter, staring up at the glowing signs and squinting to see through the fog. You passed a convenience store, a pharmacy and a pet shop, all closed and dark inside. You’ve crossed two roads so far; it shouldn’t be much more walking...unless a couple of blocks have two different meanings between you and the officer.
You stop for a moment, taking a breath that settles heavy and damp in your chest. You look back the way you came, look at the signs of the buildings across the street and the one you’re outside of. You can’t see much more than that unless you keep walking straight.
You’re beginning to wonder if he’d only said so to get you out of the park. You take a couple of steps forward and then stop, looking over your shoulder. Your brows furrow and the hairs on the back of your neck stands on end.
It’s said that the mind always knows when you’re being watched, a sixth sense to be aware when someone is staring at you.
You feel watched.
And it isn’t an ordinary feeling.
It feels off, like some primal switch just flicked up in your brain. Briefly, you think that this is how a bunny feels being cornered by a fox. Your heart suddenly kicks against your ribs and something in the back of your mind screams for you to move.
You press forward, the feeling lingers, and intensifies. You walk as quickly as you can, your once steady breaths loud and harsh in the quietness of the night. You try not to look behind you as your ears pick up on the sound of another pair of footsteps. They match yours, and you’re not too certain if it’s just really your own bouncing off the walls of the buildings. When you stop, they stop, and start back up again when you start.
There’s another sound below it. Something snarls like a dog somewhere in the distance behind you, but, like everything else about this moment in this fog, it sounds wrong. Like it’s coming from a creature that’s trying to mimic the sound of an animal.
You stop dead in your tracks, goosebumps rippling along your skin like a wave from the top of your head and downwards. You take a breath, and with one foot in front of the other – you sprint.
Your footfalls are loud in the quiet, and even through your panic you notice the change of the footsteps that mimicked yours. There’s two more with it that falls in rhythm, like a large beast running on all fours.
It’s running faster than you are, the pounding of its feet against the pavement is double the speed of your own. You feel like your lungs are about to burst, your legs burning, and the damp air becomes fire in your throat when you breathe.
Whatever it is snarls again, and it sounds way closer than it was before. You could almost feel the sound rumble through you, and something hot fans at the back of your neck. You nearly trip, stumbling over your own feet in an attempt to run faster. You round a corner blindly, hoping to throw whatever it is off your trail and smack right into someone.
With your momentum, you’d think that you would send yourself and the person sprawling to the hard concrete. The terrified scream you let out rings in your own ears, high pitched and shrill, as you bounce back, falling in a heap. There’s a sharp twinge in your wrist as you brace, and a stinging in your palm when you just barely managed to catch yourself.
“Shit!” the person exclaims – a man, if the deep timbre of his voice was anything to go by. “Are you okay?!”
The man crouches down and you scramble back, then remember that you crashed into him because you were running from something and the panic comes back.
“I—there’s ... Something’s following me! It chased me all the way here...It’s—”
“Hey, hey...it’s okay...you’re fine.” The man seems to look behind you. You could barely see his face, even with him being as close as he was; the fog just seems to get thicker. “It’s just us out here...”
His voice suddenly seems hesitant, and you wouldn’t blame him if he thought you were crazy.
You breathing is still erratic, heart still trying to pound its way out of your chest.
The man’s hands hover at your shoulders, and there’s worry in his tone when he speaks again. “It’s okay. You’re alright, nothing’s out here but us.”
He takes your hand – the one that’s not holding your weight – and presses it to his chest. You almost jump out of your skin at the contact, but his own heart is steady, beating a slow rhythm against his sternum. “Breathe with me.”
He takes a deep breath in, and you feel his chest expand as his lungs fill, you try your best. Your throat is burning, and every breath feels like fine glass is swirling at the back of your mouth. It takes a moment, but eventually, your breaths match his and the adrenaline seeps out with your every exhale.
Your brain finally registers the throbbing of your wrist and palm, and the ache in your sides.
“There you go.” You can faintly make out the smile that spreads across the man’s face, heart shaped and pretty white teeth. “Good now?”
You nod, just barely, and he releases your hand. There’s a shuffling and the sound of a zipper and then he’s holding a bottle of water out to you. You eye it with some suspicion, and he picks up on it.
“It’s just water, promise.” He says, wiggling the bottle a little. “The seal isn’t cracked or anything.”
You take your weight off your palm, wincing at the hot flash of pain from the movement. You right yourself a little, taking the water from him with your uninjured hand and a soft thanks.
“Oh...here...” he keeps the bottle steady in your hand with a palm under the bottom of it, and the other cracking the seal with a twist. He lifts the bottle to your lips and you take a sip, and then a gulp, “Easy, not too fast.”
The water is cool, and a blessing, you didn’t realise how thirsty you were. When you’ve drank at least half of the bottle, the man puts the cap back on and leaves it in your hold.
“Were you looking for something?” he asks gently, and you nod.
“The homeless shelter...I think I’m lost now, though.”
The man tilts his head, “There aren’t any shelters in this area...you’re on the wrong side of the city if that’s what you were looking for.”
You stare at him for a moment, “...Oh.” The officer really did just say it, then. You’re not sure what to say to the man and you glance around at the street that’s still teeming with the thick fog.
You’re not sure what to say to him, and instead, look around the street for any sign of the shelter even though he’d said there isn’t one.
“I think the fog’s lifting...” The man mumbles. The fog is clearing; it’s easier to see further down the street and the man in front of you. He presses his palms against his knees and stands, looking around for a moment before looking down at you. “There aren’t any shelters around...but...I can help you. If you want, I live a bit that way, and I’ve got an extra room...”
This is a bad idea.
He’s quite tall, on the lean side with long limbs. He’s wearing a long black coat, and his black, suede shoes look just as expensive as the watch that peeks from the end of his sleeve at his wrist. The white tee shirt he wears looks a little billowy, like it would swallow his frame once he takes the coat off. He turns a little and you get to admire the sharp cut of his jaw and the elegant slope of his nose.
“I won’t hurt you or anything. I just want to help.” He says, turning back to you. His eyes are dark, but kind as he offers a hand to help you off the concrete. “I’m Hoseok.”
You take his hand, and there’s nothing in the back of your mind telling you to get away. Nothing in his body language that shows ill intent, and you have to remind yourself that some people are simply kind.
He helps you to your feet and you thank him softly, giving him your name. His smile is soft as he nods, lips turned up slightly at the corners, eyes squinted just a bit.
“If you don’t want to, that’s okay. It’s a bit late, though, and you’d have to walk a long way to find the shelter...” Hoseok says softly.
You’re still holding his hand, and the warmth of it grounds you. You honestly shouldn’t, really, you’re smart enough to know you shouldn’t follow random men promising kindness. He really looks like a good person, quietly waiting for your answer as he gives you chance to change your mind should you wish.
He doesn’t rush you, and briefly you wonder if he doesn’t have anything else to do. He was clearly going about his business before you tackled him, though that word should be used lightly considering you’re the one who ended up on the ground.
“Okay...thank you.” When you finally speak his smile broadens, showing pretty teeth and still holding your hand, he leads you in the direction he was coming from before. You feel a bit bad, turning his night on its head and probably inconveniencing him.
The fog is lighter now, the air not as thick with it as you follow along. Hoseok didn’t talk much, not once mentioning your pitiful state of dress, or asking any questions. You’re grateful, not many people would go out of their way to open their homes to someone without one.
The place he leads you to looks expensive and you feel out of place. The road winds and twists into a residential area with houses and three storey apartments. There are cars parked in driveways, neatly trimmed grass and hedges, a fence around every tree. Lampposts dot the sidewalk every thirty or so steps, casting their orange glows across every surface.
Across from there, the road veers off into a more commercial area, with fancier housing and shops and a tall, looming hotel. The streets are quiet, shops already closed for the night and you wonder what time it is. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, save for you and Hoseok making your way towards the hotel.
The doors slide open with a little mechanical whir, and you balk at the sheer size of the lobby alone. Light fixtures hang from the ceiling, bouncing their glows off of shiny surfaces. There are red and black lounge seats along a far wall, coffee tables of black tempered glass between them and the single seated chairs across. On the other side of the lobby is a little open cafe area, closed of course, with comfortable looking chairs tucked under tables.
There are two elevators, one of which you assume to be for staff. The reception area is a counter space of smooth looking white marble, though no one sits behind it.
Hoseok leads you to the elevator, pressing the button to call it down. You’ve let go of his hand now, as you take in the sight of the place. You wonder what anyone would think seeing someone like you in here. With your shabby clothes that’s seen better days, your dirty sneakers and backpack that looks like it’s moments away from just splitting apart.
There’s no one to see you, as the elevator comes down and opens with a ding. You catch sight of your reflection in the elevator walls, and grimace, regretting not bracing the cold river earlier. You definitely look homeless, your last bath was exactly two days ago, you look grubby standing just a little bit behind Hoseok. Anyone who would see you now would definitely turn their nose up at you and outright ask what you’re doing in their pristine hotel. Though, there isn’t much you can do to prevent that.
When the doors slide close you focus on the button panel, and next to it is a key card scanner and a button under it. The word penthouse is neatly labelled on the button in little black letters, and Hoseok fishes around his coat to pull out a key card. You blink, of course he lives in the penthouse.
The scanner beeps softly and Hoseok presses the button that glows a soft blue before the elevator lurches slight and ascends.
You fiddle nervously with your fingers in front of you, keeping your eyes on your shoes. There’s a shuffle and Hoseok turns to look at you, he’s smiling kindly again, something like pity woven into it and you feel a coil of shame twist in your chest.
“I’m sorry...” You say without much reason, glancing at him and then back down, “For the trouble.”
“No trouble.” Hoseok says softly, concern on his brow, his hand reaching out but stopping short, as though he’s not sure if he could touch you. You’re surprised he even want to. Heck, you’re surprised he’s doing any of this at all. “Really.”
“Do you usually take in random homeless people?” You ask, and his chuckle is light and teasing.
“Only the cute ones.” He says and then looks a little mortified, “Sorry. I’m kidding. It’s just...you looked like you really needed help...so I’m helping.”
“You’re very kind.” You murmur and offer a smile.
He smiles back, not as brightly as his other ones, it curls his mouth less, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He nods, “I try to be.”
The elevator slows to a stop, doors sliding open to a little well-lit hallway. On the other end of the hall is a wide pane of glass that overlooks the city lights, twinkling in a dance of their own making, and an emergency exit sign jutting out of the wall. You follow Hoseok out of the elevator towards the door which he unlocks with a password — the beeps loud in the quiet — the door opens with a soft thunk and a beep and he lets you walk in first.
The lights are on, as though he’d only planned to be out for a moment. You’re not too sure what to do with yourself now that you’re here, staring at Hoseok’s back unsurely as he takes his shoes off and tucks them neatly on a shoe rack.
He turns to face you, “I don’t mean anything by this, so please don’t misunderstand...”
You nod, waiting for him to continue.
He seems to weigh his words carefully, “Do you want to take a bath?”
You flush, yeah, you surely look grubby enough for him to ask that. It’s warranted, so, you’re not upset that he asked. You’d actually love to, when was the last time you took a bath that wasn’t in the freezing river?
Still though, it’s embarrassing. So you nod silently, “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He says, looking genuinely relieved. “You can leave your stuff here and I’ll take care of everything.”
“Okay...” You step out of your shoes, nudging them in a corner before you take your bag off and set it down. The clothes you have are still damp, stuffed in a plastic bag somewhere in the depths of your tattered backpack and Hoseok doesn’t give you a moment before he’s leading you through his home.
The chill of the grey tiled floor runs up your legs through your thin, threadbare socks. You don’t have much time to look around, but you’re aware you’ve passed an open space kitchen and living room, splashes of white, reds and black in the corner of your vision.
He lets you into the bathroom, “Use whatever you need. The towels and things are in the cabinet.”
You turn to face him, “I really can’t thank you enough.” You say earnestly, and he waves you off, turning to leave and shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
“I’ll bring you some clothes that you could use.” He says through the door, his voice muffled. You thank him again and his footsteps trail away.
You turn and glance around the bathroom, floor to ceiling glass panes makes up the furthest wall. Before it is a porcelain bathtub that could easily fit three people, on a raised platform of white stained marble, and that platform on another, creating a single step up in order to get into the tub. The colour of the platforms compliments the dark reflective marble floor. The undersides of the platforms are lined with what you assume must be LED lights, glowing a pale white along the bottom.
The same LEDs line the back of the large wall mounted mirror, giving it an ominous glow. Below the mirror is a dark granite sink with a faucet you’re not even sure how to turn on. The cabinet below the sink house only cleaning supplies, and you look around for the towel space.
The shower takes up nearly the whole wall it’s connected to, frosted glass and jets embedded into the wall.
You walk over to the shower and realise that was wall beside it sorts of curve and you let out a surprised sound when you walk the short way towards the back of it. The ‘cabinet’ is more of a little walk-in closet, there’s a few fluffy looking bathrobes sorted by length and colour, and towels and washcloths stacked on shelves that match.
Under those are neat little space savers filled with bath oils and shower gels, sweet scented candles tucked into corners. Bar soaps and toilet paper on their own shelves at the bottom, unopened toothbrushes and what have you.
There’s enough room to turn full circle without bumping into anything if you step into it. But you look at your hands and decide to not touch anything until they're clean.
So you walk back out to the sink, frowning at the faucet with no visible way to turn it on; it’s just a sleek piece of metal that curves back into the basin. You look at it to and fro and wave your hand under it, startling slightly when water sprays from the faucet. You hold your hand away and it turns off after a moment. Now, your parents had money but it wasn’t anything like this.
You can’t imagine the cost of this place.
You find hand soap after peeking into the cabinet below the sink again, taking your time to thoroughly wash your hands clean. It’s hard to see the dirt go down the drain against the dark granite, but you’re grateful. You inspect your hands once your done, and finally allow yourself to touch Hoseok’s things. You take a towel down from the shelf, the one that’s at the top of the pile. It’s a nice pale yellow, and near the bottom right corner is a little blue butterfly embroidered into the fabric. After a little debate with yourself, you pull the washcloth that matches from its pile.
You set the towel on the closed lid of the toilet, and strip out of your clothes. You fold them neatly and set them on the floor along with your socks, stuffing your underwear into the pocket of your jacket. You step into the shower and pull the door shut behind you.
You turn the knobs and adjust the water so that’s it not too hot, and for a moment, you simply stand there. The water flows over your skin in rivulets, washing away the sweat and grime of the past two days. You try not to take too long, but made sure that you’re thoroughly scrubbed clean. You try not to use too much of Hoseok’s things, even though he’d told you to use whatever you needed.
You’re not sure how long you were in there, how long you stood letting the water wash away your tears as well.
When you step out, steam billowing put behind you, you wiggle your toes into the fluffy cotton mat under you, wrapping the towel around your form. It feels nice to be clean, skin feeling a little raw from the hot water. You tiptoe to the door and ease it open, and it pushes lightly against a bundle of folded clothes on the ground. Next to it, a pair of warm looking house slippers that you shuffle into immediately after drying your feet.
The clothes: a dark grey long sleeve crew neck tee that hangs just a little off one shoulder, a pair of boxer shorts still in it’s wrapping, and long fleece lined sweatpants that you have to fold at your ankles.
Near the door is a towel rack where you hang the towel you used to dry, and after taking a breath, you step out of the bathroom.
You walk back the way Hoseok led you, and the air is prickled with the scent of freshly made food and it makes you wonder just how long you took in the bathroom.
The kitchen is a wide space, between the area that makes up the entrance hallway is a kitchen island, and much like everything else you’ve seen, is a long, polished slab of dark marble. There’s a sink in the middle, sleek and silver and soft white light comes from the fixings above it. Across from that is a large refrigerator, an electric stove and more counter space. There are a few scattered appliances, a coffee maker and a small espresso machine tucked under a cupboard over them, and a blender with something or the other in it.
Hoseok stands with his back to you, he turns slightly, looking over his shoulder and startles.
“Oh – shit.” He laughs softly, “Hey, was your bath okay?”
“Sorry...” You apologize for scaring him and he waves you off, turning to face you fully. He scans your form but there’s nothing odd in the action, and he nods to himself at whatever he was looking for. “Oh, yeah. My bath was okay, thank you.”
“Dinner’s ready if you...oh...” he glances to the side, back to you and then to whatever he’s got going on the stovetop. “...This might be too heavy for you right now...” He murmurs to himself, a hand scratching at the back of his neck. He looks sheepish, a little guilty about something he didn’t consider.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll eat whatever it is.” You’re not about to make him waste his food, or be impolite.
“Okay, well.” He presses a button on the stove panel, turning to the island. There’s the sound of a drawer opening and he pulls out a kitchen towel, smiling at you. He nods his head to the right, where, tucked to the wall is a modest sized wooden table. There’re two plates of what he’s made already there, and tall glasses of water. “Go ahead.”
You walk over to the table, pulling out the chair to sit. Dinner is creamy mashed potatoes, a hearty portion of steamed mixed veggies and steak that’s somehow done to your liking and already cut into pieces. Your mouth waters at the sight and it smells so good you could cry. Hoseok isn’t finished at the island, so you busy yourself with folding the sleeves of your borrowed tee-shirt up and out of the way.
When he comes over he frowns a little, “You didn’t have to wait, dove.” He takes his seat opposite you, “Please, eat.”
The random pet name flies over your head, not that you would’ve been bothered by it had you been paying attention. Hoseok was kind enough to open his home to you, let you use his things and now he’s feeding you. He could call you whatever he likes.
You murmur a thank you and dig into your food. The sound you make when you take the first bite borders on erotic, but your gracious host doesn’t seem to mind very much. There’s a pleased glint in his eyes and a small curl to his mouth as he watches you eat for a moment.
You’re too hungry to be embarrassed by the intensity of his stare, but you’re mindful to not choke or look like you left your manners somewhere at your feet.
The food settles in your stomach, heavy but it’s a feeling you welcome. You could barely remember the last time you had a full meal. The bite you swallow brings the odd feeling of it slowing down behind your sternum, and you take a long drink of the cold water Hoseok had set out for you.
The man himself barely touched his own food, seemingly content to watch you scarf yours down. He has his chin propped in his hand, a small curl to the corner of his mouth and a glint of something in his eyes.
“Thank you...for the food.” You stare at your plate, drizzled with gravy and what’s left of your dinner. You can’t meet his gaze and you’re not certain why, and the intensity of it is starting to gnaw on your senses.
“No need for thanks, little dove.” Hoseok says, and there’s a soft clink when he finally picks his fork up and it knocks against the round rim of the plate. “Just doing my good deed for the day.”
The pet name strikes you this time, no longer distracted by the delicious food and your rumbling tummy. The way it rolls off his tongue sends a shiver racing down your spine, one that was decidedly unpleasant. There’s something in his tone, the way he stares when you raise your eyes to meet his, something in his beautiful heart shaped smile.
The fine hairs at the back of your neck raises, and you’re back to feeling like a bunny in a fox’s burrow. It was the same feeling you’d gotten earlier in the strange fog; the primal sense that you’re no longer the apex.
Something like a bell jingles in the back of your mind and grows louder until its a wailing alarm.
You should leave. Thank him for being so kind and get as far away from him as possible.
The look in his eyes unnerves you, but it’s something you can’t put a finger on. Just off the edge of his form something flutters, a shadow that shouldn’t be there, but it’s gone so quickly you didn’t have time to focus on it. The feeling intensifies; tugging, now.
You don’t think he’s blinked.
A shudder runs through you, rippling along your skin like a shockwave and Hoseok is calling your name.
“Are you okay?” there’s concern on his brow, his unoccupied hand raised in a wave as though he’s been trying to get your attention for a while. “Do you feel sick?”
“N... no. I’m fine, thank you.” You try to smile, but you’re pretty certain it looks as strained as it feels. He was almost done eating, though he’s paused to asses you with furrowed brows. You feel like you’ve missed something in the past minute.
“I asked if you wanted more food but you just blanked on me.” Hoseok sets his fork down and you feel like you’re losing your mind. The feeling from before is gone, and you’re not even certain if you felt it in the first place. Maybe you’re tired, or maybe the feeling of the comforts you’ve missed for so long is messing with your head.
Hoseok looks perfectly normal, there’s nothing flickering at his back or anything odd in his stare.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sure.” You don’t feel certain, and if Hoseok noticed he didn’t comment on it. You pick up the fork again, scraping up the little left of your food onto it quietly. You feel strange, as though the past two minutes moved by too quickly, or like they happened weeks ago and you’re struggling to cling to the details of them.
Hoseok is focused on his plate, and uncertainty at the hope that he keeps his eyes there blooms in your chest. You’re not sure why.
It’s awkwardly quiet for a couple moments, with Hoseok finishing his meal and you, playing with the folded ends of your borrowed tee-shirt. When he was done, he takes the plates and the empty glasses to the sink to clean them and you sit idly at the table.
He’s drying his hands with a dark kitchen towel when he’s done, settling at the edge of the island and facing you. The overhead lights glow against his form, casting shadows along his visage that makes him look sharper; menacing. It clings to his hair like a depiction of something holy, making his dark hair look russet in the gleam.
You go to thank him again, even though he’d probably wave you off like he’s been doing the whole time, but the lights are too bright. The glow of the lights swells and flood your eyes, you squeeze them shut, trying to dispel the ache that comes with it. You turn your head and it feels like you’re neck deep in mud, it takes too much effort to do something so simple.
Panic wells in your chest, sending your heart kicking against your ribs harshly. You take a breath, well, you try, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat and you choke on it.
There’s two Hoseoks when you peel your eyes open, and they neatly fold the towel they were using and put it down. For a minute, your vision settles, and the man leans against the island nonchalantly, crossing his arms and tilting his head as he watches you spiral.
“You should try to calm down.” He says softly, and you hate the way you cling to the sound of his voice when it’s very clear what’s happening.
“Wh...” Your tongue feels heavy, and the words you try to say are slurred and unintelligible. You move to stand, trying to get away even when your limbs feel like there’s a ball and chains at the ends of them. The world tilts on an axis, doubling as you make to your feet, you’re not sure if it’s leaning or you are.
Hoseok reaches you in a single step and a strangled sound escapes you. He places a hand on your shoulder, gently guiding you back into the chair. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing your body can’t handle.”
You can barely hear him, your ears feel as though there’s cotton in them, reducing his words to a muddled murmur. You can’t feel the way his fingers curl into the hair at your nape, but you notice the shift as he tilts your heavy head back to look up at him.
He’s smiling, you think. Pretty and heart shaped, all white teeth and sinister. And there’s that feeling again, as he says something you can’t hear, can’t focus, your eyes are closing.
There’s something dark and broken that flickers against the light above his head and shadows that dance at his back.
When the morning came and you didn’t wake, Hoseok wasn’t too concerned. He watched over you as once was his duty to another, tucked you into the sheets and the blankets and let you sink into the warmth of them. He sits in a chair at your bedside, simply watching the rise and fall of your chest and the pinch of your brow as sweat beads upon it.
Your body is fighting hard to flush out what he put in, and he admits, he may have given you a bit too much of it. It wasn’t his intention, but nothing can be done now but wait for you to come to.
When the afternoon comes and the first sign of your conscious shows in a weak attempt to rouse yourself, and a jumble of words that Hoseok deciphers with a well-trained ear it; was clear you weren’t fully there yet. Your skin was too warm, eyes not nearly focused enough, barely looking at him, and then the contents of your stomach come in a rush of bile and acid.
Hoseok tends to you gently, patiently, taking you to the bath and settling you in a way so that you don’t slip under and drown in your unconscious state. He cleans your mess, changes the bedding, puts you in a fresh set of clothes and lays you back to rest.
You stay asleep throughout the day, and Hoseok isn’t too concerned.
Humans are such fragile, foolish things. To him, you’re a porcelain doll, pretty to stare at and admire if it sits on the top of a shelf behind a case. Take it out of that case and it’s so easily broken. Hoseok is like a child in a sandbox of his own creation with too much power in his fingers. If he isn’t careful, he could shatter your form and lose you to the dunes.
The fear you felt the night before played you directly into his hands – never mind he had nothing to do with it – and Hoseok knows, you don’t have to be inclined to feel the weight of his presence. Your mind knew that something wasn’t quite right -- unconsciously or not --, and yet, you willingly followed.
Foolish.
Though, it was purely coincidental that you ran into him, he had been on his way to somewhere and wondering about the strangeness of the fog that rolled in out of nowhere. He hadn’t missed the weird quiet and lack of people either, it hadn’t been that late.
He doesn’t know exactly what you were doing in it, running around the way you were like a mouse in a maze. It’s something that sits at the back of his mind.
The morning of the second day brought no change; you were in and out of your drug induced sleep, and now, Hoseok was a little concerned.
::
“How much did you give her?”
There’s a squeak of leather as Seungcheol crosses his arms, when it’s quiet for far too long he gives Hoseok a look.
“A little.”
Seungcheol leans over your sleeping form, raising a hand to rest against your forehead. Hoseok would think you were dead if it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of your chest.
“If it was a little, you wouldn’t have called.” Seungcheol says, shaking his head, the dark waves of his hair brushing his eyelashes.
“Well, she’s not dead.”
“Dude.” Seungcheol looks a little disturbed, straightening to stare at Hoseok with a displeased furrow in his brow. “You can’t just – humans have limitations.”
“I’m aware, Cheol. Thank you.” Hoseok grumbles, and he ignores the raise of Seungcheol’s eyebrow and the clear disbelief in his eyes.
“‘Course you are.” He rolls his eyes and then sighs lowly, he turns back to you, placing his hand on your forehead again until the tension in your face fades. “Don’t give her any more of that shit. She should wake up sometime today, maybe.”
Hoseok knows better than anyone the limitations of humans. Not that he acknowledges them, he hadn’t the need to in a long time, but he should be careful at least.
Hoseok leads the way out of his guest bedroom with Seungcheol following and closing the door gently behind him. Walking to the kitchen he could feel his eyes burning into the back of his head.
Hoseok takes his time, fetching a glass from one of his cupboards and the whisky he keeps stashed away for his more stressful days. “Spit it out.”
Seungcheol braces his arms on the other side of the island, eyes dark. “Hoseok. I normally don’t care what you get up to; it’s not my business.” He says, looking somewhere to Hoseok’s right. “You don’t fuck around with humans. Who’s the girl?”
Hoseok hums, looking down at the amber liquid in his glass with a contemplative stare. “Street urchin. No one anyone would miss or bother to look for.”
“So you just took her off the street?” Seungcheol frowns, but Hoseok could tell from the look in his eyes that he knows it’s not that simple.
“She came willingly.” Hoseok corrects, taking a sip of the alcohol he could barely taste.
He sets the glass down on the island and pours the whisky to fill half. Seungcheol is quiet, and Hoseok hates it. It gives his mind a moment to wonder, to open a box he’s kept locked and chained.
On most days, Hoseok barely knows himself. He remembers what he’s supposed to be – what he was – and sometimes, that part of him rears its head to fight with what he’s become. Wings dipped in gold and divinity at the end of his fingertips battle endlessly with the shadows that encased him.
A memory of a time he held something as fragile as glass in his hands, broken before he could properly hold it by someone who was supposed to keep it safe. The ache of it burns like a rash that never goes away, always there, only hiding under his skin until it flares up again.
“Just... don’t do anything stupid.” Seungcheol says after a while, watching Hoseok carefully.
“You and your moral compass.” Hoseok shakes his head, and just like that, the golden light is bundled up tightly and pushed back into the corner where he long hid it.
Seungcheol heaves a sigh, shaking his head, picking up his bag he threw on the island counter when he got here.
“I need you to do something for me.” Hoseok says, watching the light shine through the glass in pretty crystal shapes. There’s a furrow of Seungcheol’s brows, but he tells Hoseok to continue with a raise of his chin. “Keep an eye out for a fog.”
“A fog? Why?”
“She was in one the night before.” Hoseok sucks air in through his teeth, “and she wasn’t alone.”
Seungcheol hums, “Alright.”
Hoseok drinks the last of the whisky in one go and waves a hand at Seungcheol, “You can go now.”
“Thank you, Cheol. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” Seungcheol grumbles and then raps his knuckles against the countertop. “I’ll be over here for a few days, gotta sort some things out. Call if you need me.”
Hoseok watches him leave, stuffing his hands into his pocket as he walks back to the bedroom where you still lay asleep.
He sits on the chair, watching the rise and fall of your chest, every minute twitch of your facial features. Restlessness tugs at his limbs as the sun makes its descent western sky, spraying the dimming canvas in hues of lilac and peach.
Something in the back of his mind asks what exactly he’s doing. There was no reason – there wasn’t a reason for him to take you in. A sprout of boredom, maybe, or something involuntary.
Hoseok stares out the window at the slowly darkening sky and the soft glimmer of early evening stars, until the sky is navy and darkness clings to the room.
Your mouth feels like someone’s stuffed cotton in it, and your throat feels like sandpaper when you try to swallow.
You haven’t opened your eyes, laying on what you presume is a bed, if the softness beneath you was anything to go by.
There’s not much that you remember, even as the fog in your mind clears little by little. You remember eating, you remember feeling strange like someone had shrunk you and shook you around in a jar of water. You remember the fear that quickened your heart and your breaths and Hoseok, standing above you like a malevolent God.
You remember the strangeness of his form, and even now your mind can’t comprehend it. You’re not even certain if what you saw was actually real and not an effect of whatever Hoseok had drugged you with.
Drugged.
He drugged you.
Your eyes open and the room is dark. The blankets are thick and heavy and they make you feel warm. There’s a window to your far left, curtains drawn back to show the city in all it’s glory.
Slowly, you sit up, pushing yourself upwards on arms that feel a little weak, and find – to your horror – the clothes you were wearing before aren’t what you’re wearing now.
You take a breath before the panic could set in. You could feel it rolling under your skin like a rumble of thunder before rain, and you try your best to stay calm. You need to find a way out of here.
The apartment seems to be quiet as you slide your feet out of the bed and onto the floor. You barely register the chill of it when you stand, sock-less feet making it easier to sneak over to the door without making a sound. You don’t know where Hoseok put your things, and you don’t have time to go looking for them.
The door isn’t locked, and doesn’t make noise when you push it open slightly to peek out through the little gap you made. You recognise the hallway, the bathroom is two doors down on the other side, and opening the door a little more, you poke your head out tentatively.
You don’t breathe as you listen, but it’s so quiet, so much so that your exhale seems too loud, and there’s a soft ringing in your ears that set you on edge. Stepping outside the room, you contemplate your next course of action: You can bolt right for the door and get out, but risk making too much noise if Hoseok is indeed here. Or, you can slowly and quietly make your way over and slip out without cluing your kidnapper in on your escape.
Can it be called kidnapping if you were living on the streets?
The door seems miles away as you inch slowly towards the open kitchen and living room area. There are a few lights on, the same LED lighting strips run along the edge of the large pane windows and glows an ominous blue and the lights over the marble island had been dimmed. Both rooms seem empty and you couldn’t be more thankful.
Like a mouse, you skitter across along the hallway space that divides the two, down the little platform at the entrance and take one more step towards the door.
The door that seems further back than it was a second ago.
The stretch of space that was just an arm’s length away was now more than a hallway’s length. You stand still and stare at it, reaching an arm out in case you’re suddenly tripping balls but your hand swipes through air and falls limply at your side.
You look behind you and the rooms and hallway are just as they were, and turning back, the door was right where it was before. You could’ve sworn there was a handle on it. You place your palm against the cool, smooth surface where the handle should be and in the face of your freedom thwarted, you pinch your thigh.
You must be dreaming. The pain flares and grounds you and you realise there’s no explanation for this. You’re wide awake. Still drugged then. But you feel fine. There’s no swirling vision or heavy limbs, your mouth doesn’t feel like someone squeezed glue into it; you’re fine. This doesn’t make sense.
You back away from the door and almost stumble against the raised ledge behind your heels. Steadying yourself with a hand against the wall, you turn, and immediately, notice the darkness of the hallway.
Your breath catches in your throat and your heart slams so harshly against your sternum it hurt. There’s that feeling again, it sends a shiver racing down your spine and scattering goosebumps along your skin. You’re being watched. You are not the apex here.
You want to run, or curl up into a ball and hope the darkness hides you. Fear coils into your muscles and locks them tight, and you’re left standing still, eyes darting around trying to make sense of the shapes in the dark.
There’s a darkness that curls at the center of the space a few feet away from you, undulating and crashing in on itself in an uncoordinated dance of chaos. It’s somehow darker than the darkness – stands out against it like white on black paint. It doesn’t make sense to you, and it could simply be your mind turning against you and scaring you further.
It slowly floats towards you, wraps around you in a languid, bored way, like smoke, no longer as tangible as it seemed before. You don’t feel it’s caress, but it’s cold, like you’d submerged yourself into a tub full of ice and water. You feel as though you’ll pass out, like the black wisps of strange smoke is filling your lungs and carving its way through. There’s fear, which is yours, and something that isn’t.
Something dark and lonely, desperate and afraid. It’s sad, so sad that you feel like you’ll drown in it, that tears would well in your eyes and squeeze your throat tight. There’s anger. It feels as though you can burn the world and revel in it.
The smoke snaps back and away from you, crumples on itself violently and then the lights are on, blinding you.
Hoseok is standing in front of you. There’s a mix of conflicted emotions on his face like he can’t settle on one before the storm in his eyes calm.
There’s a tenseness to his brow, and he studies you quietly with a tilt of his head.
“You’re awake.”
He takes one step forward and you take two back in turn. His eyes dart down to your feet and quickly back to your face, and draws the foot he put forward back to himself.
“I won’t hurt you.”
You scoff before you could help it, fear pushed slightly to the side as your anger rushes forward. “Right. Like I’ll believe that after you fucking drugged me.”
“Like I said, it was nothing your body couldn’t handle.” Hoseok counters calmly, “If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be dead.”
“Then why am I here? What do you want?” His threat didn’t go unheard, it settles into your mind and buries itself underneath everything else you’re trying to absorb for you to freak out about later.
Hoseok smiles, and its bright in its visage, every bit of sweet and caring as you thought him to be. Dimples you haven’t noticed before sinks into his laugh lines, and you think briefly, it makes him even more dangerous. He looks so harmless, as his smile blossoms and blooms into the heart shape you remember from the night before.
“Just you.” He says, eyes glinting with something you’ve decided is more than a little crazy.
You take another step back and he remains in his spot. If you’re quick enough – just enough – you can make it to the door. You might be able to outrun him.
“You can leave if you like.” He says, like he could tell what you’re thinking – or read your mind – and his smile fades, like a raincloud swelling and covering the warm rays of the sun. “Can’t guarantee you’d get very far, so I advise against it.”
You’re not sure if he’s being honest. Though, he looks pretty damn serious. He stares at you quietly, intensely, like he’s daring you to make that mistake. You hazard a look at the door behind you and the handle is still gone.
“What are you?” you ask, turning to face him and he’s directly in front of you. The startled squeak that leaves you makes him chuckle. Bending at his waist, Hoseok stares right into your eyes and you feel like your heart might just burst out of your chest and take off running.
Bunny in a fox’s burrow.
“Hm.” He hums, “Now you’re asking questions.” He straightens with a smile and steps aside, gesturing to the kitchen with a slight nod of his head. “I’ll tell you eventually. For now though, you should eat.”
You stay rooted to your spot and decide that if he wants you to move, he’s going to have to move you himself. He’s insane if he thinks you’d be eating anything he gives you.
“Come now, dove. Don’t be that way.” He sighs, stares at you for a moment later before nodding. He turns on his heel and walks into the kitchen without you.
There’re the soft clangs of him moving things around, doing whatever he’s doing in there.
“You’ve been unconscious for two days, and you’ve been sick. You shouldn’t be standing.” You hear him say from the kitchen, and you think you could make another attempt at the door but the handle is still missing, so you have no choice but to go.
You eye him suspiciously when you enter, watching as he butters a piece of toast and puts it on a plate. He doesn’t look at you as you hover unsurely at the dining table, watching the lights catch on the dark marble island counter.
“I won’t give you anything to drink. Get it yourself if you’re worried I’d try something.” He says softly, and not unkind. There’s a shift in his tone and the way his body moves as he brings the plate over. You feel like the man who was standing in front of you a couple of minutes ago in the hallway had hidden himself away and the man you’d met on the street had crawled his way back to the surface.
He sets it down on the table and walks back around the island, opposite from where you’re standing, and out of the kitchen.
You’ve been here for two days – whatever he’d given you must have been strong as hell – trapped here with...him. You’re certain you can’t call him a man, he’s something more than that and you won’t know until he tells you. Most of the memory of the night you came here are blurry and frayed at the edges, making them impossible to cling to and analyse.
There was something strange in the moments before the drug kicked in and right before you passed out. Something strange about Hoseok, but you can’t seem to recall it. It’s like it happened years ago.
The inconsistencies of your memory leave you on edge, and you eye the two slices of perfectly buttered toast on the plate. He’s given you something light enough that your stomach won’t be upset. As the thought comes to mind you faintly remember being sick at some point, but that too is fuzzy and you aren’t sure if its real. At least now the change of clothes makes sense, though, it doesn’t make you feel any better. He could’ve done anything to you while you were drugged and unconscious.
You wonder what he could possibly want with you. Why you, of all people? You’re just a girl who had everything taken from her and thrown off the ladder, now at rock bottom fending for yourself. There’s nothing left of you that could be given.
You feel Hoseok’s presence before you see him, a sort of odd pressure in the back of your mind and your chest. He pokes his head into the room like he’s checking to see if you’d started eating or not and doesn’t look surprised to see you’d left the toast untouched and you’re still standing.
“The toast is fine, you know.” He says, and there’s an understanding in his eyes when he looks at you. He knows you don’t trust him, though, he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He sighs when you don’t make a move and comes into the kitchen. He takes the same route as before, walking around the opposite side of the island – away from you – until he’s standing at the other side of table.
“Okay.” He says, picking up one of the toast slices, he bites into it and stares at you while he chews. “Make something yourself then.”
You blink, “Huh?”
“The bread is in the fridge if you want. There’re oats if you prefer that instead. Stick to light things. I’d rather not be cleaning up after you.” You don’t understand him. In the short time you’ve known him, he’s like a square that’s trying to fit into a circle. The circle is too round to accommodate his sharp edges, but he somehow manages to get just half of the square through, even if the circle is struggling to contain it.
Not to mention the weird things that’s happened within the half hour you’ve been awake, things he’s yet to explain to you. Matter of fact, strange things has been happening since you left Abigail. The police officer, the fog, and whatever the hell was out there in it with you. You’re not even sure if that was real either.
You feel like if you focus on it, you’ll go crazy. So your mind does the only thing it can do to protect itself – pushes it away into a corner to mull over later along with everything else.
“I’d rather not.” You no longer feel the need to show him gratitude. You feel stupid, for one, why did you think trusting a random stranger would be a good thing?
Hoseok shrugs, dropping the half-eaten toast back onto the plate. He walks around you, close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stands on end, that the warning bells are going crazy in your head again.
It’s uncomfortable being this close. The reaction is visceral, unable to ignore and you wonder why you hadn’t felt it the night before. Why you’d manage to follow him all the way here and not noticed. Maybe you had, briefly and in little moments that were small enough for you to brush them off.
You watch him watch you as he circles you like a vulture, “What are you?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was human?” He asks from behind you, and it feels like a terrible idea to have your back to him. He sounds amused, like this is nothing but a little game to him – just something to pass time while he’s bored.
As he rounds your right, your eyes meet the darkness of his. “You’re not.” It would be strange if you still thought he was after everything that’s happened already.
Hoseok hums, a twinkle lighting his eyes, “Perceptive, aren’t we?” There’s something like pride in his voice but you’re not sure what it’s for, “What do you think I am?”
“You expect me to guess correctly?” The difference in your height does nothing to stop you from glaring at him. He tilts his head at you, dark locks of his hair swaying against his forehead gently.
“No.” Hoseok smiles, “But it’ll make things interesting. I like games; play along.”
A shiver runs down your spine at his tone and the darkness in his eyes. He takes a step away from you and it feels like you can finally take a breath. His movements are fluid as he pulls the dining chair out from below the table. He sits gracefully, propping his chin in his palm as he watches you expectantly.
“Do you want a hint?” He asks, smiling sweetly.
“Why don’t you just tell me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. You’re tired of whatever game he’s playing at, sick of the fear that keeps you standing still as he stares you down.
He stares at you like you’re a complex puzzle he’s trying to piece together. “I used to be an angel. Fallen from grace.”
You’d laugh at the absurdity of his words, but he has that look again. He has that look that makes you believe him, and everything seems to click into place and make sense, even if you barely understand it at all.
“Okay.” You nod, and then take a seat. You focus on the gentle waves of his dark hair and not his eyes, “Why am I here? Why can’t I leave?”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t. You can if you want to. I said that I can’t guarantee you’d get far; You weren’t alone out in that fog.”
You’d almost forgotten about that. Recent happenings had been enough to push it to the back of your mind. You knew you weren’t losing your mind that night, something had definitely chased you and you’re positive it wasn’t a regular animal.
“But that’s another topic.” Hoseok mumbles, more to himself than you, and it looks as though his thoughts strayed elsewhere for a moment before he focused. “You should be thanking me.” He says, tilting his head to meet your gaze with a smile.
He couldn’t be seriously wanting you to thank him. For what? Saving you? For all you know it could’ve been one of his tricks. Why would you thank him? He says that you could leave if you like – him messing with you since you woke up says otherwise. He’s not actually giving you a choice. You’re not going anywhere unless he lets you.
When you remain silent, he leans forward, pink tongue darting out to moisten his lips. “There’s nothing for you out there, though.”
You know he’s right. But that doesn’t justify what he’s doing. You assume he doesn’t care, if you were him, you wouldn’t feel the need to abide by law either.
You’d never been much for fantasy stories, growing up you were well aware that they were just that – stories. Your parents weren’t very religious, but you’d say grace before meals, pray before you go to sleep and when you woke up. Your parents would sometimes quote the bible when you were being naughty and every now and again you’d find yourself in a church for Sunday mas.
Your father used to say that the bible is a book of stories and lessons, and even if you aren’t to abide strictly by it, you should at least heed it. There’s someone up above, watching always.
The angels in the bible were described differently than the man before you, you think. Can angels really do things so bad that it gets them casted out?
Did he do something bad that got him sent here like some wayward child sent off to boot camp?
Even if a part of you is ever doubtful, his existence proves the existence of a higher being and you have some choice words for them.
In the days that go by, you remain wary of Hoseok. You don’t trust him, but you appreciate him letting you hover about him anytime he makes you something to eat. He makes everything from scratch and you wonder most of the time if it’s a skill he just has or was it something he had to hone on his own.
He barely bothers you, goes about his business, which really, entails him sitting in the living room and ignoring you.
Some days is another story entirely. You came to realise quickly that Hoseok is fond of games, usually at your expense. A shadow following you here, whispers that come from no where and bounces off the walls.
There are moments when you catch glimpses of something out of the corner of your eye – a figure lurking in the darkness, just beyond your line of sight. When you turn to look, there’s nothing there, leaving you to wonder if it was ever really there at all. You’ve seen shit at the corner of your vision way too many times for it to be a coincidence. You try to brush them off as tricks of the mind, but deep down, you know it’s not that simple.
Hoseok is always there when it happens, some sort of mirth in his eyes like your suffering is amusing.
The feeling of being watched becomes a constant presence, a weight on your shoulders that you can’t shake no matter how hard you try. Every time you turn around, you half expect to find Hoseok lurking in the shadows, a smug smirk playing on his lips as he revels in your discomfort.
For the first week it’s been this way, and when the second week started, he’d leave at one point during the day. Bored of you most likely, not that you’re complaining; at least he was no longer trying to send you crazy.
He’d give you the same instruction he did the night be brought you, use anything you need with additions of ‘Don’t cause trouble’ and ‘Stay put’. You always roll your eyes at that, the door remains the same; missing it’s handle. You couldn’t leave even if you wanted to.
You would stand in the living room, which looks much like the rest of Hoseok’s penthouse apartment; sleek and dark. There’s a few accents of white and red, black leather couches and clear glass tables. A flat screen TV you’ve never seen used mounted on the wall, a fluffy white rug covering the space between it and the couch. You’ve seen no other electronics besides that, nothing that you can use to contact anyone.
He’d left you things to occupy your time – like you’re a child – books and puzzles and what have you. And you found that the TV works if you become bored of the other things.
Weirdly enough, there’s people outside and below, unlike the night you came when it looked like a ghost town. You can see the glint of the sun bouncing off of shiny cars driving in and out of the hotel’s compound. Little people walking around as they go about their days, oblivious to your plight.
Sometimes you would hear someone out in the hallway beyond the door, like someone coming to clean and you would bang on the door and be as loud as you possibly could. It’s like you’re a ghost. You asked him about that once, and he told you that he can mimic spaces, make it seems as though something is or isn’t there.
Sometimes Hoseok would come back from his little excursions and be as normal as he could be. He’d talk to you like he isn’t holding you captive, ask you about what you did for the day as though there’s a million and one things you could do while there. You’d answer as to not be on the wrong side of him, even though it’s clear that he doesn’t quite mind you not saying anything back. He’d ask you what you’d like for dinner, and he’d eat with you.
On days like those it feels... normal. You feel comfortable and the nature of the situation escapes you. Like this had been your life for as long as you could remember. And sometimes you think, that maybe, if things were different. If perhaps he hadn’t kidnapped you, ‘helping’ you or otherwise. Maybe if your life had gone a little differently and you’d met him under different circumstances...then maybe.
Sometimes on those days he’d sit quietly as you give him little pieces of you; telling him about your childhood and not so important things. He’d clear the coffee table to put a puzzle together and ask you to help him with it.
Some days he’d come back and he wouldn’t be in a good mood. He’d stand and brood at the large windows looking out, lost in thought. On those days he’d look gone, vacant, as though whatever going on in his head was paramount to the reality around him. His eyes are sad then, and he’d be so quiet you’d forget he’s there. He’d make dinner, and he would not eat.
On days like those, if you wake at night and venture out of your room, you’d find Hoseok as you did the night you first woke up. A swirling ball of shadows and smoke somewhere about, and the lights are always off. It scares the hell out of you every time. It reminds you of what he is, despite the nature of his existence, there’s something very dark about him. He scares you mostly, even when he’s being nice, it’s unnerving. You’d try to stay clear of him then.
Something in your mind had been made aware that he is beyond your understanding. He’s stronger and faster than you, can do things that makes your brain grind to a halt trying to process. Sometimes it feels like he’s in your head, watching your every move and surveying your every thought. It scares you.
On days like those, the last thing you want to do is sleep.
Sleep evades you and when you do finally catch it, your dreams are wrought with nightmares of shadows and screams and blood. Sometimes Hoseok is there and he’s less kind than he’s ever been, and you’re lost in darkness and can’t find your way out.
Sometimes it’s a man with red hair lurking at the corners of them, smiling and taunting you. You feel like you could never escape them, like your dreams lasts the entire night and leave you exhausted when you wake up.
The room you woke up in so long ago was yours; Hoseok stays clear of it and never enters without knocking. One day Hoseok had brought you clothes you’re certain costs more than your life, they’re mostly comfort clothes as you have nowhere to be at no point in time. From sweaters to tee-shirts, lounge pants to bicycle shorts and an assortment of underwear that made you scowl at him.
That day you asked him just how long he was going to keep you captive – he didn’t much like the use of that word, prefers ‘keeping you safe’. He told you about the mysterious animal that chased you in the fog, that he and a friend are looking into it and reminds you that you wouldn’t get very far should you leave. You reminded him that he’s not letting you go anywhere.
You stare up at the ceiling, counting the swirling pattern from one corner to the next. You’ve lost count of them every time and you’ve lost count on just how long you’ve been here. Hoseok remains the same, fluctuating between rivalling the sun and being the moon that sometimes eclipse it.
It’s the morning of yet another day, and you can hear Hoseok moving about already. Sometimes you wonder if he ever sleeps...does he need sleep? He eats...that much is for certain, so by any rate he functions partially human.
You sigh softly, getting out of bed and shuffling your feet to the house slippers Hoseok gave to you. There’s the smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen, the sound of Hoseok moving about, and it sounds like he’s in a good mood if his humming is anything to go by.
You wash up for the morning and get changed before carrying yourself out to the kitchen.
Hoseok looks devastatingly domestic and the smile he directs at you is enough to send your mind haywire. These past few days has been confusing for you. Though the initial fear you felt for him was there, lately, it’s been less. You’ve found yourself missing him when he goes off to do whatever he does during the day and you’re excited when he comes back. You’re chalking up the reason for that being that he’s the only person you’ve been in contact with for possibly a month or two.
On some of the days where he would come back and be less than happy, and the lights go out like they’re scheduled to and Hoseok is no longer tangible. When he hovers in a little ball of controlled chaos that blends into the darkness, you sit and wait. You wait until he’s there again and the lights are back on and he looks at you like you’re something he’s lost.
It confuses you as much as his smile that sends your heart thrumming against your ribcage in a dance that isn’t out of fear. You actually can’t remember when you’d stopped being afraid of him.
“I’m going out today.”
Your brows furrow, he’s never told you that he’s leaving before. He brings over a breakfast of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and sliced fruit. A sealed carton of orange juice and a glass for you.
“Okay...?”
Hoseok smiles, “Okay.”
::
When lunch came around, you’re sitting at the island watching Hoseok prepare the ingredients for whatever he’s going to make.
You don’t really feel the need to watch him as closely as you did when you first got here, now you simply do it because there isn’t anything better to do.
He moves in the kitchen like it’s a dance, turning to and fro with a grace you could only hope to have.
He’s already got something on the stove, some sort of sauce you think. It smells amazing and you’re looking forward to whatever it could be.
He looks a bit in his head, brows furrowed as he concentrated a little too hard to just be cutting an onion into crescent slices. He mutters something under his breath, turning to stir the contents in the pot before going back at the onion.
“Hoseok?” You call softly as he sets the onion aside in a bowl and pulls something else onto the cutting board. For a moment you’re not sure if he’s heard you, with just the steady sound of the knife hitting the board, he hums, glancing at you. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.” You can tell he’s in one of his moods, but he’s actively trying to be pleasant. He fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove and then turns the oven on to heat up. “What is it?”
His tone isn’t harsh, just a tad bit impatient.
“Is cooking just something that you can do? Or did you have to learn?”
He turns, pauses, stares at you for a moment and then chuckles, “It’s a skill I acquired through a lot of trial and error. I had a long time to perfect it, though.”
“How long are we talking?” You’re a little intrigued, besides him telling you that he’s a fallen angel, he hasn’t told you exactly how he became one or how long he’s been here.
He tilts his head and smiles gently in the way he does when he’s thinking if he should answer you honestly or not before shrugging, “Long enough.”
You sigh, “Fine. Don’t tell me. You’re probably older than dirt anyway.”
A surprised laugh leaves him, high pitched and a little untamed. The sound is infectious and now you’re laughing too.
Happiness looks good on him, you wish he wore it often.
When it was about four in the afternoon, you hear the closing of Hoseok’s door and the sound of his footsteps walking up the hall.
You’re curled up against the corner of the couch, tucked under a yellow blanket with a book in your hand. You smell him before you see him; the cologne he’s wearing reaching the room before he does.
He steps in and stands near the entrance, the end of his coat brushing against his shins while he secures a watch to his wrist. His hair’s grown longer since he brought you here, curling against his jaw and the bangs are long enough to almost hide his eyes if not for the middle part. The rings on his fingers catch the light of the sun, and he finally settles, a serious look on his face as he watches you for a moment.
He seems to be contemplating something, the muscle of his jaw tensing as he grinds his teeth. He lifts a hand and crooks a finger at you.
Unwrapping yourself from the blanket, you walk over to him. He doesn’t say anything, but levels you with a look and guides you into the hallway with a hand at your back. “I’m leaving the door alone.”
The door is practically singing your freedom, the silver handle looks like a lighthouse at a stormy sea at night. Hoseok is looking down his nose at you when you finally tear your eyes away. His eyes narrow as though he can hear your thoughts and steps away from you.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
And you didn’t. You messed around with the TV, got bored, read another book, and decide to take a nap. Doing it all to ignore the door. You wouldn’t get very far. You really don’t want to know what Hoseok meant by that.
There isn’t anywhere you can go, you have nothing to your name. You get three square meals, clean clothes and a bed to sleep in when night comes – you think about Abigail, you wonder if she’s alright – you’d actually be quite dumb to go out there. Hoseok hasn’t done much but mentally exhaust you, you aren’t chained up in a dank room and being made to do things against your will. It’s actually quite pleasant.
You shuffle to your room and crawl under the covers, suddenly too sleepy to keep your eyes open. You would usually take naps when there’s nothing else for you to do, but you’re never this sleepy. It’s like your body is demanding you close your eyes and pass out right now.
You open your eyes a couple of minutes later and realise you didn’t know you fell asleep. It’s dark out already.
You throw the covers back, scoot to the edge of the bed, and put your feet right into water. You look down at it confused – did you leave a tap on? Hoseok would probably throw you out a window for flooding his place. Or maybe he’ll start up his silly mind games again and drive you nuts.
You’re not too concerned about it, strangely enough, as you get up, the water soaks into the legs of your pants. It’s high enough to lap against the middle of your shins and you curse softly, how could you forget to turn the tap off?
You swish through the water, reaching the door and pulling it open. The water is gone and you’re standing in the living room. Hoseok sits on the couch, one leg lapped over the other, bobbing idly as he turns the page of a thick book balanced on his thigh.
“Hoseok.” You sigh, “Stop it. I’m not in the mood for your stupid games.”
He turns his head slowly to look at you, crooks a finger like he did at you earlier. You stomp over to him, not caring that you probably look rather childish doing so. When you stop in front of him, he gently puts the book aside and then wraps his fingers around your wrist.
Your pulse flutters and you pray that he can’t feel it. A soft squeak leaving you as he tugs you to him, you fumble to catch yourself, trying not to trip over your feet and the carpet. Your hand lands beside his head, sinking into the leather, his eyes meet yours through his hair, and when he pulls you down, you follow without question.
He settles you in his lap, one hand gripping your waist and the other snaking upward to bury itself into your hair. He leans forward, nosing along the underside of your jaw and when the warmth of his tongue streaks against your pulse, a shiver races down your spine before you catch yourself. You push against his shoulder, “Hoseok.”
His chuckle sounds dark to your ears, his grip on your waist tightens enough that you fear you’d bruise. His teeth drag against your earlobe and yours sink into your bottom lip. “Don’t act like this isn’t what you want.”
His words wrap around your head, burying themselves under your skin and makes home there. The hand in your hair slowly slides out of it, moving down until it’s wrapped around your throat. His thumb presses against your racing pulse, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “You want me to break you.”
It’s a moment of bliss, warmth spreading through you before it instantly chills. It’s all fun and games until he’s actually trying to choke you out. Your breaths come in shallow gasps as Hoseok’s grip tightens around your throat, squeezing the air from your lungs. Panic surges through you, and for a moment, you’re certain you’ll pass out from lack of oxygen.
He’s going to kill you.
Desperate, you claw at his hands, trying to pry them away, but his strength overwhelms you. Your struggles intensify as you realize the danger you’re in.
He stands swiftly and lets you go, and you crash unceremoniously into the glass coffee table, nearly breaking your wrist trying to catch your weight. You cough and gasp, clutching at your throat that burns with every breath you take. Your eyes sting with tears as you scramble to put distance between you and him.
He watches you, amused, taking slow steps towards you. He laughs, the sound echoing off the walls and you realise – there’s nowhere to run.
You look up at him, and you’re now facing the windows. The LEDs that line the perimeter of them are glowing a sinister red and they’re the only source of light. There’s something slick under your palms, something you slide in as you try to get up. Inspecting it in the lighting does nothing, as it simply looks dark against your skin, but, there’s no mistaking the scent of copper.
Gazing around, you’re sitting in a pool of blood. Hoseok is nowhere to be found. The pool stretches off like something was dragged through it, going out the living room and down the hall.
You follow it, against your better judgement. This is the worst trick he’s ever played.
Your pants stick to your skin uncomfortably, and you wipe your hands hurriedly against the front of them. It doesn’t do much but spread the mess of blood around. The trail leads into your bedroom, and you stand outside the slightly ajar door with your heart pounding against your ribs.
Raising a hand, you push the door open, but plan to go no further than the threshold. The lights are on, dimly, it doesn’t give you much vision, but you could see Hoseok standing over someone.
It’s you, well...it was you. You’re not sure if you could call that you anymore. Limbs twisted in unnatural angles, sharp ends of bone sticking out from your bruised skin.
You stumble backwards, slipping in the still wet trail of blood and falling against the door behind you. Tears blur your vision, you feel sick.
“You see?” a voice whispers, echoing and bouncing around in your head. “This is what will happen.”
There’s someone else here.
“He’ll kill you.” The voice snickers, crawling along your skin like poison ivy. “Run. Get out.”
You startle awake, gasping for air, searching your body for any sign of blood. The sun is almost setting, preparing to make its descent in the west and you dart out of bed. Your skin feels tight, like you’re too big for it and it makes you uncomfortable. Your breaths are harsh barely making it into your lungs before you’re forcing it out again.
You make for the door, yanking it open and running down the hall. You didn’t stop to think, you just want out. You push the entrance door and it opens and you stumble out into the hallway you haven’t seen in ages.
You run up to the elevator, the overhead floor indicator is blank. And the elevator doesn’t budge when you push the button frantically. Hands caught in your hair you spin around, there must be a way.
The green exit sign glows like a beacon of hope. You trip over your feet getting to it, almost face planting on the expensive rug that lines the hallway. The door opens with a click and your footsteps echo in the stairwell as you take them two at a time to get as far away from this place as possible.
You don’t stop until you’re three flights down, breath ragged and vision spotty. You lean against the wall to catch your breath, panting and wiping the sweat off your brow.
There’s a loud bang that echoes from somewhere below and you freeze. Taking careful steps you peek between the railings and see nothing.
It might be Hoseok.
Or, it could be someone else in the building and your only hope of getting out of here.
“Hello? Is someone ther—” There’s another loud bang, and you take a couple steps down the fourth flight and look over the railing again. A thick fog swirls just a floor below.
The hair on the back of your neck shoots up at the low growl that dances up the stairwell. You nearly go tumbling down it in your haste to turn around and go back up.
As you turn to go back up the third flight, the fog surrounds you and you stop as it becomes impossible to see. You grip tightly to the stair railing, tentatively stepping up – You’re trying not to breathe too loudly.
There’s something scraping against the ground on the stairs below and your heart kicks. You step faster, at the same time trying not to trip and break your neck. There’s a low snarl and you bolt, taking the stair two at a time back up the way you came.
The floor vibrates beneath you as whatever it is gives chase. You make it up to the first landing, pulling the exit door open with a grunt. You’re just about to step through when what feels like three hot butcher knives slices through your back. The force of it sends you pitching forward, smacking hard into the wall on the opposite side before you crumple against it.
You could barely feel it, you’re aware you’re hurt...you could feel the pulsing, open wounds at your back. Your mind is trying to process as you struggle to move, taking a breath aches as you push yourself upward and away from the wall just enough to turn. You don’t manage much more than that, sliding down the wall until your butt hits the pretty red carpet.
The metal door of the emergency exit swings open harshly, banging loudly against the wall before it leans forward; one of the hinges broken. The thing that stands in the doorway looks like it crawled out of some deep, dark part of hell. It’s standing on it’s hind legs before it drops forward, claws that look at least nine inches long scraping against the linoleum.
It looks like a giant dog, honestly. It’s hard to tell when all you could focus on was that you could feel your heartbeat at your back, and the slick warmth soaking into your ruined sweater and pants. Shock maybe...or adrenaline, was keeping most of the pain at bay, you’re pretty sure you’d be dead otherwise right now.
With a guttural growl, the creature emerges, its form contorted and twisted, as if it were forged from the very essence of nightmares.
Its body is a grotesque fusion of twisted flesh and sinew, its skin a sickly shade of mottled grey, stretched taut over bulging muscles that ripple with every movement. Sharp spikes protrude from its spine, glinting menacingly in the dim light, while its black eyes burn with a fiery intensity that seems to pierce through your very soul.
The creature's mouth curls into a snarl, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth stained with blood. Its breath is a noxious cloud of decay and sulphur, filling the air with a suffocating stench that makes your stomach churn.
As it lurches forward on all fours, its movements are unnaturally fluid, each step sending tremors through the ground beneath you. It’s trying to squeeze its way through the small space of the doorway, too big to pass through, and you could do nothing but watch.
Your vision goes hazy as you simply stare at the creature.
The adrenaline is fading and you’re starting to feel your wounds, but maybe if you could crawl towards the door...
At six pm on a Friday evening, Hoseok isn’t at all surprised to see the line of people waiting to get into the club. It’s still a long way to opening, but with the prestige of this place, again, he isn’t surprised.
He was with Yoongi when he bought the place, watched him build it from the ground up. Watched his taste for the interior bounce around erratically until he settled, as the clientele flickered from the common club goer to people – if they had enough money – buying their way in.
Haegeum is on the high-end of the city, the type of place where you’d wonder if folks had enough money to burn just because. Yoongi doesn’t discriminate and all are welcomed.
The queue is a mix of people: folks dressed to the nines just to step a foot in the place, those of which would most likely be sitting pretty in the VIP section. People just looking for a place to escape to for a while, teenagers holding tight to their fake Ids and clinging to their friends. They mingle in groups or alone, their chatter filling the air with a soft buzz of voices and hushed giggles.
Hoseok takes everything in with an air of nonchalance as he strolls by.
The bouncer at the heavy black door stands stoically, clipboard in hand for VIP clients. Hoseok breezes past him when he opens the door to let him in, stepping into the entrance foyer, illuminated by dim red lights. He walks down the hall, and down the dark metal staircase into the main floor of the club.
The above head white florescent lights do nothing to take away from the grandeur of the club, though, Hoseok likes it better when it’s late and the lights are off. The main floor is usually accented in lights of blue and red, casting shadows streaking along the sitting area. Embedded into the walls are velvet couches that flow with the design in a sort of snake like shape, a short-legged coffee table and single seated chairs dotted between every inward curve. There’s a wide enough walkway for two people walking side by side to pass, a partition of glass, and on the other side of it, black leather couches and even more glass coffee tables.
The walls are interesting, and Hoseok thinks this because he doesn’t know why Yoongi likes it so much. In large arched alcoves sits head statues of Greek gods of mortal tales, staring lifelessly into the distance, bathed in dark blue light. Between every two are columns that resembles those of a temple, and smooth grey stone. Hoseok honestly doesn’t know which vibe Yoongi is going for, not that he’d say it to his face.
He walks down the little walkway, down another set of stairs and across the dance floor. The bar is tucked in a corner, glasses being wiped by one of Yoongi’s employees behind it. Hoseok offers the man a nod of his head, moving towards the staircase that curves with the wall and upwards.
Yoongi’s office veers just off the VIP lounge, set behind large mahogany doors. And Hoseok doesn’t bother knocking. The room looks pretty much the same as it’s always had: dark walls with darker patterns, a maroon carpet lining the floor, abstract paintings hanging on the walls that allude to a darker nature, and in the far corner on the wall between two paintings is a golden blade dagger behind a mounted glass case.
“...Pick your side, kid. It’s either you’re with me, or against me.” Yoongi’s voice is cold, not angry per se, but reeking in annoyance that chills rather than burns. “And trust me when I say that you don’t want me as your enemy. I don’t play nice.”
There’s a young man standing in front of Yoongi’s large desk, his hands behind his back where one hand squeezes the other in bouts of nervous jitter. There are bruises on his knuckles, and even from behind, Hoseok could tell that he’s trying to fit into a crowd that doesn’t suit him. Haegeum isn’t just a club but a base of operations so to speak, in the middle of this high-end city, its easy for Yoongi to wrack up a certain clientele. People who seek a different ease of mind and has a different lifestyle.
Hoseok leans against the door, watching the scene play out, as the young man bows slightly and Yoongi waves his hand at him.
“Keep shadowing Seonghwa and Hongjoong for the week, and I don’t want any trouble this time.” He says dismissively, and the boy turns to leave. As Hoseok catches his eye, something akin to a bolt of lightening shoots down his spine. It isn’t noticeable to the more ordinary folk, but Hoseok isn’t ordinary, and neither are Yoongi and the rest of his boys.
The air crackles with static, raw, untrained power that itches Hoseok the wrong way. The boy stands there clearly a moment too long, and Yoongi’s knuckles raps against the table top. “Yeonjun.”
Yeonjun gives a soft apology, and quickly walks towards the door. Hoseok opens it for him, not out of kindness, but purely to give him a long unbroken stare. He smiles as the boy struggles to hold his gaze, even as the hair on the back of his neck stands on end at his proximity.
When he shuts the door behind him, Yoongi is already watching him with a raised brow. Hoseok wanders over to the leather armchair at the front of Yoongi’s desk and sits, shifting around until he’s comfortable in it. “I thought they were a myth.”
“Obviously they’re not.” Yoongi mutters, shaking his head as he sieves through a stack of papers scattered on his desk before he finds what he’s looking for. “Kid wanted in, so I let him. More trouble than it’s worth, honestly. But, the Nephilim are stronger than the order, so I gave it a shot.”
Hoseok hums, and Yoongi seems to catch himself, narrowing his eyes at him. The scar that runs through his right eye looks pink and irritated in the motion and the overhead lights. “What are you doing here?”
“What? I can’t visit?”
If Yoongi narrows his eyes any more, he’d close them, “I think you know better than anyone that you’re never here.” He says, “You’re absent more often than not, so I have the right to ask. Did you do something? I’m not cleaning up any more of your messes.”
Yoongi pushes back his chair, walking across the room to the mini bar he has tucked in the corner. He pulls a glass from the cabinet and pours himself a glass of whisky from a long necked crystalline bottle. He takes a sip and turns leaning against the bar’s edge. “Last time was enough trouble.”
“You’d clean it up anyways.” Hoseok says, leaning his head back against the chair, tilting his head to look at Yoongi. “I found something fun to do.”
Yoongi stares at him for a moment, quiet, contemplative, “Causing a different type of trouble, I see.” He chuckles, “Don’t break her.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Hoseok smirks, and then frowns a little. With all Yoongi’s prowess and danger, he’s gone a little soft around the edges, and he could see that softness in his eyes as he looks off into the distance. Surely thinking about the mortal girl that has him wrapped around her little fingers like bubble gum.
“You’ll learn.” Yoongi says cryptically, and it reminds Hoseok that he’s never really sure what Yoongi is thinking. Sometimes he’s an open book and Hoseok could read him like one, easy to figure out in the way that he moves, and sometimes he’s sealed tight.
Yoongi drains his glass of whisky, setting it down with a clink on the bar top before walking back over to his desk. “Since you’re here...” He opens a drawer and pulls out a thick black file, “Give this to Seonghwa.”
Hoseok takes the file and opens it, reading over the contents. There’s a man on Yoongi’s black list that’s due a checking in. “You let him and Joong have all the fun.”
“You’re too messy.” Yoongi retorts, “I said I’m not cleaning up after you.”
Hoseok shrugs, and gets up, skirting around the back of the chair and walking towards the door.
“Hobi.” Yoongi calls, “I don’t have to remind you that there’s a meeting at the end of the month, right?”
“I’ll be here.” Hoseok says, as the look in Yoongi’s eyes gave no room to say anything else.
He leaves the office, closing the door behind him with a quiet click and lets the tension roll off his shoulders. He goes back the way he came, black file in hand, towards the VIP section where he knows Seonghwa would be lurking. He walks down the little walkway, through the identical couches and tables on raised platforms that overlook the main floor of the club.
At the end, there’s a small section of booths, black velvet and low lit, and standing with his back to him is Hongjoong. He seems to be busy, twin pistols in pieces on the booth’s table, cleaning supplies set up neatly in a little row. Hoseok saunters over, and throws his arm over the man’s shoulders.
Hongjoong doesn’t spare him a glance but sighs softly through his nose. “I’m busy, Hoseok.”
“Where’s your shadow?” Hoseok asks, and waves the file at him, “Yoongi has work for you two.”
“When doesn’t Yoongi have work for us.” Hongjoong slides away from under Hoseok’s arm, sitting down in the booth to avoid him all together. There’s a dull glint of light as the fixtures catch on the gold diamond studded crucifix that swings against the white of Hongjoong’s tee-shirt.
Hoseok clicks his tongue against his teeth, “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
The dark bangs of his hair, which are usually styled away from his forehead, falls into his eyes when he glances upward at Hoseok. He picks up the cleaning solvent and pours a bit of it into the cap before dropping a cotton patch in to let it soak, then, he wraps the patch around the bristles of a small bore brush.
“Seonghwa isn’t here, he’s out back.” Hongjoong picks up the dismantled gun barrel, sliding the bore brush through until the now dirty cotton patch pokes out from the other end. The scent of the solvent burns Hoseok’s nose, and he leaves Hongjoong be, going back down to the main floor and through the emergency exit. The exit sits in the middle of an alleyway that connects two streets, and Hoseok catches sight of Seonghwa’s faux fur coat on one end.
Smoke curls away from his form with a light wind and brings the scent of a cigarette as Hoseok walks with quiet steps towards him. He’s laughing at something, phone in hand, and Hoseok drops his hand heavily on his shoulder and feels the way he immediately tenses.
“I’ve told you one too many times, Seonghwa.” Hoseok says, stepping to the side and around him, “Always be on your guard.”
There’s a glint in the way that he sneers, pulling away from Hoseok’s grip. He takes a couple steps back, watching Hoseok as though he spat at his feet.
“Aw, don’t look at me like that. Makes me all tingly.” Hoseok teases mockingly with a smile, and then offers the file to him. “Here.”
Seonghwa shoves his phone into the pocket of his coat, taking the file and looking through it. He takes one last drag of the cigarette between his fingers before tossing it. He raises a perfect brow at Hoseok and tilts his head, something like amusement in his eyes. “You don’t show up for weeks, and now you’re just Yoongi’s errand boy.”
Hoseok chuckles and it’s dark, low in his throat. “Seonghwa.” He takes a step closer, “Don’t forget your place.”
It’s irritating how Seonghwa doesn’t back down, the way he looks at Hoseok as though he’s beneath him. He stands tall and proud with his chest puffed out like a peacock, and Hoseok knows he’s about to say something stupid without using that brain of his first.
“Don’t act like we’re not in the same boat.” Seonghwa scoffs, and even before he opens his mouth, Hoseok could see the thought in his eyes, glowing like an ember in the dark. He sees the minute curl at the corner of his mouth and the glow of the street light that catches on the pretty studded silver of his teeth. “You got your ward killed, and killed the man that killed her. There’s no hierarchy among murderers.”
Hoseok takes a breath, and he feels the heat rising from the tips of his toes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the images he’s locked away floods out of the steel box he’s put them in. The little girl he’d been guardian to, her short, miserable and painful life. Found end at the hands of someone she had the misfortune of being born to. It was too late – he was too late, when he’d found her. And just like then, Hoseok sees red.
Warm, gushing red that spill into the creases of his fingers when he swings his fist at Seonghwa’s face. The black file and the papers within scatter on the wind.
Hoseok doesn’t let the surprise and force send the younger man stumbling back too far, and grabs hold of the front of his coat, curling his fingers into the material tightly. He kicks at his knee, and when he’s forced to kneel, Hoseok leans down to his height.
“You talk a lot of shit for someone who lost his wings for something so trivial; your sin and mine are two different things.” Hoseok sneers, and he’s so mad he could set Seonghwa on fire and watch him dance. “But I can remind you exactly why Yoongi doesn’t bother to have me involved.”
Someone pulls Seonghwa back, dragging him up to his feet. “The fuck are you two doing?”
There’s a tick in Seonghwa’s jaw that doesn’t go unnoticed and his eyes stay locked with Hoseok as he straightens. He should think twice, Hoseok knows he knows better.
Hongjoong shoves at Seonghwa’s shoulder, “Go pick that shit up.”
Yeonjun stands at the open doorway of the emergency exit, watching with wide eyes, looking like he’s halfway to backing out on his choice to get into Yoongi’s ranks. Hongjoong eyes Hoseok warily, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Seonghwa was doing as told.
Hoseok’s gaze burns a hole into the back of Seonghwa’s head as he moves around to pick up the scattered papers while Hongjoong stands like a watchdog.
Hoseok shoves his hands into the pockets of his black coat, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. “You boys be good, now.” He says in parting, turning on his heel and walking out of the alley.
“What the fuck did you say to him?...”
Hoseok walks up the street, through the throngs of people still waiting to get into Haegeum. His phone vibrates in his coat pocket, with a sigh he pulls it out and answers.
“Yes, Cheol?”
“Hey, remember when you asked me to tell you when I’ve seen that weird fog?” Seungcheol sounds distracted, there’s a sharp sound from his end that has Hoseok pulling the phone away from his ear with a wince. He says something to someone else, voice too far away for Hoseok to catch, before he speaks again. “Couple of nights ago, it was in my area. Whatever’s in it is pretty good at hiding. It’s not the only thing in it either.”
Hoseok crosses the street, going in the opposite direction of which he came from. The people that line the sidewalk give him a wide berth as he weaves through them; unconsciously reacting to him being near.
“Didn’t see much of the guy, some twinky-looking redhead.” Cheol sighs, “I think the fog is like a domain. If you get lost in it, it’s like there’s no-one in there but you. Like a mirror realm.”
‘They who fight monsters should be careful, lest they become a monster themselves. And if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.’
What defines a monster? Something that goes beyond human comprehension, something that stands outside the bounds of what is morally accepted. Something that a person fails to understand and is therefore scared by. Something that make stories entertaining because they’re meant to be defeated in the end. They’re meant to be slain and mounted like trophies, pinned up for grotesque display of heroism.
What defines a creature that goes beyond human comprehension? White coloured morals and the freedom to help in the way it needed. He stopped being what he was created to be, and instead became something that someone needed the most. He did everything right. He had his head in the right place, he was determined to see it through to the end.
He was a little too late.
Over the years, Hoseok could no longer recall just how late he was. If it was by seconds or minutes, or an hour by a half. When he was finally strong enough to move, he traced the memory of a place he’d seen for years, all the way to a house where his charge waited inside.
She was always afraid. Alone, trapped with a monster of man’s making. A child he’s watched since the moment of her birth, watched her grow to be afraid and the light never reach her. By the laws of his nature he was forced to do nothing.
He was restricted to assisting in the only way he could. He couldn’t shield her physically, so he instead manipulated the monster in her closet. He made sure that his mind was changed, that he didn’t swing his claws as fiercely, that he slept deeply so that the child can have a night of rest.
He started to question, as he watched the monster that called himself a father, prey upon what he was meant to protect.
What’s the point? Is he not allowed to stop this? Why can’t he stop this? He could stop it because he has the power to do so.
The ideology was shared by another, and together, hubris.
Hoseok fell with pride; he fell with the intention to seek his ward out and help her. Even if he had no idea what was to come afterwards. Stripped of his grace and the feathers of his wings burned away, it didn’t matter to him.
He went as quickly as his wounds allowed, which in retrospect, wasn’t quickly enough. She was only six. An awfully short time to the likes of him, even shorter to mortals, not enough time to live and laugh – she wasn’t allowed to even do that. He’d stood there, in the broken doorway of a broken home and watched as the monster of his ward’s nightmare became a man before him. Hoseok’s vision had tunnelled and in the centre was the broken body of the child he’d sworn to protect.
When the shadows on the walls grew tall and Hoseok’s mind closed in on itself and allowed those shadows to encase him, the man cried. He pleaded on his knees at the sight of his reckoning, begged for mercy when he gave none.
Then, Hoseok shattered. Scattered like tiny specs of dust floating on the wind, and under the heat and pressure of his own realisations, he turned into glass. With his sharp edges he cut into the man and reveled in it. The sounds of his pleas like the gentle strum of a harp’s string, and the warmth of his blood was a bath Hoseok sunk into.
What he was, was something that was no longer needed, and with his hands covered in blood and gore and mess he held tight to his reasons for being and cried for her. He became something else that only protected himself. While he locked everything away and allowed the shadows to stay. The light he’s trapped struggles to glow, to breathe, and some days Hoseok wants to snuff it out for good, to become the shadows he plays in.
He wouldn’t allow himself to reach that point, though. He still has a sense of himself, however skewed.
He owes Yoongi a lot, his partner in crime that he would follow to the ends of the earth. He never turned his back on him even as Hoseok changed to suit his troubles.
Hoseok remembers Yoongi standing at the doorway, catching up much later than he had. He stayed there quietly while Hoseok mourned the death of his ward and his tears made tracks in the blood that coated him.
Hoseok buried her away from her cursed home, far away and as deep as the roots of an old oak runs and salt floats on the air. Wild flowers bloom there, giving her the beauty in death she wasn’t allowed in life.
His chest aches as he stands there now. Under the shade of the oak tree where little speckles of the setting orange sun spills through leaves and dances along the space that he occupies. There’s a crinkle of plastic and Hoseok stares at the small bouquet in his grip. He chose every flower that reminded him of her: daises and lavender, lilies and snapdragons.
He lays it gently on the patch of grass that’s long grown over between two large protruding roots, mutters the same apology he does every time he comes by, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat as he straightens.
He’s sorry he wasn’t there in time.
He wished she was given a chance, and wondered if her death was his punishment. He wonders what it would’ve been like to watch her grow, safe and happy. What her favourite flower would’ve been, if she would’ve valued the little things. He would’ve given her everything – pulled the moon from the sky if she so desired it. He would’ve taken the stars and put them in her little hands for her to watch them shine.
He wonders if it would’ve been better had he waited a little longer. That maybe the slightest change would’ve brought about a different outcome.
Hoseok sighs, turns his head to watch the sun set, dragged behind the ocean’s edge far off in the distance. Something at the back of his mind wiggles and tugs. He knows something’s wrong and he’s in no mood to deal with it.
You’re dying...you think. Your hand slides against the floor and it takes a moment to realise it’s your blood you’re slipping in. You can barely feel the rest of your body, adrenaline pumping your blood out of the wounds at your back. The doors of the elevator doubles and swarms in your vision.
You see them open but it’s so hard to focus. Hoseok steps out and walks slowly to you, you can’t see his expression, but you faintly hear the long, drawn-out sigh he releases. Your eyes focus on the darkness that surrounds him, the way it curls like smoke. The shadows at his back are clearer to you than they’ve ever been – wings. Dark plumage that glitters with something silver in the light, the feathers are long, long enough that they drag behind his steps. If he were to unfold them they would easily span to the ends of the hallway.
He hardly gives you a glance, stopping in front of you. You can’t see the creature now – blocked by Hoseok’s wings – but you hear it growl, and the scraping of it’s claws against the floor. Something glints in his hand against the flickering lights, a short sword that looks like it was dipped in gold from the hilt and it ran down the edges of the blade.
He’s a blur as he moves and your tired eyes can barely keep up with him, if it weren’t for the small space and shadows his wings casted you would’ve lost sight of him completely.
The creature snarls and lashes out with its razor-sharp claws, but Hoseok is already one step ahead, dodging with effortless grace. He moves with a speed and agility that seems impossible in the space he occupies, closing in on the creature that growls and snarls at him. It’s forced to dislodge itself from the doorway, pulling back into the stairwell that gives it even less room to defend.
Hoseok’s wings fold tightly to his back as he follows, and you could only hear the sound of his weapon sliding through the air, the sound of the blade whistling and the increasingly irritated sounds from the creature. Hoseok ducks under a swiped claw, makes a spin on his knee, and switches the hands that holds his blade. It slices through the creature’s gigantic paw like it’s made of something soft, and through the other as it comes back down. The severed limb drops heavily on the ground before it dissolves into ashes and float upward.
The sound it makes grate on your ears, loud and sharp and you can’t bring your hands up to cover them, something warm trickles out of each.
Without it’s two front legs to support it’s weight, the creature drops forward, and Hoseok grabs hold of the first spike at the top of its head. With a flick of his wrist his weapon spins in his palm and he points the blade right between the creature’s eyes and pushes.
Golden light flashes, nearly blinding you on top of everything else, you can just barely hear the cry it makes this time as it writhes in agony. It’s monstrous form twists and contorts before finally collapsing to the ground in a heap.
Hoseok stands over the fallen beast, his weapon clenched tightly in his hand, watching intently as it’s body dissipates like ash from a fire.
With a satisfied nod, Hoseok sheaths his weapon and it vanishes, and then turns his attention back to you, his expression a mixture of something. You can’t tell, everything seems so dark and it’s hard to breathe. He approaches you slowly, his movements cautious as he assesses the extent of your injuries.
Hoseok crouches and you slowly look up at him, he tilts his head and clicks his tongue against his teeth.
“I told you not to go anywhere, little dove.” He says softly, calmly, as though he’s telling you about his day and you’re not bleeding out in his hallway. “You’re so troublesome.”
You try to respond, but the words stick in your throat, drowned out by the rush of blood and the overwhelming sense of impending darkness. Hoseok’s presence feels both comforting and ominous, his wings casting elongated shadows that dance across the walls. You try to focus on his face, to find some semblance of reassurance in his eyes, but all you see is a blur of shadows and flickering light.
“I’m sorry,” you manage to choke out, your voice barely audible above the sound of your own laboured breathing.
Hoseok’s expression softens slightly, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes. He reaches out a hand to gently brush the hair from your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the underlying tension in the air.
“Jesus...” Another voice says, the sound of footsteps hurrying close and the last thing you see is the shift of the hallway.
The night he found you out in the fog wasn’t the first time Hoseok had seen you.
By now, it would’ve been at least three months ago. You were alone, pacing around like a worried mother on a bridge over your perceived peace – had you decided to take it.
Human lives were no longer any concern to him; no consequence. He and his kind were here before and would be long after your kind has crumbled to dust and returned to the earth. He stopped then, and watched you contemplate the height of the bridge and the chill of the water below it; whether or not you’ll receive the mercy you seek. You’d cried for a long time on that bridge.
Hoseok is many things, but cruel is not one of them. He changed your mind and sent you away into the arms of someone that would care.
Hoseok has many contradictions. The darkness that he allowed entry fights the light, beating it into a corner where it cowers on most days. On those days he’s distant and struggling to contain it, he could taste malice on his tongue and the bitterness of it. The steel walls he painstakingly built with bloody and broken fingers are nothing more than barbwire fences; they do nothing to protect the glass figurines that make him whole.
Sometimes the glass are shards, sharp and unforgiving and willing to cut anything that gets too close. Sometimes they’re splintered panes and Hoseok is cutting his fingers to keep them in place. He curls in on himself, draws himself away, pushes everything outside his barbwire fence and tries to reinforce the walls. The darkness that swirls outside it seeps in and he can’t keep it out so he lets it fester and churn and he becomes intangible.
You weren’t there, and then, at some point, you were.
Sometimes...
Sometimes he’s standing in a grass field full of wild daises and the sun is warm and there’s salt in the air. The light peeks through the leaves of an old oak tree, and there’s a little girl who’s placed her life in his hands, who skitters about in the grass like something wild and free. She glows in her happiness, and nature stains her hands and the bottom of her white dress. She makes faces at him behind the trunk of the tree, smiles and hold his hands and tell him that it’s okay. It wasn’t his fault and he’s forgiven, he could let it go and be.
On those days, Hoseok feels like a still pool of water. The ones with lily pads and life, and everything’s alright. You’re always there then.
Hoseok knows of the fragility of humans. How easily they could shatter and break and suddenly be no more. He was something once, and then he became something else, and sometimes it’s hard to not be what he is. His darker nature prevails, and he doesn’t do much to stop it. Sure, sometimes he’s done things simply because he’s feeling particularly malicious and thinks that everyone should suffer – it’s almost always harmless.
He has a sense of himself, he knows when to stop, when things are taken too far and you can’t take much more of it. You eventually learnt to take it in stride and Hoseok was proud of that, though, a part of him thought it wasn’t nearly as fun anymore.
He would walk your dreams some nights when he was bored and had nothing better to entertain himself, his presence would sometimes bring his darkness and your dreams would not be as pleasant. He tried to walk through them less often.
When you were jumping at every little sound, the silence that Hoseok moves with and the way you’re less of yourself some days – he realised something. Not every nightmare was his doing, and the whispers in the walls of your dreams spoke of something else entirely.
The far, fuzzy edges of your vivid dreams where he’s reminded of things he’s tried very hard to lock away, lurks something red and more sinister than he.
He’s every reason to believe that hellspawn didn’t find it’s way here on accident, and for it to go undetected until the very last moment. It bothers him like nothing else has.
Though you lay peaceful now and Seungcheol had left after doing what he does best, the unease lingers in bouts under Hoseok’s skin, skittering about like electricity on a wire. His feelings where you’re concerned contradicts each other. Like oil on water he’s stuck in between wanting you close and keeping you at arm’s length. He likes when you’re near, but he likes when you’re far. A consequence of his nature, he toes the line of something sinister and could get dangerous and down right evil if he doesn’t reign himself in.
At a point he wasn’t quite sure what to do with you. He was just as confused on why he stopped you from ending your own life that night on the bridge and why he took you in that night in the fog. At first, he was just as wary of you as you were of him, despite the way he acted. He can’t help what he is.
On the days where he feels like splintered glass and he’s choking on his despair, you’d waited. You were there until the smoke cleared and your quiet presence helped put the glass back up and straighten out the posts in his fence.
He told Yoongi, there’s no fun in not breaking you. Yoongi said that he’d learn.
He can’t help what he is.
He could try, though.
He doesn’t want to break you, it’s a matter of cause and effect. You’re here with him, evidently, you’d be broken regardless. The most he could do is try. He could try to not be the straw, and try to not let outside forces become it.
He cares. He cares so much that sometimes he could taste it on his tongue. He cares that you smile when he’s earned it, that you eat well, that you greet him like a friend and then somewhere along get shy when you do. He cares if you live or die.
Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut, opening them to blink away the image of you, helplessly laying in a pool of your own blood.
Fear. He’s has only felt it once, the fear that you would die and he would’ve failed again to protect someone.
He sips slowly at his glass of whisky, drinking in the sight of you. He thought you were smart enough to listen to him at least, trusted that you would stay out until he got back. Perhaps it was his mistake, but he wonders, and he ponders as you give a minute twitch in your sleep. Your eyebrows draw together and you murmur something unintelligible.
Hoseok sets his tumbler on your bedside drawer and pulls his chair closer. This is something he could easily do from another room, though, for what he’s about to do he would need to be touching you in some capacity.
Your dream had started off vividly, as most of your dreams have since you came here. Hoseok stands just in the corner of it, watching you wake within your dream and put your feet down into water.
He walks along the edge of it, watching it play out like a simulation, following behind you as you make your way down the hall towards the living room. He’s there and Hoseok isn’t surprised – it’s not the first time you’ve dreamt him.
He watches as your dreamscape version of him pull you into his lap and he feels a little offended and rolls his eyes – he didn’t even try to make it look sexy. Is this what you think of him? He isn’t half as tactless. Seduction takes finesse, and you clearly have no idea what that is.
Hoseok turns, gazing at the darkened edges of your dream.
There’s a shift and he feels it. It’s heavy like a wet blanket and seeps in like mist, and your dream changes accordingly.
He knows this feeling too well – the intrusion of an external force manipulating the dream, it’s faint enough that he knows it wasn’t in his apartment or anywhere nearby, but strong enough to reach so far.
Hoseok hovers hesitantly between the doorway of the living room and the hallway, and closes his eyes against the image of him hurting you.
He follows you as you follow blood, and he wishes you weren’t so frightened. He stays close to you, stepping where you’ve stepped as though he could protect you from something that’s already occurred. You push the door to your bedroom open and he wants to stop you, turn you around and shake you awake, but he can only watch.
You’re there and he is too, whispers skittering along the walls like mice, and Hoseok yanks himself out of your subconscious mind.
He feels like glass.
When you wake it’s dark and your back is sore like you fell from a high place and splatted against a body of water. The moment feels like déjà vu regardless as you swing your legs over the side of the bed with a wince.
The broken projector of your sleep-addled mind flickers in black and white cut scene imagines of the evening. Hoseok, the fog, the dog that crawled out of hell specifically for you – as you can only assume – things considered, you’re pretty certain you died at some point.
The dark unnerves you, it makes you feel like a kid as you pull your feet back up onto the bed, and pull the blanket up over your head and pulled tight between your fingers at your chest.
You scoot back, wiggling a bit until your back is pressed flush against the headboard. There’s no light seeping in from under your door, and you sink lower, curling into yourself and hold the blanket tighter.
There’s a prickling at the back of your neck that sends a shiver racing down your spine. Your head turns slowly to the left and notice the unnatural darkness of the space between the edge of the wall and the window pane. Relief blooms in your chest at the sight of it.
“...Hoseok.” You call softly, waving a hand into the dark. You wait for a moment, but the lights don’t come on and he doesn’t appear as he usually would.
Carefully, you unwrap the covers from around you and place your foot on the ground. Taking a moment, you count your fingers – it’s always hard to count them in your dreams. All ten are there, and you take a breath before standing.
The floor is cold, and you notice the carpet that’s usually under your feet is missing, and the silhouettes of the things you’ve made yours are different; this isn’t your room.
You approach the ball of chaos carefully, and stand five steps away from the space it occupies. This is the second time you’ve been close to it, the first time had been much closer and you hadn’t understood it then. You reach a hand out, and gently: “Hoseok...”
It slows, the shadows and wisps shifting gently like a leaf on a soft wind. It elongates into a vague outline and then, Hoseok stares through you before he sees you. He’s still wearing the clothes he left in earlier, coat and all, looking a little more than rattled even in the dark.
He raises a hand and it hovers by your cheek, thumb ghosting the skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The lights didn’t come back on and it’s hard to decipher his emotions in the dark.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, barely a whisper in the darkness. Somewhere behind you, a lamp flickers on dimly and Hoseok looks like he’d shatter if you touched him.
“I’m okay.”
Hoseok’s hand drops slowly from your face as he blinks, as though waking from a dream. His gaze focuses on you, but there’s a vacancy in his eyes. For a moment, he seems almost confused, as if he’s not sure how he ended up here or what to make of your presence.
His touch is light, gentle, like he’s handling something fragile when his fingers brushes yours. You feel his fear, a palpable thing, thick and heavy. It’s a side of him you’ve never seen before, and you’re not sure what to do with it.
He exhales softly through his nose, nods once and then his eyes are somewhere above your head. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” Your back sings a low hymn, achy and sore, but it’s nothing to fuss over. “I’m okay.”
There’s a lot of things you want to ask, but you can’t seem to pick one. You want to ask him about the fog and the creature, about his wings or how you’re even alive to mull over said questions.
Instead, you ask: “Are you okay?”
Hoseok looks unprepared for that, his eyes snapping back to yours and he flounders. His mouth opens and closes before he stares at you in that unnerving way he had your first couple of days here, like he’s trying to understand you. Like he could strip you down to atoms and see what makes you act the way you do and therefore comprehend the bases of your human nature.
“I’m...” He blinks, looks away, and a muscle beneath his right eye twitches, “I’m okay.”
He doesn’t sound convinced and you aren’t either, and where his hand brushes yours you reach out first. His fingers are cold and he looks down, staring at your hand like it’s something foreign, but his grip tightens. It’s quiet for a moment, he takes a breath that doesn’t seem to ease the weight he carries.
“You almost died.” He says quietly, brows furrowed as though he can’t understand his own concern. “When I brought you here...I did so with the intention to keep you safe.”
It’s quiet again and you wait, and wait.
Hoseok’s eyes mist, his breath shudders on the exhale. “I wasn’t here in time. Again. I—”
His hand in yours tremble, he’s looking through you again, not entirely here and he looks like a man haunted by ghosts he alone could see. You stumble a step back when he falls to his knees before you, but didn’t get far as his arms wound tight around your waist. There’s something strange about a creature such as him with all his prowess and tainted grace kneeling at your feet, and his words tumble from his mouth like his tears that soak into your borrowed shirt and he lets you hold the chain that drags behind him.
The weight is heavy, heavy enough that it grounds you and you listen to it rattle as Hoseok tells you everything. In a broken tone about a broken home and a child he couldn’t reach in time to save, about the shadows that he let hide the light and now he struggles to find it. The things he’s done since that would make the most wicked men cower.
You make the connection, as he lays himself bare before you. He peeled back the layers of his being himself and let you look inside; the bases of his nature, the connotations of his own sins. It makes sense to you now. The way he would change like the tide and his near obsessive, compulsive need to wrap you in bubble wrap and put you in a glass case. He’d long stopped scaring you and somehow became a comfort despite himself.
Maybe it’s circumstantial, or something else entirely, but you’ve grown to care for him and he’s been caring for you from the start. However skewed that was.
When he’s stopped his babbling, and he’s no longer crying, he still holds you tight, whispering apologies against the dampness of your shirt. You meet his height, gently pulling his arms away from you and you kneel, too. He blinks away the last of his tears and you catch them with your thumbs just under his red-rimmed eyes.
He’s no longer looking through you, one of his hands covers yours, his lips brushing delicately against your wrist when he turns his head; your heart flutters. He whispers something you didn’t catch, he closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them, he repeats: “You can leave if you want.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go.”
“Will you stay, then?” He looks away when he asks, pressing his fingers against your palm in a way that tickles and distracts, and studies the lines of them quietly. “Stay here with me.”
There’s something like hope in his eyes that glints against the shadows that linger, shining like flecks gold in cracked rock. You nod slowly and he smiles easily, all teeth and heart shaped and his hand is warm when he cups your cheek with the one that isn’t holding yours.
“Your dream...” He says softly, and later you’d find that it troubled him the most; he would never do something like that – not to you. “I’m sorry.”
You store the fact that he knows about it at the back of your mind for later – later when he’s not pressing the pad of his thumb against the fullness of your bottom lip, tracing the shape of it. You’ve learnt to ebb and flow with him, a boat on his tide, taking the shift of his mood in stride.
There’s something in his eyes now that has nothing to do with how you found him earlier, something that makes you follow his lead, leaning in when he pulls you towards him. Deja vu accompanies the way he shifts, easing back and turning you as he does, leaning against a dresser you hadn’t noticed. He keeps his eyes locked with yours, directing your leg over his with a hand, and he settles you on his lap.
“This feels familiar.” He giggles, lifting his head to nose along your jaw and you’re reminded that he knows. Heat flares at the back of your neck and races up your ears, and when you push against his shoulders, he steadies and keeps you still with his hands on the top of your thighs and a click of his tongue against his teeth.
“I’m teasing.” He gives a crooked smile, tilting his head, “It’s cute that you think it’ll play out that way.”
“Isn’t it, though?” You blurt out, embarrassment forgotten. Honestly, the only thing that’s changed is the room, and when Hoseok pauses you smirk.
He smirks right back, something dangerous, and he chuckles, “Keep talking back. I like that.”
His hand slides up your back, and you don’t suppress the shiver that follows after it. The air grows heavy, charged with unspoken tension. You’re vaguely aware of your heart pounding, the rhythm matching the erratic thrum of your blood. He leaves a kiss where your jaw meets your neck, sucking lightly on the spot.
“Hoseok...” You start to say his name, but it comes out as a breathless whisper. You’re not sure what you intended to say, but the words get caught in your throat.
He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours. “What is it?” he asks, his voice rough with desire and darker still. “Do you want me to stop?”
You shake your head, unable to form words.
With a low growl, he takes your silence as an invitation, his fingers tangle in your hair, and he tilts your head down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss you gasp into. It quickly deepens, becoming more urgent, as if he’s trying to devour your very soul. His other hand finds your hip, squeezing possessively.
You’re lost in the sensation, the taste of him, the feel of his body pressed against yours. The world has narrowed to the two of you, to this moment.
A soft moan escapes your lips, and he takes that as a cue, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that sets your entire being ablaze.
His touch ignites a fire within you, consuming your senses and leaving you breathless, his hand sliding from your hip to your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.
He pulls away slowly and you chase, he smirks against your kiss, and when he lifts his hips you feel the press of his arousal. His kisses trail, ghosting along your jaw, his tongue warm where your pulse thrums. He directs the shifts of your hips, grinding you down against clothed erection with a curse growled against your skin.
You follow the light tug of his hand in your hair, tilting your head back and to the side to give him more room to work. He hums appreciatively around your skin between his teeth and you hiss softly at the sting of the pull.
“So good for me.” He whispers when he pulls away. His fingers tap at your hip before he wraps his arm around, bracing the other against the dresser behind and stands easily.
A startled squeak leaves you, wrapping your arms around his neck even though he’s holding you steady. He reaches the bed in two strides, and drops you there, a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
You bounce a bit amongst the soft sheets with a soft giggle before you settle. His index finger curls beneath your chin and tilts, thumb brushing along your bottom lip again, “Ah.”
You comply easily, and then his thumb is pressing against your tongue. Saliva pools in your mouth and he hums when you wrap your lips around the digit. There’s a tick of his brow and the dull glint of his teeth when he smiles in the dim light of the singular lamp, and a darkness in his eyes that doesn’t scare you.
He tests the boundaries of what you’d allow, sliding his thumb along your tongue. His palm lays flat against your cheek, thumb reaching far until you feel the lurch of your stomach and pull back with a gasp.
He coos softly, leaning down just as he slips his finger out of your mouth to capture your lips in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything else. He nudges you back softly, large hands sneaking their way under your tee to reach your skin, desperate in a way that makes you think he’d die if he doesn’t.
He stops just shy of the undersides of your breasts, pulling away from the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. His breaths are shallow, he whispers your name, “I can get intense.”
“I know.”
“I could hurt you.”
“I know.”
He studies you for a moment, then, tugs gently on the hem of your tee-shirt, “Up.”
As you shift to sit, you’re not surprised to find you aren’t wearing anything underneath the tee-shirt and cotton shorts he’s put you in; dressing you properly must’ve been the last thing on his mind.
Hoseok stands back to shed his coat, dropping it carelessly on the floor. There’s a metallic clink as the buckle of his belt jingles, and the sound of it racing through the loops of his pants.
You – oddly – don’t feel ashamed under his gaze that sets a heat wherever it settles as he roams over your exposed upper half. Putting your weight on your hands, you lean back, watching Hoseok roll the long sleeves of his tee-shirt up his forearms.
His tongue darts out to moisten his lips as he closes the distance again, climbing into the bed on his knees and coming up until they’re on either side of your thighs. Silently he trails a finger down the slope of your neck, it tickles across your collarbone and his fingers spread and palms your left breast.
Your breath hitches and he chuckles, and you know very well he could feel the shifting of your thighs as you rub them together seeking friction. It’s been ages since anyone’s touched you like this, all of Hoseok’s teasing isn’t doing you much good.
His lips meet yours, licking into your mouth, and he groans when you suck on his tongue. His fingers lightly pinch at your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand roams, goosebumps following it’s path down your side and stops where his fingers tease the band of your shorts.
Your hips buck as you whine and Hoseok pulls away, eyelids heavy, pupils all but gone, panting softly; looking drunk on you.
He smiles and makes a disapproving sound at the back of his throat. “Patience little dove.” He tuts, tilting his head at you, “I’ll give you what you need.”
He trails his fingers along the edges of your shorts before pulling them down and off, leaving you exposed to his touch. His hair tickles where it drags against your sensitive skin as he moves downward. He avoids where you need him most entirely and you squirm, a soft whine building in your chest.
He kisses and licks his way up your thighs, teasing you until you’re begging. Gently, he spreads your legs, kissing the inner thigh of your right before he rests it over his shoulder, pushing your other up and holding it there with a palm.
His dark gaze meets yours and you can’t hold it when he licks a hot stripe from your weeping entrance to your clit. Your hand shoots down to grip his hair, back arching when his responding growl vibrates against your core.
With each stroke of his tongue, Hoseok explores every inch of your most sensitive areas. He laps at your clit, drawing out a series of gasps and moans that fill the room. You’re shaking and swearing as he eats you out like a man starved, his tongue swirling around your clit in figure eights and then dipping into you. He moans like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.
Your hands curl into the sheets, fingers digging in as if to anchor yourself. You’re lost in the sensations, a whirlwind of pleasure that leaves you breathless. And you wonder, briefly, if this was just something he was good at or something he had to hone.
His arm draping over your hips was the only warning you got before his lips wraps around your clit and sucks. Your back arches with a pitched moan and he slips a finger into your heat, and groans when you clench and gasp his name.
Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat a reminder of your vulnerability. Yet, paradoxically, it’s this vulnerability that fuels your desire, pushing you to new heights. You’re a wild thing now, driven by pure, primal need.
From between your legs, Hoseok watches your reactions, a dark-haired god feasting on your pleasure. His gaze is intense, a silent promise that he’ll take you to the edge. He adds another finger and they curl against your g-spot and it brings about your undoing.
If your arousal was a fire, Hoseok just threw gasoline on it just to watch it explode. He keeps hips lips around your clit as it throbs, fingers dragging along your fluttering walls and your eyes squeeze shut. You could barely breathe, lights dancing behind your eyelids as you gasp his name.
“Good girl.” Hoseok praises, lips brushing your clit and your thighs tremble. He rubs his hand gently over your stomach while you come down, and evilly, bites your thigh with a dark chuckle.
“Hoseok...” you whine as he laves his tongue over the stinging spot.
“Hm?” He smiles, “Want more, little dove?”
You almost cry as he changes course, pulling away entirely, and makes it clear he revel in your suffering when he coos mockingly, standing now.
He slowly unbuttons his pants, slowly pulls his legs out of them one after the other, smirking at you all the while. Even in the dim lighting, you could see the strain his cock against his black boxer briefs and you don’t miss the near inaudible sigh of relief from Hoseok at the change in pressure.
He crooks a finger at you, and shuffles closer as you do. He stands at the edge of the bed, and he sinks his fingers into your hair, brushing it back as you look up at him. He looks down his nose at you, and raises a brow, “Be a good girl now, dove. Or do I have to teach you?”
“I know how to suck cock you ass.”
Hoseok shrugs, a playful smile shifting his expression as he gently squeezes your cheeks, puckering your lips, “Is all that little mouth good for talking back to me?”
“You said you like that.” You say defiantly.
Hoseok hums, “Have your fun then,” He says, smiling, “Won’t be able to say much in a bit, anyway.” He tugs on your hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to signal his impatience.
Funny, he was preaching patience is a virtue a while ago.
You scoff softly, holding your weight with a hand and tugging his boxers down with the other. His cock springs out, long and thick enough that you wonder if it would fit anywhere. It’s flushed red at the tip and leaking pre that beads and dribbles down the underside, and maybe if you focus enough you could just about see the throb of the vein that runs along side. A breath hisses through Hoseok’s teeth when you wrap your fingers around him, his eyes shut and his head tilts back.
Your eyes meet his when you slowly drag your hand down the length of his shaft, teasing him like he did you; turnabout is fair play. His hold in your hair tightens just a bit, eyes narrowing.
“Dangerous game you’re trying to start.” He murmurs, “I don’t take well t – fuck.” He hisses, the word tapering off into a low groan as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock.
The slightly salty taste of him bursts against your tongue and you hum, twisting your wrist as you bring your hand back up to meet your mouth and follow it down again. The saliva that escapes from the corners of your mouth helps with the glide.
You take a breath through your nose and relax your jaw, taking him in until he hits the back of your throat and you gag. Hoseok’s thighs tense and a stuttered breath leaves him.
“Easy there.” He soothingly runs his fingers through your hair, though it does nothing for the involuntary tears springing at your waterline. You decide to play it safe, not taking more than you can handle. Hoseok doesn’t seem to mind, letting you set your own pace, whispering swears and your praises.
Heat pools in your gut as your head bobs back and forth, your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, swirling around the head every time you pull back.
Slick with spit, your hand strokes the rest of him, and his groans vibrate in your ears. His fingers tighten in your hair, and it’s the only time he directs; holding you still.
“Take a deep breath for me, dove.” You do as told, and as you inhale, Hoseok slowly pushes forward, his cock reaching the back of your throat in no time at all. He groans above you, cock throbbing against your tongue, “There you go.”
He holds you there for a moment, only easing you back when your throat tightens with the need for air. He lets you breathe for a bit before he’s going again, thrusting slowly, once, twice and then holding you still. He keeps you there, cock throbbing at the back of your throat, your nose pressed against the neatly trimmed hair at the base.
When you gag he pulls you back, barely letting you breathe before he’s leaning down to kiss you, catching the string of drool that hangs from your bottom lip with his tongue. He lets you catch your breath, stepping back to pull his tee-shirt over his head and your mouth goes dry at the full expanse of his lithe frame.
Sitting back on your heels, breath a little ragged, you admire the sculpted lines of his body. Every movement is fluid and graceful, his muscles shifting smoothly beneath his skin.
His chest is defined, the faintest sheen of sweat highlighting each ripple of muscle. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders, the way they flex as he moves. There’s a raw, primal energy about him, but it’s tempered by a quiet confidence.
Hoseok comes back to you quickly, cupping your cheek and kissing you fervently, moving with you as you shift back, cock smearing pre-cum along your inner thighs as he slots his narrow hips between them. He nibbles at your bottom lip, fingers sliding through your slick folds before the head of his cock nudges against your entrance.
For a quiet moment he stares then, kisses you tenderly as he breeches. It’s an easy glide, but it stings none the less, and you give an appreciative squeeze to his wrist when he goes slow. The stretch is bearable and soon the slight discomfort dissipates when he bottoms out and gives you a moment.
“Good?” he breathes out, hips pressed flush against yours. The same breath sucked back through his teeth when your walls tightens around him, his cock throbs in response and you keen. He grinds his hips down, pelvis pressing against your swollen clit and the sensation is almost too much and not nearly enough.
He’s close enough that you can run your tongue along his collarbone and feel him shiver. Leave your own marks there with your teeth and revel in the growl that rumbles in his chest.
He hooks an arm at the back of your knee, pressing it against your chest as he raises and balances his weight. You’re spread open for him, his cock sinks deeper, rubbing against a spot that makes your eyes roll back. He gives shallow thrusts at first, pressing kisses and bruises wherever he could reach.
“Fuck.” Hoseok hisses between his teeth, hips still, palm against your cheek, and he watches you with something other than lust in his eyes. Something gentle as he caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Look at you, such a good girl. Taking everything I give you.”
His hips snap forward and you cry out, hands gripping the sheets between them at his sinful groan. He keeps a relentless pace, and you could feel him everywhere. His fingers on your skin, leaving you cold and hot at the same time, gripping your hips so tightly you fear they’ll bruise. It would simply add to the ones he’s already placed, scattered on your neck and chest like mismatched constellations in a dark sky.
He brings your hands up above your head, holding them there, together with his free one.
“You’re so good to me, Dove. And all mine, hm? Say it.” He grunts, “Say you belong to me, promise me that you’ll stay here with me.” He says this softly, tenderly, grinding his hips against yours in slow movements, tightening the coil in your stomach.
“I’m yours, I’m yours. I promise.” You babble, hips moving against his on their own accord. “I’ll stay. I promise. Please.”
Hoseok groans at your words, leaning down to capture your lips with his, tongue finding yours with ease. “That’s right. You’re mine. Fuck. All mine. Say it again.”
“I’m yours, Hoseok.”
He curses under his breath, straightening his form and brings his hands down to grip your hips tight, and sets a brutal pace. Head tilting back to reveal the marks you left on him, groaning before he looks back down at you, “Close? Hm? You’re squeezing so tight.” His words taunt, as did the smirk on his pretty pink lips, “Make a mess for me, Dove. Cum all over my cock. That’s it, good girl.”
White lights dance behind your tightly shut eyelids, a ringing in your ears. And Hoseok was fucking you through it, fast and hard, his praises a rumble in his chest. You lay there boneless, taking what he gave with a haze over your mind, a weak moan leaving your parted lips when his hand met your throat. Your heart spikes for another reason entirely, but he doesn’t squeeze. Fingers just there, barely any pressure, as he chased his own end, cock kissing your cervix with each trust, his other hand pressed against your lower stomach.
His thumb finds your clit and you jolt, catching his sinister smirk that curled his lips. “There’s no going back after this, baby. Fuck – you’re mine, understand?” You can feel him throbbing, feel the way his hips stutter on the draw back, he was close and you wanted nothing more than him marking you, claiming you in this way. When your eyes meet his, a shiver goes through you.
He comes undone with a low groan, hips flushed with your own, still thrusting through it, and you can see them with your own eyes, as he shudders and stills. His wings uncurl, dark feathers, darker than anything you’ve ever seen, dipped in silver, spreads out behind him and flutters. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, gentle, barely there and you feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.
Your eyelids were heavy, and sleepily, you reach out to brush your fingers through the feathers that encased your forms. Hoseok stiffens before your fingers reach them, and chuckles, nipping softly at the flesh of your neck, “Go ahead, Dove.”
He relaxes, when your fingers touch, and you feel him shudder, groaning softly against your neck. They’re soft, your fingers disappearing in the inky blackness of them. With a final brush of his lips against your neck, Hoseok pulls back, his wings shimmering away like a mirage and your hand passes through air before lands limply at your side.
He squeezes your hip gently, mindful, and then he’s gone, walking out his room and into the hallway. The light that spills in helps you see a lot better than the dim lamp, and you notice that Hoseok’s bedroom looks much like the rest of his apartment; sleek and dark. There isn’t much to it either, the basics, more utilirian than a comfort space. You wonder if he uses it at all.
Hoseok comes back and gathers your boneless self into his arms. You rest your cheek against his collarbone, the sound of running water reaching your ears when he steps out into the hallway.
The tub is filling, steam rising from the bubbles that form at the top of the disturbed water. It smells like mint and some sort of fruit, and the temperature is just right when he steps into it and lowers you down. He positions you so that your back is against his chest and turns off the water when it’s high enough. You sense that he’s in his head again, not quite here even as he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck.
“Feeling okay?” he asks suddenly, tracing a mindless pattern along your arm.
You hum softly, “Yeah. Sore, though.”
“I expected that.” Another kiss, apologetic, against your shoulder. “Also...” Hoseok pauses, “I finished inside you. I didn’t ask. I’m sorry.”
The realisation dawns on you too and you shift a little to look at him, “I don’t mind, but....is that a bad thing?”
There’s a strange half smile on his lips and he lifts a hand to tug softly on one tangled end of your hair, gently sifting his fingers through until he’s satisfied. “It can be, if it takes. But, I’ll get something for it tomorrow.”
You notice that the marks you left along his skin have begun to fade already, and you poke at them with a finger. He heals quickly, you figured. He chuckles softly, taking your hand to press kisses along your finger tips and then to your palm. Your finger brushes over the mole on his upper lip gently and watch him melt.
He studies you for a moment, the same way he did before he left earlier, though, it’s softer now. “Would you like to come with me?”
You brighten, perking up with a nod, “Is that okay?”
Hoseok hums, mischief in his eyes, “If you promise not to run off as soon as you step foot outside.”
You roll your eyes and turn around, and Hoseok pulls you back to him with an arm around your middle. “I have nowhere to go.”
“I know, I was only teasing.” He chuckles.
You’re both quiet for a while, and you simply relax, almost falling asleep against him as the warm water soothes your aching muscles. You aren’t aware that you did, and only wake when Hoseok was just done tucking fresh clean sheets up to your chin. You’re back in his room but you don’t mind, the thought of going back to your own unsettles you right now. You haven’t forgotten your nightmare, and it’s something you’d definitely have to unpack another day.
You wait until he’s crawled in behind you, the warmth of him encasing you gently. His form melds against your back like he belongs there, an arm slipping under your head and the other over your hip. “Hoseok?”
“Yes Dove?”
You worry at your bottom lip, fingers finding his under the covers and they squeeze your own encouragingly. “There’s a friend of mine...I was with her before I met you.”
“I can help her.” He murmurs, and he sounds...sleepy. Today was a lot for him as well, you suppose. “I can get her a job here.”
You shift, turning to face him, he tucks you to him when you settle, chin resting on top of your head. “How are you gonna do that?”
You hear the smirk when he answers, “Do you think everything I have magically appeared? I own the hotel.”
“Wha—”
“Shh.” Hoseok squeezes your hip, “Go to sleep.”
Sometime later you’ll realise that Hoseok needed you more than he would admit. When you learn his tells he would help put himself back together with you instead of trying to do it alone.
Sometime later he’d take you to see her. When the wind is cold and the old oak tree reaches it’s bare, spindly arms to the frosted sky. When the day marks yet another year and he lets you put the flowers between the roots. He looks like a shadow against the glittering white, and he tells you he’s okay.
He’d take you to meet his friends at a club on the high-end and you’d would realise that he’s soft only with you and the guy who reminds you of a cat. With the others he’s closed off and friendly in a way that seems a little odd.
You’d see Abigail often and would skirt around how you actually met Hoseok when she’d ask. Anyone would think you’re crazy if you told them.
You spend most of your time at home while Hoseok goes off doing god knows what when he’s not there. It’s something to do with his friends and you never ask.
Then he’s there and everything beyond him and you and the space you both occupy doesn’t matter. And it’s kind of easy to forget where it all started – it’d been so long since you’d wondered where you were going to get anything to help you get by.
He’s made of cracks and splintered glass but he let you sink into the spaces, filled the pieces with you and settled. There would always be cracks in the glass that he’s made of, and there would always be a post in his fence that he needs to hammered in to fix. Despite the unconventional way you’d both started, the abnormality of his existence, you’d be there.
[bold, can't tag]
Tagging: @iammeandmeisiam , @imanhaitani @allhobbitstoisengard @dontstoptime @astormunchar @eoieopda @blog-name-idk @madbutgloriouspond @bangtansmauyeondan @taestefully-in-luv @mssukeyna @euphoricfilter @luaspersona
Carnival of Terror 🎪 4: I make them dance
The carnival is in town, and it is unlike anything you have ever experienced. Will you make it out alive?
🎪 Jungkook x Female Reader, Jungkook x Yoongi
🎪 word count: 11.7k
🎪 choose your own adventure, friends & strangers to lovers, carnival and circus au, dead dove, horror, possible minor & major character injury & death, supernatural elements & magic realism, nsfw, 21+
🎪 warnings: use of recreational drugs (mdma - time it takes to kick in is sped up for the narrative; feeling unsettled and paranoid; overwhelm); some of you might find Jungkook's behavior to be akin to infidelity, but in the context of their relationship, it's not; explicit smut (vaginal fingering & sex against a wall; multiple orgasms; not quite a blow job; cum swallowing) teasing & use of the word "whore"; being fed water from someone else's mouth; marionette horror; mirror horror; bloody slice across a face.
🎪 note: at best, everyone is a little toxic. at worst, they're a monster in human flesh with dark secrets, that can only exist in this magical realist world. likely, they are something in between. also, if you're in my time zone and see me posting at 2 in the morning, no you don't lmao.
🍧 food note: idk if everyone grew up eating "snow cones" but they're literally just balls of ice and flavored syrup. bingsu and shaved ice are kind of similar, but the ingredients and presentation can differ.
🎪 if you need a little refresher on what happened in the last chapter, i made a handy dandy recap post.
🎪 beta read by @neoneunnajimin!
🎪 posted june. 2024 | read on ao3
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WELCOME BACK TO THE GREATEST SHOW IN THE WORLD!
We left off making questionable choices with Jeongguk. Just how many of our intrepid characters can get lost at once?
POLLS THAT SWAYED EVENTS IN THIS CHAPTER:
ducky & rabbit 1 | ducky & rabbit 2
The little pale crystals taste bitter on your tongue, and you wince in disgust as you reach for the open water bottle that Jeongguk holds in his fingertips, arm outstretched. He eyes you curiously, more openly than you have grown accustomed to, and it excites you.
"Have you rolled before?" he asks, leaning close as you swallow down two large gulps of ice-cold water.
"No," you admit with a shiver.
Not that you know of, anyway. After what you have seen and felt in Seokjin's hypnotic trances, you are beginning to wonder whether perhaps your memories are not the extent of your experiences. Of course, there is a possibility that Seokjin has somehow planted those memories of you in bed with him and Namjoon, but that is a matter for later. For now, you have other matters to attend to.
"You'll like it," Jeongguk insists, stepping close.
The two of you stand under the shade of the Hall of Mirrors building. With your back inches from the wall, you are unable to hold any space between your bodies.
Your breath feels heavy as you ask, "How do you know?'
Jeongguk smirks. "You like it when your mind is a little fucky, don't you? I mean…you let Yoongi hyung dig his claws into you for long enough."
"What's your excuse?" you ask, equal parts curious and defensive.
"I love the game," Jeongguk shrugs, easy enough. "Sure, sometimes he breaks my heart, but he always comes crawling back. And in the meantime, I have plenty of distractions."
"Distractions?" you ask.
Jeongguk is far too close, and his lightly floral musk is cloyingly sweet. You find yourself swaying toward and away, toward and away.
"Drugs," Jeongguk says with another shrug. His gaze is pointed as he adds, "And sex."
It feels like whiplash the way Jeongguk so easily shifts into a completely different person. If you didn't know any better, you would think he and Yoongi were in on something together, and that Yoongi is just off in the periphery somewhere, enjoying the show.
"How long does it take to kick in?" you ask, ignoring Jeongguk's dark, smoldering eyes and attempting to gaze out at the carnival grounds past him.
The sun should be going down by now, but it continues to hang high and bright. All around you, music blares, and voices shout. It no longer overwhelms the senses; rather, it feels commonplace.
"Could take an hour. Could take fifteen minutes. With this cut, it's hard to tell."
That is not reassuring.
"Why is it so inconsistent?"
Jeongguk shrugs. "This cut is strange."
You sigh and accept your fate; what more could you do at this point? Jeongguk seems amused, chuckling a light, twinkling sound – pitchy and melodic. He almost looks childlike with the striped scarf hanging around his neck, tied neatly in the front.
"Want to walk around and wait to come up, or go inside and get lost?"
Get lost feels like the wrong way to describe precisely what you want, but perhaps it is somewhat accurate.
You take Jeongguk by the hand and go to the left, toward the back door to the Hall of Mirrors – the door that is closest. From the outside, there is no handle, but you instinctively reach for the edge of the door and run your fingers along where there is a small groove in the black-painted wood, allowing you to hook a finger in and open the door.
"Whoa," Jeongguk mutters, and you think the same, surprising even yourself.
The room that the door opens up to is dark, and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. You pull Jeongguk to the right, whereas the hallway leading into the attraction is on the left, and you find a thick black curtain that you pull out of the way, then discover a small black door. You knock lightly, wait for several seconds, and then yank it open, gaining entrance into an empty space that is clearly not meant for the general public.
"How do you know about this place?" Jeongguk asks.
"I don't know," you admit. Your body is simply running on autopilot.
The room the two of you find yourself in is rather small and dimly lit, with black walls and nothing to sit upon. There is a small metal hook that locks the door, and you slide it into place. Music plays overhead – the same dizzying organ tunes you have grown accustomed to hearing in this place – and the air feels unusually heavy.
"I'm surprised you agreed to this," Jeongguk purrs as he crowds your space.
Instinctively, you step back, knocking your foot against a wooden wall. You stare at Jeongguk as he towers close, keeping your hands to your sides as you try your best to steady your breath.
"I am too," you admit.
"Yoongi hyung not enough for you?" Jeongguk teases as he leans close enough to press his body into yours. Warmth radiates, and you melt a little into the wall, allowing yourself to relax.
Holding firm, steady eye contact, you reach up to rub your palms over Jeongguk's chest, dancing your fingertips over taut muscle concealed under the light, soft, greenish-blue fabric of his shirt. With your left hand, you finger the scarf, giving it gentle tugs.
"Yoongi is more than enough for me," you say, tilting your head playfully. "But he's not here, is he?"
Jeongguk grabs your waist and spins you around. You barely have time to steady your hands against the wall to prevent your cheek from smashing into wood. He presses into you, yanking your hips back until his crotch rubs against your ass, and you sigh a shattered breath as your eyes flutter closed.
"More than enough, hmm?" Jeongguk groans in your ear, voice just above a feral growl. "If that were true, then why are you so eager to let me have you?"
You shrug and whine, "I'm bored."
"Bored," Jeongguk snarls, reaching around to undo your slacks.
His fingers are quick, and he shoves the material down, then reaches a greedy hand between your legs to rub over your clothed pussy. The material is cold to the touch and still slightly wet, and he tsks in your ear.
"This all for me, or this from earlier?"
"From earlier," you admit.
"When?" Jeongguk asks in a sharp, angry tone.
You grin. "Tunnel of Love."
Jeongguk chuckles, but the sound is deep and swimming with fury. If you didn't know any better, you might think he is planning on ripping you apart.
"I knew it," he all but growls.
Your body simmers with excitement and something else – something that might feel like panic if not for Jeongguk's long fingers roughly stroking over your soiled undergarment. You sigh and press your ass back, feeling the way his erection tents in his pants, tempted to offer to get on your knees and beg for it.
"He told me all about you, you know," Jeongguk says sweetly, voice far more tame and welcoming. "I know everything."
You hum a curious sound and ask, "Like what?"
"Like how tight you are," Jeongguk says as he pulls your panties aside and lets one finger explore your folds before it dips deep inside. "Fuck," he sighs, breath hot against your neck. "So fucking wet."
"That's all for you," you whine as Jeongguk pulls his finger out and slowly presses it in deep.
"Yeah?" he asks. "You sure about that? Or is it just me talking about Yoongi hyung that turns you on?"
With a sigh and a light giggle, you say, "Maybe it's a little of both."
"Yeah?" Jeongguk asks, pulling his finger out in a broad stroke that rubs across your clit, making you tremble with pleasure. "You like being hyung's little whore?"
You wonder if Jeongguk is attempting to hurt your feelings despite circling his finger over your bud in firm strokes. All you feel is amusement.
You attempt to look over your shoulder as you ask, "Are you?"
Jeongguk dips his hand down and slides two fingers in, this time making you hiss. The stretch is not enough to really fill you the way you like, but it feels good. It feels promising.
From behind, you can hear Jeongguk's other hand at work on his button and zipper. Fabric rustles, his hand pulls away, leaving you empty, and then you feel his cock pressed against your ass.
"I saw you first," he groans, knuckles brushing over your skin as he strokes himself. "I was the one who pointed you out to hyung. I wanted you first."
He takes you by the hips in both hands and pulls back, forcing your back to arch. You feel trapped in your slacks, unable to spread your legs, but Jeongguk does not seem to mind. He bends and slides his cock against your semi-clothed cunt, causing the two of you to whine in tandem.
"But Yoongi hyung always gets what he wants," Jeongguk says as he lines his cock up with your hole and thrusts, rubbing his length over your folds and clit.
A shiver runs along your spine, and you sigh, enjoying the slide even without penetration. Then Jeongguk lines up again and presses slower, steadier, spearing you open.
Arousal floods quickly, making you moan as pleasure quakes through you. You know that you should be quiet, but it is hard to hold back, and you bite your bottom lip in an attempt to clamp your mouth shut and muffle your sounds.
Jeongguk is thick, and he moves maddeningly slow, making you feel every little vein and curve he has to offer. Everything is heightened with how sore you are from earlier.
"What was it about me?" you whimper, attempting to keep your voice low and steady.
Jeongguk pulls back and thrusts forward, coating himself in you, making the slide much smoother. Then he buries his nose in your neck as he straightens you from the half-bent position you had found yourself in.
Your back stays somewhat arched, but you attempt to stand tall and allow Jeongguk's hands to grip your hip and chest, holding you in place. You anchor your palms against the rough wood wall, feeling its tiny grooves filled with paint.
"Everything," he groans as he pulls back and thrusts quickly forward, making you moan in dizzying pleasure.
The hand on your chest slides up and firmly plants over your mouth. You sigh into the feeling, breathing in the faintly sweet scent of his skin as he sets a steady pace and fucks you.
"Your smile," Jeongguk grunts, hips slapping against your ass in a punctuated rhythm. "Your laugh. You were so—" Jeongguk's hand slides from your hip, reaches forward, and pinches your clit, "—intoxicating," he growls as you moan desperately into his palm, feeling pleasure burst inside you.
Jeongguk fucks you hard and fast, groaning against your neck while your hot breath creates a pocket of condensation coating his calluses, his life lines, and his heart lines. Surely, you could be heard by anyone who may approach the little black door hidden behind the velvet curtain, but you cannot bring yourself to care.
You feel euphoric. You feel lost.
"Cum for me, baby," Jeongguk commands, fingers pinching and rubbing your clit in rough but pleasant motions.
Ignoring the way your chest flutters at the sound of Jeongguk calling you baby, you nod and close your eyes, relaxing as best as you can, eager for release. Fireworks of light and pleasure seem to explode within you, and as you climb higher and higher toward bliss, you feel awash with warm, overbearing ecstasy.
Desperately, you moan into Jeongguk's palm. You attempt to beg him to make you cum, muttering a muffled prayer of, "Please, please, please."
Jeongguk angles his hips, pressing himself impossibly deeper, causing your eyes to roll back. Orgasm explodes and you squeal and shake, worried the pleasure might knock you down to the floor.
But Jeongguk holds you firmly and keeps you steady. Your blunt fingernails dig into the wooden wall, and you quake as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, threatening to drown you in its undertow.
"So fucking good," Jeongguk groans against your neck. "You feel so fucking good cuming on my cock."
You are unsure whether it is the drugs or simply Jeongguk, but as soon as you feel as if you are able to relax and come down from your high, another explodes inside you, causing your legs to go weak as you tremble and squeal.
"Holy fuck," Jeongguk growls. "That's it, baby. Keep squeezing me."
You attempt to moan Jeongguk's name, but your voice is too muffled. The sound of your release squelching with each thrust fills you with shame and excitement, and you wonder whether you have ever cum so hard before. You want to tell Jeongguk as much – want to praise him for how incredibly he fucks you – but all you can do is moan and sob against his damp palm, and take what he has to give you.
"Gonna cum," Jeongguk warns. Then he slides his hand away and asks, "Will you swallow it?"
Without thinking twice, you nod, voice broken and weak as you moan through the last of Jeongguk's firm, deep strokes.
He pulls out, and you turn, dropping to your knees haphazardly, which are stuck together in your bunched slacks. Your knees sting as they kiss wood, but all you can focus on is Jeongguk's pretty, uncut cock glistening above your face as his fist slowly strokes up the shaft.
"Open," he commands, leaning with one hand against the wall and towering over you.
You open wide and do your best to sit high, but a steady tremble works through your entire body, causing you to feel dizzy and disoriented. Jeongguk takes your chin in his hand and slides his cock along your outstretched tongue, and as soon as you close your lips around the tip and suck, tasting your own heady flavor, he pulsates against your lips and cums.
Jeongguk moans, fingers digging into your jaw, and you do your best to breathe through the gentle thrust of him along your tongue, spurting into your throat. When he sighs heavily and pulls back, you look up, heavy-blinking and holding your mouth open wide.
The sight above you is heavenly. Jeongguk pants and stares, covered in a sheen of sweat that sticks his shirt to his firm, muscular chest and arms. His face is rosy-blushed, and his dark eyes are wide.
"Fuck," he mutters, leaving his cock to hang heavy and deflate while he moves his hand to your mouth and presses the pads of two fingers against the mess on your tongue.
Something is clearly on his mind, and you stare up in waiting. Then he pulls his fingers out, and nods, cracking a smile.
"Hyung mentioned you were a fucking dirty girl. I bet I could spit in your mouth and you wouldn't mind."
You roll your eyes and retract your tongue, smiling at Jeongguk's audacity. You absolutely would not mind, but he doesn't need to know that. Not when he seems to feel so superior over you.
Jeongguk tucks himself back into his slacks and then helps you stand. Your legs feel like overcooked noodles, and you stumble back against the wall as you reach to pull your pants up with trembling hands.
Around you, the sound of the music swells and sways, and you would attribute the disorienting nature to the drugs, but this is how it sounded when Namjoon held your hand and pulled you through these halls earlier. You wonder if, perhaps, Namjoon is nearby.
"Feel the effects?" Jeongguk asks, grabbing the bottle of water from where it seems to have been tossed to the floor.
You stretch your arms over your head, feeling how simultaneously heavy and light they are. "I think so," you mutter.
Jeongguk takes a drink of water, then steps forward crowding your space. You open your mouth to ask what he is doing as your head bumps against the wall, but Jeongguk simply opens his mouth and dribbles ice-cold water from his lips to yours.
Most of the water makes it to your mouth, but some drools out to the side, and as the two of you swallow, Jeongguk kisses you, licking deep and causing you to melt into the wall once more.
You lift your hands to rub against his chest, palms grazing over clothed pierced nipples, making Jeongguk hiss. He licks firmly over your tongue, then pulls a moan from your throat as he sucks on its tip.
"You taste good," Jeongguk mutters against your lips, urging you on.
You slide one hand up to scarf around Jeongguk's neck and pull him close, licking fervently into his mouth, tasting and teasing; taking as you please. Jeongguk presses his hips against you, and you chuckle, breaking the kiss.
"We should get some fresh air," you mutter, feeling warm and increasingly claustrophobic.
"Alright," Jeongguk mutters, sucking your lower lip between his teeth. You whine until he releases, and sigh as he says, "Let's go."
Jeongguk takes your hand in his, and you can feel residual cold on his palm from when it held onto the water bottle moments ago. It feels nice and grounding as you attempt to get your feet to cooperate and assist you with leaving this place.
Only, when you exit this small room and walk toward the door that should lead back outside, all you find in its place is a wall. Jeongguk presses and rubs against the black wood, and he sighs when he finds nothing. High on the wall is a blinking red Dead End sign, and you wonder whether there is a proper back exit, or if this attraction is only meant to have one way in and one way out.
"I want to freak out about this, but I feel too high to care," he grumbles, making you laugh.
You would also like to freak out about this and all the other oddities that you have experienced. But you know that it will do nobody any good, and so you sigh and yank Jeongguk toward the hallway that leads into the attraction.
"Only way out is through, I guess," you sigh.
Jeongguk falls into step beside you, and as you enter the first hall full of glass and reflected light, dizziness overtakes you. The two of you stumble and giggle, stopping to gawk at your warped reflections, warping them further as you bend and twist.
You are a little surprised that Jeongguk continues to hold your hand, firmly keeping you close, leading at times, and following at others. It feels nice. Warm and steady. Secure. You nearly forget all about Yoongi.
But then a flash of blue and black moves in the distance ahead, and although you do not clearly see it, you feel it. It has to be Yoongi.
Jeongguk is giggling as his reflection when you grip tightly to his fingers and pull, causing him to stumble to your side, muttering something under his breath.
"This way," you insist, staring ahead for any sign of the blur that you could swear is Yoongi.
You turn your gaze every which way, looking into rooms and staring as far as you can along paths, but all you find are strangers. Amused couples, bored third-wheels, and giggling shapes pressed closely in dark corners.
"What is it?" Jeongguk asks, slowing and creating resistance.
"I need fresh air," you sigh as your chest tightens and the air feels constricted. "I just…I need to get out of here."
Time seems even more warped as the drug shimmers through your system, and you search and search, though for what, you slowly forget. All you know is that there is a deep, pounding need in your chest, but as you turn corners and examine rooms, you question whether that need could ever truly be filled.
Far ahead, down the long hallway and past several doorways, you spot a bright shining light appearing and disappearing. Sunlight.
You yank on Jeongguk, who follows along obediently, holding onto your palm as it increasingly begins to sweat, slickening your hold. He allows you to pass through doorways first and slides easily behind you to allow others to pass.
When you reach the exit, he steps ahead first and presses the heavy wooden door open, holding it for you. All at once, the air is hot and dry, and as you take in a deep inhale, you are unsure whether you feel better or worse, squinting against the bright sun.
Jeongguk hands you the bottle of water, and you finally release his hand, lamenting the familiar warmth as your trembling fingers struggle to twist the tiny plastic cap free. You stumble into some shade beside the entrance of the building, and Jeongguk follows.
He crowds your space and takes the plastic bottle cap, sliding it into his pocket for safekeeping. As you lift the bottle to your lips, you quake and sigh, shivering despite overheating.
"The come up is sometimes just as rough as the comedown," Jeongguk mutters sweetly. "You probably didn't feel it as badly inside because you were distracted. It'll pass soon."
"Why are you being so nice to me?" you ask, voice weak and pathetic against the small round rim of the bottle. You take a large cold gulp and refrain from finishing off the water despite feeling thirsty enough to want to drown.
"What are you talking about?" Jeongguk asks, laughing.
As you sigh through the cold gulp, you hand over the bottle, watching as Jeongguk drinks from it with steady hands, much better equipped to handle the drug than you.
"You called me a whore," you pout, suddenly feeling upset despite not caring before.
Jeongguk finishes the water and crushes the bottle in his hand, crinkling the plastic as he steps forward to crowd your space. A crazed grin tugs at his lips, and with a lift of his brow, he mutters, "I was only joking," sending a chill down your spine.
"Are you sure?" you ask, doing your best to appear unaffected but feeling jittery.
Jeongguk's look fades and he begins laughing. "You're too much," he mutters, shaking his head.
Affronted, you attempt to swat him on the chest, but Jeongguk grabs your hand and holds it close.
"Why are you so annoying?" you grumble, attempting uselessly to yank your hand away.
"You like it," he responds, grinning as he lets go, causing you to stumble back into the wall from your semi-frantic movement.
The world feels off. Glimmering and electric. Overbearing yet underwhelming.
"What time is it?" you ask, making no move to reach for the phone in your pocket.
Jeongguk sighs. "I suppose we should find the others. How long were we fucking?"
His candor makes you shy, and you feel the way heat burns up your neck, to your cheeks. You would attempt to smack him again, but you know it is pointless.
You look around, wondering whether your friends are still at the game booths where they said they would be. "Where did you tell them we were going?"
"I told them the truth," Jeongguk shrugs.
Anxiety rises. "The truth, as in…"
Jeongguk smirks. "They already know about what hyung and I do. No need to act like such a prude about it."
Petulance rises, and you actually lift your hand with the urge to smack, but Jeongguk watches the movement and lifts his eyebrows. He is far too quick, and for your own sanity, you need to minimize the amount of time he spends touching you from this point forward.
"I'm not a prude!" you grit through your teeth, eager to get your point across without being too loud.
Jeongguk rolls his eyes. "Look, Tae hyungie originally pointed you out to me. Nobody is going to be shocked by this development."
"Wait…" you grumble, mulling it over. "What?"
Jeongguk shrugs. "He said you would be my type, which of course made Yoongi hyung pounce first. I doubt that he or Jimin hyung would be alarmed or upset if they knew we ended up together, as intended."
You frown, running Jeongguk's words through your mind. The night you met Yoongi, you were with a friend at a house party. That friend introduced you to Yoongi, who later introduced you to Jeongguk. It would be another week before you were introduced to Taehyung and Jimin. What does he mean Taehyung pointed you out?
"Taehyung?" you ask, cocking your head to the side.
Jeongguk shrugs again. "I don't know," he concedes, seemingly disinterested in dwelling on the details. "He said you were my type, but I'm sure he just meant visually. It's not like you two knew each other."
You softly ask, "What is your type?" and then berate yourself silently, wishing you could just let what transpired in the Hall of Mirrors stay there.
Regret sinks its claws in as Jeongguk licks over his lips and says, "Pretty. Bratty. Tight."
You roll your eyes and shake your head, scoffing in disbelief. Despite knowing you should bite your tongue, you tilt your chin up as a challenge and ask, "Well? Did I live up to the expectations?"
Jeongguk cracks a smile and says, "Yeah. You're bratty as fuck."
You shove at Jeongguk with both hands, causing him to stumble back into the hot sun and nearly crash into a couple walking by. He laughs, doubling over with his hands on his knees, and stays there for what feels like a very long time, causing you to laugh as well. And then he straightens out and motions for you to follow him while he begins to walk in the direction of a food cart.
The biggest downside to the drug seems to be how thirsty you become. You also seem to struggle with regulating your temperature, shivering in the shade and feeling stiflingly hot in the sun.
Jeongguk stands tall on his toes and leans his arms against the high metal shelf of the food cart while he orders a bottle of water and a couple of lollipops. You allow yourself to study his body, noting the way his tiny waist cinches above the band of his slacks, and how his torso curves up into broad, muscular shoulders.
Tattoos peek out from under his sleeve, littering his hand, and you remember the feeling of metal under his shirt when your palms felt his chest. There seems to be a lot about shy, sweet Jeongguk that you do not know. Perhaps it is no wonder why he and Yoongi get along so well.
Yoongi. Thinking about him makes you frown. You wish you knew what happened to him when Jeongguk told him to get lost. Everything has felt like a fever dream since you walked into the carnival grounds, and you continuously wonder when you will finally wake up.
Jeongguk holds out two lollipops, pulling you from your thoughts, and you examine their colorful wrappers, given the choice between grape and cherry. You pick grape, considering how good cherry might taste if you have the chance to suck it off of Jeongguk's tongue later.
"Thanks," you mutter sweetly, moving away from the food cart to a more secluded area as you pick at the little plastic wrapper with your fingertips.
With a sigh, Jeongguk sidles up close to you, blocking the sun. You stand near the backs of various trailers, some hitched together, and it feels nice to be away from the crowd.
"Do you feel guilty?" you ask.
Jeongguk takes his time to fuss with his wrapper, then asks, "About what?"
You turn your head to glance at Jeongguk, but find you would rather keep your eyes on your wrapper, finally peeling it open as you say, "About what we did."
"Why would I feel guilty?" he asks.
You twist the wrapper between your fingertips, feeling the slick plastic that bunches roughly. Your body is warm, and you become increasingly aware of your fixation, bunching up the wrapper and shoving it into your pocket.
"I think I'm high," you mutter.
Jeongguk snickers. "We already established that."
Your entire body shivers, whether you are cold or not. Right now, you are unsure what you are. Each time a breeze hits you, goosebumps break over your skin, and you reflexively lift your shoulders to your ears. But otherwise, the heat almost feels palpable, like you could cut into it with a knife.
The fact that it still feels like noon with the sun blaring high overhead starts to rattle around in your head, and you glance up at the sky, searching the clouds for movement. Even the sun does not seem to hurt your eyes as you stare directly into it.
How is it possible that time seems to stand still within the carnival grounds? Or have you completely lost your mind? The illusions show begins at 5, and there is no way it is close to that time.
As you lift the sucker to your lips, sugary grape flavor bursts on your taste buds more intensely than you could have possibly expected. You suck on it, coating your tongue and lips, then pull it out with a wet pop and mutter, "Wow."
"Good, huh?" Jeongguk asks.
You glance up and notice how the cherry lollipop has already stained Jeongguk's lips red. You want to stand high on your toes and trace your tongue over the color in search of just a hint of flavor.
"There you two are!" Jimin's voice pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to jolt.
He and Taehyung eye the two of you suspiciously, and you suddenly worry about your appearance. Despite spending so much time in the Hall of Mirrors staring at your warped reflections, you have no idea how you look.
"Having fun?" Taehyung asks, voice low and curious, eyes mostly on Jeongguk, who shrugs.
"We did some molly," he says plainly, yawning. "She's struggling to adjust, but we should even out soon."
You return the too-sweet sucker to your mouth. Taehyung hums and Jimin gives a worried glance at you before looking around.
"We don't have to go to the next show if you think it will be too intense," Jimin offers, bringing his concerned eyes back to you.
You shake your head, muttering around the candy, "I wanna go."
Jeongguk gives Taehyung a glance and the two of them seem to communicate telepathically. You lament briefly over not having close enough friendships to be able to read one another in such a way, but you do your best to shove away the thought.
Taehyung very softly asks, "We still have some time before the show, want to see this weird tent Jimin and I found?"
Something about the thought of a weird tent makes you uncomfortable. You ask, "Weird, how?"
Jimin nibbles on his bottom lip, eyes wide and staring at the ground, and Taehyung says, "You just have to see it. It's hard to explain."
"Where is it?" you ask, feeling as if your entire body is weighed down with lead and unwilling to move as the others turn to walk in its direction.
"Come on," Jeongguk insists, grabbing for your elbow and yanking you along.
You expect your newfound weight to hold you in place and keep you anchored in the shade, where it is safe, away from the weird tent, and you are disappointed to discover that you are still merely human, and easy for Jeongguk to drag along wherever he pleases.
The warmth radiating through your sleeve from Jeongguk's palm to your skin should feel comforting, but you find that it is too warm and somewhat oppressive. You remember rough calluses pressed against your lips.
You do your best to yank your arm away, keeping with his pace, and you are relieved when he lets go. You follow Jimin and Taehyung past the game booths, and you are startled when you see it along the edge of the space: a small tent with stripes that are red and what you assume used to be white, but now look more like a rusted off-tan.
A shiver runs along your spine, and you instantly feel a sense of ick and dread work its way through you, but your friends are undeterred. In fact, they seem to have a pep in their steps as you get closer.
"Should we be over here?" you ask.
Jimin turns, frowning as if you have just said something completely ridiculous, then rolls his eyes and giggles. "There's an opening on the side, and there is no explicit warning to stay out, so I don't see why not."
"You already checked this place out?" Jeongguk asks with a bit of a dreamy slowness to his speech.
"We started to," Taehyung responds, voice almost too soft to make out over the cacophony of carnival sounds. "But then we decided to come get you two."
Jimin rounds the tent along the right, and the rest of you follow him. Sure enough, the flap is open, and there is no indication that carnival guests are not allowed to enter. Strange, you think, since the tent is sitting somewhat secluded from the rest of the carnival attractions, a peculiar sight that you would think would cause people to want to investigate.
The tent is not too large, especially compared to those the Kim brothers use, but it is certainly not tiny. The opening is just shorter than your height, but the ceiling is raised several feet higher, and as you duck down and peer inside, just past Jimin's crouching body, it is large enough to contain what looks like a tiny living quarters.
"Are you sure we should be over here?" you ask again, eyes trailing from the small mattress at the far end of the space, past a kerosene lantern and several closed wooden trunks. There are books strewn about and a pair of boots on the floor. Something about the setup seems personal. Intimate.
"I assume it is meant to be one of those prop tents," Taehyung says from behind you, peeking to get a look. "To showcase how carnies live…or something to that effect."
"You know how, like, when we visit the historical park that has the buildings still styled the way they were in the Joseon dynasty?" Jimin says. You nod faintly. "Like that."
It is true that this tent may be just another prop, but something about it is strange. Perhaps it is just the molly making you feel so creeped out. Either way, you stand up straight and wiggle away from the entrance of the tent, allowing Taehyung and Jeongguk to step closer.
It is Jeongguk who walks all the way into the tent, and something about it makes your skin crawl. You shout, "Wait," and reach for him, but before you can react further, Jeongguk jolts backward and trips over himself, nearly falling to his butt on the grass.
You think you hear him mutter, "What the fuck?" causing goosebumps to break out on your arms and neck.
"What is it?" Jimin asks at the same time Taehyung says, "Whoa," and Jeongguk shakes his head and takes two steps backward.
"That was…" Jeongguk trails off, staring at the tent and then shaking his head and chuckling. Only, the sound is less mirthful and more unsure. "Damn. I need to lay off the drugs."
"What happened?" you ask, walking close to Jeongguk and turning your head to glance into the tent.
Everything looks normal, but you are unwilling to step any closer to inspect it. The unsettling feeling has only managed to grow.
"I thought I saw something," Jeongguk says, chuckling with unease some more. "Or, rather…someone? I don't really know."
This makes Jimin sigh loudly and stand up, turning to face you and Jeongguk. "Oh, give me a break," he groans. "You're just trying to scare us."
Jeongguk's face brightens as if he has been caught in the act by Jimin, but there is something in his eyes that seems scared and distant. Still, you remind yourself that the two of you are high, and you are definitely feeling heightened paranoia.
"Okay, well this has been fascinating," you say, walking slowly backward and away from the entrance. "But I still feel like I might be peaking, and I don't think I can handle any more of these creepy ass tent vibes."
To your delight, Jeongguk nods and follows you. Jimin seems intrigued by the tent, however, and it appears as though Taehyung is pointing into it, whispering something to Jimin.
"Should we just ditch them?" you ask, only half joking.
Jeongguk pulls out his phone and glances at it, then says, "We still have a little time before the illusions show. Wanna get in line for a snow cone? I saw a cart on the way over here."
A snow cone sounds amazing and you nod, feeling relief and excitement replace all the earlier dread. Out of stress, or possibly impatience, but likely the thought of enjoying something new, you chomp down on the grape sucker, crunching it between your teeth. Unsure what to do with the sticky grape-stained stick, you twirl it between your finger and thumb.
When you turn to see whether the other two are following, you are disappointed to find they are still bent at the hips and staring into the tent.
"We're gonna get snow cones," you try, but Jimin does not react, seemingly stuck in a trance.
It is Taehyung who glances past Jimin toward you and says, "We'll catch up to you."
Jeongguk shrugs and begins to lead the way, so you follow. With each step you take, the ground feels further and further away, and you are beginning to sweat quite a bit. Jeongguk sways his arms as he walks, and you wonder whether it would feel nice to do the same, but as you approach the paths where more people are, you feel too self-conscious to try it.
"What did you really see in the tent?" you ask, eyes on your feet as they step from grass to gravel.
"Yoongi hyung," Jeongguk says, causing you to nearly trip over yourself.
You halt and turn to Jeongguk, whose brows are knit and eyes are downcast. His toe kicks at a small rock.
"Be serious," you mutter.
Jeongguk looks up at you, frowning. "I am serious."
You roll your eyes, reach for his hand, and begin to yank in the direction of a medium-sized rectangular freezer box covered in ice cream and snow cone stickers that is shaded by a tall red and white umbrella. The person working the stand wears a light blue jacket and slacks that match the color of the freezer box.
The two of you get in line, and you realize you are still holding hands. Sweat drips from where your palms connect, and you attempt to pull away, but Jeongguk holds on tight. You feel gross as your wet skin slides against his, and you yank a little harder until he lets go.
Your mind wanders to Yoongi. Specifically, to Jeongguk and Yoongi. You wonder whether they hold hands as much as Jeongguk seems to want to hold yours. You like the idea of the two of them being so affectionate toward one another.
There are two other people in line ahead of you, and you watch as a person in a sunflower sundress reaches for a tall paper cone with a ball of bright red ice on top, grabbing it with two eager hands. The person beside them pays and receives their own snow cone – that one orange – and then you take a step forward as the person ahead of you leans forward to place an order.
"You don't believe me," you hear Jeongguk pout, but it takes a moment for you to acknowledge his voice and realize that he is talking about seeing Yoongi inside the tent.
You snicker. "Of course I don't believe you. Nobody else saw anyone in that tent, much less someone who looked like Yoongi."
The person ahead of you in line steps away, and you and Jeongguk step forward. He orders a small cup of vanilla soft-serve ice cream and you order a lime-flavored snow cone, suddenly feeling drawn to how green it is on the display images.
The attendant mutters about the total, which you can barely hear over the carnival songs that play nonstop and the shouting of people both near and far. You think you hear that it is 4,000 won, and you reach for your wallet, jabbing yourself in the hip with the sucker stick that you continue to hold onto, but Jeongguk swats your hand away before paying with his card.
The two of you stand in silence, and you wait for the paper cone filled with ice and syrup to be placed into your hands. You lament briefly over not considering the flavors more closely, wondering if you should have picked a berry flavor over a citrus one.
But when you take a frozen bite from the top, you are delighted by how bittersweet the lime flavor is – how different it is from the grape that lingers in sticky shards against your molars. It is perfectly refreshing for a hot summer day.
As you walk away from the ice cream booth, you notice that Jeongguk seems to be moseying in the direction of the larger carnival tents rather than where you left the others back at the small weird tent. You have the urge to look over your shoulder to see whether they are still there, but something causes you to continue forward. Unease, you think, of what you may see if you look back there again.
The thought sends a shiver down your spine, and the little hairs on the back of your neck stand tall. Although the snow cone seems to be evening out your high despite the flavor being incredibly intense, your mind continues to race in strange directions.
A lot has happened since you arrived here, and as much as you want to dwell on all the oddities and attempt to sort out what could be going on, something seems to be stopping you. It is as if each new event is being shoved into one of the various trunks you have seen inside each tent, and it is being locked away for safekeeping.
You are aware of what is being placed inside the trunks, but without the key to allow you access to each one, your mind is not fully allowed to perceive anything. The notion that your mind palace has become a circus tent filled with trunks makes you snicker.
You turn to Jeongguk, who has more or less inhaled his soft serve, using his tiny pink plastic spoon to scrape melted dredges from the bottom of the cup. He tips the edge of the paper cup back into his mouth and slurps the final drops, then lowers his arms to his sides and crumples it in his palm.
Suddenly, you feel self-conscious about the state of your own treat, and you wrap your lips around the small orange straw that sticks out from one of the sides and suck down melted ice and syrup. Cloying lime flavor bursts over your tongue, and you stop sucking in order to bite off some of the top ice that is more diluted in order to wash some of the taste away.
Jeongguk stops in his tracks, and you look up from your lime-flavored ice as you do the same, turning your gaze to him. His eyes are wide, and he stares ahead.
You glance to where you imagine he is staring, but only see a crowd of people separating you from the tents, which are now just across from you, on the other side of a wide pathway.
Looking to Jeongguk again, you ask, "What is it?"
"I told you I saw him," Jeongguk responds. He looks at you, lifts an eyebrow, then tilts his chin back to where he had been staring. "Look."
This time, when you follow his line of vision, you clearly see what – or, rather, who – Jeongguk was staring at. Standing beside the nearest red and white striped tent, wearing the same blue shirt and black slacks you last saw him in, is Yoongi.
He seems to be staring back at you, and you blink heavily several times, unsure whether it really is him.
Without another word, Jeongguk takes off walking briskly, twisting his body this way and that while narrowly avoiding strangers whose paths he cuts across. Your feet hesitate, then you begin to walk as well, more slowly and excusing yourself before stepping into someone's path, doing your best to keep your eyes on the back of Jeongguk's head and refrain from dropping your snow cone.
Once you are out into the clearing, on the grass beside the large tent and no longer dodging passersby, you take several quick steps until you are standing beside Jeongguk, whose arms are outstretched and shaking. You feel overwhelmed, the sun is bright, and you squeeze your eyes closed before opening them and taking in the scene before you.
Yoongi stands still staring at Jeongguk, arms to his sides. His shoulders are in Jeongguk's hands, and although Jeongguk shakes Yoongi, shouting something you cannot make out, Yoongi just looks at him blankly, unmoving aside from the jostling he cannot control.
"Say something," Jeongguk demands. He shakes harder, and Yoongi moves along like a ragdoll. "Yoongi! Hyung, say something!"
Everything about this feels wrong. You absentmindedly drop what is left of your snow cone and reach up with two heavy hands to place them on the arm closest to you, yanking it away from Yoongi's shoulder.
"Stop," you mutter weakly, eyes glued to Jeongguk's arm. "Jeongguk, stop."
Jeongguk drops his arms and then forcefully shakes your hands away from him. The harsh movement surprises you, and you take a step back, dizzy and concerned.
"This has nothing to do with you," Jeongguk says in a tone that feels hurt and angry and a myriad of other things.
You cannot bring yourself to look up, and instead, you stare at Jeongguk's black boots. "That's not— I just don't think you should be jerking him around like this," you say, almost to yourself as tears prickle your eyes.
Jeongguk scoffs. "Our relationship has nothing to do with you." His voice is calmer and quieter, but there is still an edge to it. "You're just a pretty little plaything we both enjoyed. Nothing more."
You shake your head. Jeongguk is understandably emotional, but you will not allow yourself to be pushed away so easily. "No. I care. You can't just—"
Jimin and Taehyung have appeared and are shouting while wrapping Yoongi in a hug. And then, in a blink, the sky is dim. It appears to be evening time, but the air holds the same oppressive heat.
You feel disoriented from the sudden change and consider sitting down on the lime-sticky ground, but a familiar man clad in white appears before you, and you lift your head to find his head cocked, eyes watching you intently.
"It is time," Jack says, lifting a hand and pivoting to point somewhat to the right, ahead of you.
You turn your gaze to find one of the Kim brothers rolling back the end of a large red and white tent flap and securing it so that it rests open. A black top hat on his head prevents you from telling which one he is until he lifts his head and his eyes meet yours.
Namjoon stands clad in red and black. His gaze is soft and attentive and familiar in a way that makes your heart ache.
"Are you ready?" Jack asks.
Trepidation fills you. "I don't know," you mutter.
Jack laughs. "Come, then," he says, placing his hand on your arm while his other hand continues to point toward the tent opening, which you can see from the periphery; your eyes are still on Namjoon. "No sense in wasting time."
You glance around and realize that Jeongguk and Yoongi are no longer standing nearby. The back of Jeongguk's head is with Jimin and Taehyung just ahead of you, in line to enter the tent, but you do not see Yoongi's tuft of dark hair with them. You attempt to look around, but the group of eager audience members has closed in on your right side, and you are unable to see past anyone.
You decide to keep up with your friends, and as you approach the entrance, Namjoon reaches a hand and takes one of yours. His warmth feels like home, and you stare at your hand in his.
"After the show, I would like to speak with you," he says. "Come to the tent. Jack or Hoseok will show you the way."
You nod, eyes on Namjoon's hand, which gives yours a squeeze, and then lets go. As you look up, ready to ask why Namjoon wants to see you, he turns in a flash of red velvet and enters the tent ahead of you, walking briskly into the darkness on the left. You are ushered inside and to the right.
Your group follows the familiar path by rote, along the back of tall wooden bleachers, then to the left and down a path leading to the front row, in an area where nobody else is seated. Seokjin is standing in front of the seats but on the stage floor, speaking with Hoseok, the twin in black. Jack stands on the outside of the row of seats, palm held upward, signaling where to go.
As Jimin settles, then Taehyung, and then Jeongguk, you realize there is definitely no Yoongi. The seat to your left is empty, and it is the last one in the row. You glance around, wondering whether he is off somewhere just in the distance. Perhaps, you think, he will join you once the show starts.
You turn to Jeongguk, who stares down at his open hands. His eyebrows are pinched, and he appears lost.
"Jeongguk?" you ask, voice low and hushed.
"He just…disappeared," Jeongguk mutters.
You look around, watching as people fill the seats of the tent, then return your gaze to Jeongguk, who is unmoved. "What do you mean?"
Jeongguk blinks several times, then shakes his head in shallow movements. "I was shaking him. Telling him to say something. Anything." His voice is monotone. He almost sounds programmed to speak; emotionless. "Hoseok hyung said something to me, and I turned to look at him for only a moment, and when I turned again, Yoongi was gone. It was like he vanished into thin air."
The notion is so ridiculous, you feel your lips crack into a smile. You want to shove at Jeongguk and tell him to quit the act. "What do you mean, vanished? Your hands were on him. Didn't you feel him go?"
Jeongguk turns his gaze to you. His eyes are filled with tears, and he appears devastated. Your heart sinks at the sight of him – at the gravity of his gaze – and you tear your eyes away, to Seokjin standing about ten feet away on the stage floor watching you.
Seokjin pulls his black top hat from his head and lowers his gaze as he bows. He wears a dark green jacket that matches Namjoon's red one, and as he stands up straight and places his hat back onto his head, he stares at you, grinning.
The lights in the tent go out, but you continue to watch Seokjin's grin. A spotlight shines onto the center of the stage, behind Seokjin, and you want to lift your gaze and look – to confirm whether it is Namjoon standing in the spotlight – but your eyes remain glued to the devious smile before you.
“Come one, come all!” Namjoon's voice calls, booming over the cheers and clapping of the audience. Seokjin lip-syncs along, matching Namjoon's timing perfectly. “Welcome to Carnival Bizarre! The greatest show in the world!”
A symbol crashes, piano keys pound in a cacophonic crescendo of sound, and you look up to find Namjoon standing in the spotlight, arms outstretched, with fireworks bursting and crackling up from his outstretched fingertips.
When you look back to where Seokjin had just stood, nobody is there. You glance to the left, to the darkness of the bleachers across the path, then behind you as far as you can see, twisting this way and that, but no familiar faces greet you aside from Jeongguk, who watches ahead with tears in his eyes.
Delicate piano music plays, and Namjoon holds his left arm out in front of him, palm downward. You see something shimmering below his hand, glinting in the spotlight, but you are unable to make out what it is.
A golden glow of light fills the area, not enough to brighten the tent, but enough to allow you to see faint shadows cast all over. They remind you of wooden drawing mannequins with rounded shapes for hands and feet, and ball joints between each limb.
"Strings," Namjoon says, voice soft but booming in the surrounding speakers. You blink, returning your gaze to him, and you think that you can make out thick, dark strings hanging from Namjoon's fingertips that glimmer in the spotlight. Namjoon dances his fingers up and down, causing the strings to jump and sway, and you stare intently. "I control them with my movements. Small and deliberate. I make them dance."
All around, the silhouettes dance. Their legs spread strangely, and their arms jerk around, showing that they are all being controlled by strings. Your eyes move from left to right, watching the figures move, until you notice something.
To the right of Namjoon is a large dark mass. It is mostly in shadow, hard to make out, and you stare and stare until finally, you realize that it is a large piano. The music that plays throughout the space is predominantly that of a piano, and you squint and strain your eyes, trying to see whether someone is sitting before this one, but you see nobody.
"Will my lovely volunteer please join me?" Namjoon asks, and you tear your gaze back to him, then glance eagerly around the dark tent.
A new spotlight shines behind Namjoon, just to the right, past the piano. There, a figure stands near an entrance across the way that you imagine could lead to the backstage area. The figure has short, dark hair, but his head is tilted downward. He makes you think of Yoongi.
He wears a dark blue fitted jacket with rows of gold down the front that you imagine may be frog knots – hussar style. But from this distance, feeling as high as you are, it is hard to be certain.
"Yoongi?" Jeongguk mutters, adjusting in his seat and making you glance to your right.
Jeongguk frowns, and you open your mouth to speak, but your attention returns to the center of the tent as piano music picks up to a medium tempo and you notice Namjoon moving his hands.
It appears as if Namjoon is only lifting certain fingers, causing certain strings to respond. And, it appears as if with each movement, one of the legs of the volunteer moves, causing him to walk forward into the space.
In fact, you think you can see something shimmering in long strings from the tops of the man's black shoes, from the backs of his hands, and from the crown of his head. But as your vision moves upward, the strings seem to disappear. It is some illusion, indeed.
"Small movements are easy to control with just my fingers," Namjoon says.
He raises his right hand and seems to touch two of the strings hanging from his left. You notice the arms of the volunteer sway. The man truly appears as if he is a puppet being manned by Namjoon, and there is a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that this may not be an illusion.
Heavy-blinking and shaking your head, you attempt to clear away the errant thoughts and focus solely on the show. Of course, the man is not really a volunteer. Clearly, this is a practiced routine between two actors.
As the man approaches the piano at the center of the floor, it is hard not to notice all the ways in which he reminds you of Yoongi. The hair seems a little shorter – a little straighter than he had been wearing it. But his broad shoulders and large hands…his lithe waist and long legs…the resemblance is there.
And then you remember it: the card Seokjin handed you while inside Namjoon's tent. There was a figure with dark brown hair wearing a blue jacket, and he was playing a piano. The bottom of the card read, The Fool.
"Large movements, however…" Namjoon trails off.
The man stops just before the instrument – which you now realize is an organ. Namjoon raises his right hand at the same time his left hand makes a sudden movement, and all at once, the man lifts his head and a round curtain falls around him and the organ, causing you to gasp.
Namjoon continues, "Large movements, I must control with my mind."
You sit up straight, holding your breath, certain that it has to be Yoongi behind that curtain.
"This volunteer of mine is a regular man," Namjoon insists, using his right hand to lift the hat from his head and tip it as he makes a small curtsey motion, showing that he is a man of his word. A gentleman. "He has no formal training, and he has never visited this circus before. He is—"
Namjoon stands up straight and looks forward. You think, directly at you.
"—a stranger."
There is a harshness to Namjoon's tone that is matched by a solemn note echoing throughout the tent, though you do not think it is from the organ behind the curtain. The music is soft and fleeting, arriving and dissipating for dramatic effect, likely from a soundboard backstage.
And then, the music is gone entirely. Silence hangs, save for your heaving, anxious breaths.
"Volunteer," Namjoon says magnanimously. You and Jeongguk shift in your seats. "Play Passacaglia in D minor by Dieterich Buxtehude."
The round curtain lifts with the movement of Namjoon's hand, and sitting before you in a blue hussar jacket adorned with golden embroidery, is Yoongi. He begins his song the moment he is commanded to do so, and with the organ angled just so, you can see his hands moving over the keys. Namjoon's right hand sways in small conductor movements, up to the center and down to the side, as if keeping Yoongi's tempo.
Shimmering strings appear to jut out from Yoongi's hands and the crown of his head. You swallow thickly, watching Yoongi play, never making a single mistake, as if he has practiced this song over and over again. All around, in the periphery, you can see that the silhouetted mannequins are dancing.
Your heart is a caged animal thrumming behind your ribs. The song Yoongi plays is somewhat slow-paced, with both bright sounds and sad ones, tugging you between highs and lows, making you feel extremely unsettled. There is a sort of discordant nature to the song that strikes a deep, hollow longing inside you, as well as a sense of hopefulness.
You wonder whether Jeongguk is as enraptured as you, feeling the same way you may, but you do not turn your gaze. You do not dare so much as blink for fear of Yoongi disappearing again.
"Faster, now," Namjoon commands, moving his hand much more quickly. Yoongi's tempo increases, matching Namjoon's movements. Although you do not take your eyes off Yoongi, it is clear that the shadows are moving faster, too.
Lights swirl, and there is something like glitter sparkling in the air, threatening to distract you, but you do not fall prey to the petty tricks of the illusionist. You sit on the edge of your seat, elbows digging hard into your upper thighs, mouth dry and hung open, and you watch intently.
"That's it," Namjoon says, speeding his movements again. "Faster, now! Faster!"
Although you can still hear the song that was playing earlier – can still make out the familiar modular rhythm and predict each sound that comes next – it is harsh and cacophonic. Dizzying. At last, you blink and lick your lips. Your shoulders are tense and raised, and you breathe slowly, nearly holding your breath.
Around you, the shadows are tangled and chaotic, and it is impossible not to avert your gaze whenever a head rolls or a limb snaps. You think you hear wood splintering and cracking, and although Yoongi is made of flesh and bone, you worry for him.
Namjoon shouts, "Enough!" and uses the fingers of his right hand shaped like scissors to cut beneath his left hand, where strings would be hanging from his fingertips.
Yoongi falls limp and the song ends in an abrupt crash as his hands and forehead meet the keys. You gasp. Beside you, Jeongguk stands up from his seat.
The round curtain falls over Yoongi and the organ, and the spotlight cuts out, leaving just the one on Namjoon glowing. There are no silhouettes on the walls.
All around you, shimmering silver strings fall like snow from the ceiling, landing on your hair and in your lap, draping over your limbs and creating a sort of mist that obfuscates the stage just long enough for everything but Namjoon to disappear.
Jeongguk looks as if he is about to jump over the shin-high wooden railing and down onto the floor in search of his boyfriend. He grumbles and fights with Taehyung, who appears to be holding him in place and muttering something low and angry.
On the stage, Namjoon lifts both arms, which are covered in silver strings, and he bows. The audience stands, claps, and cheers. You feel glued to your seat.
Upbeat organ music plays and the lights come up, but it is only when Hoseok appears clad in black before you, that you move. You heavy-blink, eyes struggling to take in the brightness of the overhead lighting while silver glitters all around you. The air feels heavy and oppressive, and you are suddenly eager to leave.
"Kim Namjoon would love to see the two of you," Hoseok says, eyes trailing between Jeongguk and you. Then he glances further past Jeongguk, to Taehyung and Jimin, adding, "If you don't mind."
You neither hear nor see their responses. Hoseok steps over the wooden railing and walks past you along the path, leading the way. Jeongguk walks without waiting for you, slamming into your right and causing you to trip as you twist to follow. Then he wraps his arms around you, pinning your arms to your sides and steadying you, causing you to flush hot from head to toe.
Hoseok does not wait, and you hurry ahead, yanking from Jeongguk's arms to make your way along the path. Rather than turning right, to the entrance, he turns left. You follow Hoseok into the darkness, around the inner perimeter of the tent, toward an opening from which a red light glows.
Your stomach churns, and you swallow the trepidation that builds and builds. Behind you, Jeongguk mutters, "Where are we going?" but you do not have the answer, so you pay him no mind and continue forward.
Before you can worry further, Namjoon appears in the doorway. His gaze is soft and inviting, causing your worry to dissipate. As if being pulled on a leash, you hurry to him, stopping only when the toes of your shoes meet the tips of his.
Namjoon looks at you with reverence, smiling softly. Then he looks past you, expression painted over with something more neutral and polite. He nods to Jeongguk, then pivots to walk into the red light.
"This way," he says, leading you through a hallway to the wall of the tent, which he reaches for and pulls away, revealing the outside world, which is still somewhat dim and feels like the evening. There is another tent opening just across from this one, which Namjoon steps inside of, pausing in its entryway to wait for you and Jeongguk.
You turn in time to see Namjoon pull the tent flap down. You watch as it seemingly disappears and becomes the tent wall; no seams or hems giving its edge away.
"I have something that the two of you must see," Namjoon says, walking toward his desk on the right side. You realize that in the past, you have entered on the opposite end of the tent, and you gaze around at the newfound view, taking in the trunks and clothing to the left, the piles of books to the right, the bed just ahead.
"Where is Yoongi?" Jeongguk insists, walking past you to Namjoon. Jeongguk stands up straight, squaring his shoulders, and you notice a tremor in his balled fists.
Namjoon appears unfazed and simply blinks at Jeongguk before belatedly offering him a friendly smile.
"Yoongi is safe. Once he is finished backstage, you will see him again."
"Finished with what?" Jeongguk demands, chest heaving. "What is he doing back there?"
Namjoon turns to face you and lifts a hand, beckoning you forward. You had not realized you stopped walking about halfway, and you slowly make your way toward the two of them, each step feeling heavy.
You approach and round the desk somewhat, putting the bed behind you, keeping it from view. The bed brings back flashes of Seokjin's hypnosis show and cause your cheeks to burn hot, so you do your best to tamp the images down. Jeongguk stands to your right, anger pouring from him as he waits for a response.
"Take this, ducky," Namjoon says. "Peer into this mirror and tell me what you see."
Sound becomes fuzzy, and you lean forward as Namjoon lifts a mirror from his desk and holds it out to you, cradling it carefully in both hands. It is an oval hand mirror with an ornate brass frame and handle.
You take the mirror in both hands, gripping it tightly around the handle while the fingertips of your left hand cradle the back. At first, you only see your face. But then, you see something in the reflection behind you, hanging from the ceiling.
Pale limbs are wrapped in bright red rope. The patterns and knots appear artistically done.
"Rope," you mutter, squinting and tilting the mirror past your own face. For a split second, you glance over your shoulder, expecting to see the suspended visitor, but all you see is an empty space beside Namjoon's bed.
Looking at the mirror again, you hold it so close that your breath fogs the glass. You think that you can see dark hair hanging on one side, and pale feet on the other. Once again, the figure you see reminds you of Yoongi.
"Is that…a body?"
"Yours?" Namjoon asks.
You shake your head. "Not mine."
"Interesting," he says. "Good. This is good."
You look up, over the edge of the mirror, to Namjoon. Silver strings hang from your hair and glimmer over your eyes, and you think about pale limbs wrapped in red rope – about the snowfall of silver strings inside the tent.
His gaze is on you, and there is an easy smile on his lips. You tilt your head, asking, "What is it?"
Namjoon watches you, eyes slowly darting back and forth as if taking you in and deciding what to say. His soft, familiar gaze returns and your body yearns for him. Curiosity and arousal simmer through you, and you cannot help but stare directly into his dark brown eyes – sharp as a dragon's but deep as the sea.
"Try as I may to weave the strands together in any order I wish," Namjoon responds, lips down turning to a gentle frown, "you are the one who chooses the order of the strands. I am merely a conduit."
Namjoon's words roll over you in a tall, slow wave. They crash, covering you and breaking around your feet, only to dissipate into nothing. He is speaking in sentences you should be able to parse easily – uses phrases that some part of you understands.
But you know that there must be a deeper meaning, and that part of you who you are certain knows what that meaning is, feels buried, somehow, and all you can do is blink owlishly and mutter, "Huh?"
Namjoon laughs a soft quiet sound that dies in his mouth but twists his lips into a beautiful, genuine smile. You stare, confused as ever, waiting for some sort of explanation.
"Jeongguk," Namjoon says instead, reaching for the mirror and taking it from your grasp.
You feel caught in a daze as you allow the mirror to be taken, putting up no resistance. Your arms fall limply to your sides.
Jeongguk does not handle the mirror with care. Rather, he grips it on both sides, thumbs digging into the glass as he peers into it. At first, he appears angry and impatient. But then his eyes widen with fear, and his hands begin to shake.
"Jeongguk?" you ask, stepping forward.
Jeongguk shakes harder, his grip on the mirror turning his fingers white. You reach for it, but stop your movement when you hear the sharp sound of the glass cracking.
Namjoon lets out a sigh and says, "Oh, dear."
You glance from Namjoon to Jeongguk and notice a jagged red line opening across Jeongguk's forehead, over the bridge of his nose, and down to his cheek. Jeongguk gasps, lets out a crazed shout, and opens his hands.
"This is no good," Namjoon says as the mirror crashes to the floor.
* * *
My blossoms are falling What a strange feeling When it's so early in the year As soon as they are flowers They go and leave forever Sweet blossom Where is your tree? * Their happiness will shine Their happiness will grow And I hope you don't mind if I let them go
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HELLOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 💜💜💜 i am no longer going to promise to be back sooner bc it is always a lie. 💀 i had the writer's block/getting straight As/grief trifecta all year, but i am............well, i shouldn't even say it bc i don't wanna jinx it but i hope i am back??? god, this chapter was so much fun to write and it genuinely invigorated something so 🤞🤞🤞 fingers fricken crossed.
POLLS WILL GO UP SOON!!! i only have one so far that is planned, but i am going to outline a bit and see what other fates i can place in your hands. polls will run for 7 days and i will do my best to reblog!!!
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Carnival of Terror is a Goosebumps-inspired fic, copyright theharrowing 2023 - 2024. no translations or reposting allowed!
tomorrow | p.jm
title. tomorrow
pairing. park jimin x fem oc (named y/n)
rating. T
genre. supernatural themes, mystery, horror, angst (?)
warnings. coarse language, reader discretion highly recommended. contains death but no gore, mild horror, english is Not my first language ™
word count. 2.6k +
The library wasn’t Jimin’s usual haunt.
In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d willingly stepped inside one. He never liked the library ; it was so downright boring. He knew there were better things to enjoy in his campus which were much better than this — but with the cold wind biting at his neck and the campus quad too noisy for his liking, he had wandered in.
It was more like a distraction than a destination.
The heavy silence pressed against his ears as he slumped into a seat by the window, his chin resting on his palm. His table was empty — no books, no notes, nothing that might suggest he had any serious intentions of studying or anything closer to that.
He tapped his pen against the wooden surface in a lazy rhythm, watching the snowfall outside.
And that’s when his eyes landed on you.
You were seated at a table in the corner, your posture straight but not stiff, your eyes scanning the pages of a worn paperback intensely. A stray lock of hair fell across your cheek, but you didn’t brush it away. Instead, you stayed perfectly still, immersed in whatever story was hidden between the pages.
Unlike most of the students who filtered in and out of the library, you didn’t seem rushed or distracted. There were no frantic flips of the page or exasperated sighs of someone cramming for an exam. Your movements were deliberate, calm — too calm, even.
Jimin frowned, leaning back in his chair. You were familiar, though he couldn’t quite place why. Maybe it was because of your bag carelessly slung over the back of your chair. A model student, maybe? Or just someone who liked their own company?
He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together. He knew your name — although he feigned ignorance for the most part. There was a quietness about you that felt out of place — not just in the library, but in life itself.
Like you were a shadow passing through the world rather than living in it.
It bothered him, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way you didn’t fidget, didn’t glance at the clock or check your phone like everyone else did. Bothered him in such a way which had him narrowing his eyes at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Or maybe it was the faint crease in your brow, the kind that made him wonder if the story you were reading was actually that interesting.
Boredom forgotten, Jimin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He licked his lips, his teeth gently nibbling on the plump flesh. You fasicnated him enough to not feel himself being bored to death, so, he decided that he should try and do something which would entertain him further.
So he decides to sit just beside you.
“Aren’t you just always reading?” he grins, his voice just loud enough to carry across the quiet space.
Your eyes flicked up to meet his for the briefest moment, and something about the way they held his gaze made his breath catch. Then, without a word, you returned to your book, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.
Now that was something Jimin couldn’t ignore.
“Not even going to say hi?” he asked, leaning closer.
“Hi,” you said softly, not looking up this time.
To say Jimin was offended was an understatement. How can someone ignore Park Jimin?
That was it. He reached over and plucked the book from your hands, your lack of resistance or reaction slightly surprising him again. “What’s so special about this old thing?” The cover of the book is faded, the texture a bit rough with its corners frayed, but he doesn’t care about that.
What he cares about is riling you up.
But you just sit there, watching him with an expression so blank it’s almost mocking. “You can keep it if you want,” you say softly. “Tear it, throw it, do whatever. I don’t care.”
His eye twitched at the nonchalance of your tone. Were you doing this on purpose to piss him off?
“And why is that?”
“It’s not mine.”
Jimin blinks.
What?
“I saw you pull it out of your bag.”
Your gaze drops to your clasped hands. For a moment, you seem almost… thoughtful, as if the gears in your head are working overtime to formulate the reply.
“I took it from an accident site,” you reply.
What? except that it wasn’t just inside his head. If anyone would see him, his thoughts were visible on his face, just like how subtitles are, on the bottom of the screen.
“What?” His voice pitched and he felt his brows knit together.
You leaned back, tilting your head as if recounting a casual memory. “The person was already dead. Hit-and-run, I think. They were grasping it, so I took it.”
You say it in such a manner almost as if you are talking about the evening’s weather.
“What?” His grip tightened on the book. “You just. . . took it? Did you call anyone? Cops? Medics?”
“There were people already there,” you said with a shrug. “What was I supposed to do?”
What were you supposed to do!? Jimin stared at you, his pulse racing. “You could’ve. . . I don’t know!” Damn it. He definitely should’ve just attended the class which he felt like was important all of a sudden. There was a reason why he doesn’t ever visit libraries . “Done something instead of stealing a book from a dead person!”
You stood, brushing invisible dust off your coat. “I was planning to return it to their grave after I finished reading,” you said, your voice calm as ever. “But now it’s yours. So I guess that’s your responsibility.”
He gaped at you, his brown pupils shaking slightly. “No. No fucking way.” He held the book out as if it was some radioactive substance. Call him a lunatic, but he was already feeling it burn his hand. (Was he exaggerating? Maybe. But was he ready to accept the book for real? Fuck no.)
“I’m not keeping this!”
You smiled faintly, stepping away. “It’s already yours, Jimin.”
And then you leave, your footsteps barely audible.
Jimin found himself back in the library.
Not because he was bored. Not because he wanted to study — but because everything else was driving him nuts.
The book, Wuthering Heights, sat on Jimin’s desk back in his home like an accusation. He couldn’t bring himself to open it, no matter how hard he’d tried last night. Each time he felt his fingers itch to finally touch the book, his brain immediately imagined the lifeless hand that had clutched it last.
By nightfall, he couldn’t take it anymore. He drove to the cemetery, the book tucked under his arm, the cold slapping his skin like a belt.
Rows of graves had stretched before him, their names lost to time and shadow. He wandered between them, each step making him more impatient as he carried on. He felt like a halfwit. Who the fuck visits a cemetery to return a book? And why was he doing this?
He wasn’t scared of cemeteries by any means, but surely you don’t have balls of steel to be standing like a dumbfuck in the middle of a graveyeard at midnight without feeling anything. He didn’t even know what he was looking for — how could he?
He didn’t even know if the accident victim was buried here.
Fuck, he didn’t even know who was the victim in the first place.
He doesn’t exactly feel the most cheerful at the thought of so many lives being reduced to stones and dates.
Frustrated and uneasy, he’d left the cemetery, just wishing he’d never visited the library.
So the next day, he finds himself back in the library. He doesn’t know why — he could have just simply abandoned the book. Or just kept it under fate’s custody, because he surely 1) wasn’t a book nerd, 2) after knowing the source of the book, he definitely wasn’t interested in that book anymore.
Maybe he hopes to see you again, to demand some kind of explanation or even simply just return you the book. Only because he’s a decent human being and felt bad for leaving the book alone.
But you’re nowhere to be found.
“Shit,” Jimin muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He slammed the book down on the nearest table, earning a sharp glare from the librarian. He waved her off with a sheepish smile but didn’t bother lowering his voice. That damn thing on the table felt like it was judging him with each step he took.
“What the hell am I even doing here?” he grumbled, flopping into a chair, truly exhausted.
”Jimin?”
He turned, or well, craned his neck up to see Namjoon standing a few feet away, an eyebrow raised in that familiar mix of confusion and mild disappointment, but he doesn’t look surprised.
Namjoon was exactly the type of a guy you would very much expect to see in a library. If he wasn’t wrong, he was a literature student with an endless supply of opinions, known for yapping on about bullshit Jimin really doesn’t care about, he was the last guy Jimin would want to run into.
Atleast, not now.
Namjoon adjusted his glasses as he glanced at Jimin.
“Did the sun rise from the west today?”
“What?”
“What is Park Jimin doing in a library?”
“Ha-ha, how funny.” Jimin shot back, rolling his eyes. “I was just, well, . . . . never mind.”
Namjoon pulled out a chair and sat across from him, his gaze flicking to the book on the table. “No seriously, what’s going on? You look, uh, kinda constipated.”
Jimin let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in his chair. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
Jimin exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he launched into the story. “Okay, so yesterday, I was in here, right? There was this girl. Very concentrated. She was just sitting there, reading this book.” He motioned to the paperback sitting between them on the table.
“And I thought, you know what, a conversation won’t harm anyone. But she seemed to not give a single fuck about me!” Okay, Jimin feels his cheeks slightly heating at the way he just said it.
Anyway..
“She didn’t even flinch. Just looked at me all calm and said I could keep it, tear it up, do whatever the fuck I want to.”
“Mhm,” Namjoon leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed.
“And then,” Jimin said, leaning forward as his voice dropped, making sure no one could hear them. “she tells me it’s not even hers. She said she found it, at a fucking accident scene. Like, a hit-and-run. She just took it. . . out of the dead person’s hands!”
Namjoon’s face paled, but Jimin didn’t notice. He was too busy rambling.
“And you just. . . took it?”
“I didn’t even want the damn thing!” Jimin snapped, jabbing a finger toward the table. “I don’t want my own course books. How the hell would I want a book which looks like something which was probably printed like what, centuries ago?”
“But she just dropped it on me. I thought, fine, I’ll go to the cemetery — because, apparently, that’s the only thing I could think of. But guess what? I don’t even know who it belongs to.” Jimin grits his teeth, taking in a cool breath. He cannot be losing his shit over a book.
“What was I supposed to do? Wander around like an idiot, asking no one in general if someone is missing a book?”
Uhh...
… . .
Okay.. was that too much?
Namjoon hasn’t replied. For someone who has a say in everything and anything, it feels strangely quiet to see the taller guy being absolutely quiet, and even a bit. . . pale.
“Joon?” Jimin frowned. “You look like you just got your balls kicked.”
Namjoon’s hand trembled as he reached for the book, but he didn’t pick it up. His voice was barely above a whisper, his pupils shaking woldly.
“Jimin... This book. Are you sure she gave it to you?”
Jimin throws a nasty glare his way, frustrated. “I’m fucking sure. She was right there.” He pointed to the seat by the window, almost as if pointing that way would have you sitting there once again. “Oversized sweater, baggy jeans, muddy boots. What the fuck do you mean?”
Namjoon swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Jimin and the book. Finally, he stood up, grabbing Jimin by the shoulders. His voice dropped low, steady but trembling at the edges.
“Jimin, listen to me. Do you remember when our lectures got canceled last month?”
“What?” Jimin blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. “I don’t even remember what I had for dinner last night. How the fuck wouldd I remember about lectures?” Jimin scowled. “What does that even have to do with the current topic?”
“They were canceled because of her,” Namjoon said, his grip tightening.
“Y/N. She died in a hit-and-run.”
?
“What?”
“A car hit her right outside campus and left her to die.”
Jimin shook his head, stepping back, an unamused laugh escaping his throat. “That’s not, ha, hah — she was here yesterday, Namjoon. And I talked to her.”
Namjoon’s voice cracked, but he pushed forward, firmly gripping Jimin’s shoulders. “I saw her, Jimin. I was there. She was lying in the street, and — and she was holding that exact book.”
“I remember it because we checked it out from the library together. But when the paramedics came, the book was gone.”
Jimin froze, his gaze blurring. No fucking way in hell. His heart pounded as his mind scrambled to process what Namjoon was saying.
“No.” His voice was barely a whisper. “That just doesn’t make sense. Stop fucking with me.”
Namjoon’s expression was grim, his voice low and firm. “You didn’t talk to her, Jimin. She’s gone. She’s been gone.”
“Okay, what the actual fuck are you saying?” Jimin snapped, his heart racing now. “She was literally sitting here yesterday. Like, I swear on everything, she was here. I talked to her.”
Namjoon’s face morphs into a look of pure defeat, his grip loosening on his shoulders.
“And I saw her die.”
Jimin felt the bile rise up to his stomach. “Bro,” he whispered, his voice shaky. The room felt like it was spinning, and he was being forced down to stand with his wobbly limbs.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Just open it. It’s just a book.
The lamp’s light flickered as Jimin sat at his desk, hyper aware of everything around him — even the faint ticking of his table clock. He flexed his fingers, trying to shake off the nerves, but his palms were clammy, and the tremor in his hands wouldn’t stop.
He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. “It’s just a book,” he muttered, but it was something he himself couldn’t believe.
The room felt unnaturally quiet as his fingers brushed the cover.
The rough texture sent a chill skittering up his spine. Never ever even in his wildest dreams had he even thought that opening a book would make him shit his pants, but here he was. Slowly, he peeled it open, the spine creaking softly in the stillness.
The words were there, faint but deliberate, etched on the first page in a beautiful cursive drawl.
Return it to me.
He blinked, his mind scrambling for logic, for reason, but then his gaze dropped lower. There, written in neat, bold letters, was a date.
It wasn’t yesterday’s. It wasn’t today’s either.
It was tomorrow.
a/n : poor mimi 😔 if you enjoyed reading this, let me know what you think 💬 here’s the anon feedback box for you :-)
mlist | taglist
Rewritten | KTH & JJK
pairing: Taehyung x Oc x Jungkook genre: Thriller, Dark Romance rating: 21+ warning: All (It is a dark romantic thriller so expect everything) Description: When reality and fiction get blurred, Saya is left fighting to keep both her life and sanity.
Status: Ongoing Note: My books are my home and you are visiting it as a guest so please be polite while commenting.
This story belongs to me so plagiarism won't be accepted.
Translation of any of the work is not accepted
I do not own BTS but just the plot.
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